Olivia Twist(56)

Strictly speaking, they were broke.

Olivia pulled her collar away from her heated neck. The air felt warm and thick, as if a storm were brewing. She stuffed her wig and hairnet in her coat pockets and unbuttoned the top of her shirt. If she’d thought this through, she would’ve changed into her night rail and robe before conducting her search. As it was, the binding around her chest strangled her breath.

Ignoring her discomfort, she sat in the desk chair and began to search the row of drawers to her right. She’d half expected to find some of them locked, but they all opened easily. The drawers to her left were the same and contained nothing whatsoever to do with her or her parents. There had to be some clue that would help her understand why Monks would wish to do her harm. His search for her made no sense, especially when she’d never even met the man.

She was beginning to believe that her uncle had told the truth when he claimed he no longer possessed the fateful letter from her mother, until she opened the lap drawer and found a long, metal key shoved to the back. Holding the key to the candle flame, she made out an intricate looping design at one end. It appeared tarnished and ancient, like something out of a Shakespeare story. A glob of dried adhesive stuck to one side of the shaft, leading her to believe it had been glued to the underside of the desk at one time. She took the candle and leaned down. None of the desk drawers had such a large keyhole.

Voices droned low outside the door, and Olivia froze. Heavy footsteps clomped down the hall and then up the stairs. It must be Thompson, going to wake her uncle for his morning tonic. With renewed urgency, she jumped up and began to search the room for anything with a lock. She tilted every book and looked behind it. She opened each cabinet and searched through keepsakes and old pictures, a broken vase, a box containing her old toys. Her uncle had always been an intellectual, preferring his books to intimate relationships. Therefore, his accumulation of random baubles surprised her. He had never married—a decision she believed he regretted in later years.

She searched the bricks around the fireplace next, poking and prodding for a loose stone. She’d once overseen Fagin remove a small box of jewels and coins he’d stashed in an empty cavity behind the hearth. His assurance, he’d called it.

When she’d searched every nook and cranny, she stood in the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. A soft gold leaked around the drapes and slanted across the jade silk wallpaper. She was out of time.

She returned to the desk and slumped in the chair. Whyever would her uncle own a key that didn’t fit anything? She leaned back and rubbed her burning eyes, realizing how little sleep she’d had in the past forty-eight hours. She fought to keep her mind alert by thinking over the night’s events. Jack had walked her home from the Hill in contemplative silence. When she’d tried to breech the subject of Monks and his threats, he did little more than shrug. But his nonchalance didn’t fool her for a heartbeat. He had a history with her brother, and she was beginning to suspect it to be more sinister than he let on.

If she could just find some hint of Monks’s intentions towards her, perhaps she could save Jack from making a mistake. But to do that, she would need sleep. She opened her eyes and reached to open the lap drawer, when a tiny golden symbol just above her knee caught her eye. Three intertwining loops, the exact design of the metal on the key. Her heart gave a loud thump as she brought the candle closer and fingered the raised circles. She pressed it like a button. The wood gave a bit beneath her finger, but nothing happened.

She dropped to her knees and peered under the desk. The structure didn’t make sense. Based on the drawers, there should’ve been more empty space. She leaned in close to the gold symbol and ran her fingers all around it. Giving the wood a strong push, the surface shifted beneath her fingers and moved to the left, revealing a large keyhole.

Something scratched against the study door and Olivia popped her head above the desk, ears straining. The scratch came again, followed by a low whine. Brom. If someone spotted him at the door, he would give her away. On light feet, she ran to the door and opened it an inch. Spying no one else in the hall, she let Brom in and shut the door.

She scrubbed his silky head. “You hush now.”

He padded beside her back to the desk, where she sat in the chair and inserted the key. As soon as she turned the mechanism, a long, narrow drawer sprang out at her. Brom growled and shoved his nose against the wood. “My sentiments exactly,” she murmured. It was beyond creepy.

Inside was a single yellowed envelope, Mama and Papa scrawled on the front in loopy script. Hand trembling, Olivia reached for the letter. When she’d spread the single page out on the desktop, her eyes jumped to the signature. Agnes.

Tears closed her throat as she ran her fingers over the words that her own mother had written, and noticed the perfect slant and long loops of her penmanship. Nothing like Olivia’s hasty scrawl. Would that have been different if she’d been raised by this woman? Loved and cherished? Educated from a young age with the best tutors? Attended the most prestigious finishing school? Perhaps. But she’d learned long ago not to play the “what if” game. It only broke her heart.

Straightening her spine, she moved the candle closer and began to read.



Dearest Mama and Papa,

I hope this letter finds you well, but I do not have the luxury of formalities, so I begin with the crux of the matter.

Something in my husband, Edwin, is broken. I fear, irreparably. His brilliance chases him like a dog after its tail. The disintegration of his mind, his descent into irrationality, has been horrifying to witness. He rants against the government, the ton, his investors, and more specifically, your rejection of our match. Honor and social standing have become his obsession. Last evening, he struck me and threatened our unborn child. This is why I must ask—no, beg—for your assistance.