Olivia Twist(6)

With any luck, the Platts wouldn’t notice the missing piece for a few weeks, and by that time the rotation of guests flowing through their home would make it impossible to implicate him in the theft. Although the rumors circulating about him—like that bloomin’ git, Grimwig, calling him a half-wild ruffian—wouldn’t help his cover. Jack reached around and squeezed the tight muscles at the back of his neck. It rankled to admit, even to himself, that particular rumor to be true. The day he had picked Lois March’s pocket, he’d been an animal of the streets—a leader of many, and a master of nothing. That was the day the Artful Dodger died. And after many, many months of Lois’s patient but vigorous tutoring, the gentleman Jack MacCarron was born.

Nonetheless, the girl with the autumn-wheat curls and tawny eyes could ruin everything. Had his ears played tricks on him when he heard her whisper the name Dodger? Even so, that didn’t explain why she’d looked at him with the hope of the world in her gaze.

As he turned onto the Strand, a sausage vendor caught his eye, and the aroma of the spiced, roasted meat caused his mouth to water. Sharp hunger pains—his constant companion and master for the first sixteen years of his life—clenched his stomach. With effort, he pushed away the phantom ache. There wasn’t any part of his past he missed less than that constant, gnawing emptiness.

An overloaded chicken cart barreled toward him, and he ducked into a shadowed alley. Soon, the smell of food faded away as the undulating reek of the Thames and the stench of human filth overpowered everything else.

He passed a group of children huddled by the backside of a chimney, tattered clothes hanging from bony shoulders and feet black with filth, their hollow, spectral-like eyes beseeching. Jack dug in his pocket and flipped a handful of shillings in their direction, turning away as they scurried on hands and knees fighting over the money.

But as much as he pushed his feet to move, the sight of a tiny child in his peripheral vision kept him rooted to the spot. Tackled by the others, the boy—no more than five years old—rolled into a ball, his fist clutched tight to his chest as the older children hammered him with fists and feet in an effort to get the coins he clutched to his chest.

“Give us that, ye little rat!” The largest of the boys landed a jab to the child’s kidney.

Jack had to admire the little one’s tenacity as he clutched his prize, not making a peep throughout the beating. In two long strides, Jack reached down and grabbed the back of two filthy necks and lifted them into the air, fists still swinging.

“Leave off!” the child in his right hand screeched.

Jack turned away from the scuffle and dropped them both to the ground. Towering over the pile of children, he demanded, “Clear out, the lot of you!” When they’d scrabbled back, he helped the now bloodied child to his feet. “You’re a fast little thing, eh?”

The boy stared up at Jack with defiant blue eyes and nodded.

Looping his arm around the kid’s frail shoulders, Jack led him away from the group. “Do you know St. Christopher’s in Southwark?”

“Ye . . . yes . . . my lord.”

The title tightened something in Jack’s chest, cutting off his breath. Kneeling, so that he met the boy’s gaze at eye level, he said, “I am no lord. Do not bow to any man, toff or thief. They’re no better than you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Satisfied with the lift of the boy’s chin, Jack gave him directions to the nunnery behind St. Christopher’s and instructed him to offer his service for room and board. The nuns didn’t take in many orphans, but for one so young, Jack thought sure they’d make an exception. They had for him. “If they want you to peel potatoes, scrub the privy, or polish their shoes, you do it without question, eh?”

The boy grinned, his teeth stained the putrid brown of the Thames. The nuns would take care of that too. Jack ruffled the kid’s greasy hair. “Now run, and don’t stop until you get there. Be sure to tell ’em Dodger sent you.”

The shillings still clutched tight in his fist, the child took off like a shot. Jack resumed his course down the alley, but as he passed the children crowded by the chimney, he clenched his jaw and tried to block out their pleas. “Please, sir. We’re starving. Can ye spare a bit more, sir?”

He couldn’t help them all; that was no longer his job. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he gripped the gems waiting to secure his future—worlds away from this hell.



Olivia threw the stick so hard that she spun in a circle with the effort. Brom raced after it in excited leaps, his multihued fur quivering in glee. Most would not consider her great, mixed-breed dog a proper escort, but no one who cared would be out of bed at this hour to judge. Olivia exhaled a cloud of fog into the crisp morning air and sank onto a nearby bench. Tucked back into a stand of molting trees, she breathed in the scent of decay, of green life leeching from foliage, leaving behind the vibrant colors of change.

Sleep the night before had been impossible as her thoughts turned over the evening’s events again and again. It had been no great surprise when Dodger did not return to the party after their confrontation, although his absence would make him a prime suspect if anything significant were to turn up missing.

Olivia slumped against the back of the bench. Her initial joy at finding him well and alive had soon faded as she recalled the last time she’d seen him. If Dodger had robbed anyone other than her Uncle Brownlow that day, she would have hung for his crime . . .