Olivia Twist(62)
CHAPTER 18
Jack turned from the passing cityscape to see Topher staring a hole into the carriage wall. The pompous kid had reacted better to the news of Jack’s role in his family than expected. Luckily, Jack knew how to take a punch. He shifted his sore jaw and touched the bruise there with tentative fingers. Topher packed a wallop for such a skinny chap, but Jack figured he deserved one good hit, so he’d taken it with grace, before blocking the second and knocking the tosser on his backside.
Lois had not been happy with Jack’s sudden need to spill his guts, but after a brief fit of histrionics, she had confirmed his story. The devastation written on Topher’s face when he realized he was heir to a counterfeit fortune made Jack almost feel sorry for him. Almost. The spoilt prat wouldn’t be living in his ancestral home, or have his precious Gran to take advantage of, if it weren’t for Jack. But clearly, his cousin didn’t see it that way.
The carriage rolled to a stop and Jack parted the curtains to view one of the largest homes he’d ever laid eyes on—all white-washed brick and stone, two-story columns flanking the massive front doors, no less than six chimneys spouting from its roof. The blueprints had prepared him for a substantial building, but not its grandeur. The driver opened the carriage door, and Topher turned to Jack with a look of narrow-eyed contempt. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”
Jack lifted a wry brow before replying in his best Cockney accent, “Don’t you fret on ’at score, me covey. ’Tis yourself you should be worrit ’bout. Takes a good bit to mortify ’is chap.” Jack wiggled his brows and arched a thumb at his chest.
“I can only imagine.” Topher descended the vehicle stairs, a smile quirking one side of his mouth before he could hide it.
Jack jumped down from the carriage and stared up at the mansion looming above him. Evidently, he had underestimated the Grimwigs’ wealth. Nervous energy and excitement swirled in his chest. This would be the biggest score he’d ever made, and if he had his way, it would be his last. Thieving was no kind of life. He hadn’t quite figured out what he would do next, but there had to be a profession suited to his particular skills. One that didn’t require risking his neck.
They mounted the stairs to the portico, and Jack focused on his objective. He would need to play the hapless dolt if he hoped to gain String-bean’s favor. It would take swallowing his pride, not something he excelled at; but knowing he was doing it in order to rob the bloke made it infinitely easier.
Sinking his hands into his pockets, Jack lowered his shoulders and adopted the nonthreatening pose he’d perfected on the streets. An unassuming manner was the perfect disguise to throw one’s quarry off guard.
On the front stoop, he grinned at the stained glass design adorning the entrance, a thin rodent that might have been a ferret or weasel welding a tiny sword; some sort of family crest, he presumed. In any case, the skittish-looking creature seemed to exemplify Maxwell Grimwig’s nature.
The double front doors swung open on silent hinges, revealing a butler in his early thirties with an air that put the Brownlows’ haughty servant to shame. “May I help you?”
Topher held out his calling card. “We are here to see Mr. Maxwell Grimwig. He’s expecting us.”
“Quite right.” The butler sniffed and lifted his nose to such a severe degree that Jack wondered how he didn’t get it stuck in the rafters. “Follow me, please.”
They entered a grand two-story vestibule with granite columns anchoring a domed ceiling painted with clouds and fat cherubs. A red-carpeted staircase curved up to the second-floor walkway that Jack knew from the schematic branched off into the east and west wings of the manor. As they followed the butler down the cavernous hallway, Jack eyed the rare paintings and statuary. Any last bit of reticence he may have harbored about stealing from a friend of Olivia’s drained away with each resounding tap of his shoes on the black-and-white marble floor.
They turned into a sumptuous parlor, all rich wood with accents of forest green and burgundy—very masculine—unlike the bloke leaning against the fireplace mantel playing Lord of the Manor. It was difficult, but Jack managed not to smirk.
After exchanging banal greetings, Max offered them a drink and then they all settled in chairs near the fire. Jack crossed his legs and hunched his shoulders, mimicking his host’s tortoise-like posture. Since Topher and Max had been acquainted since childhood, Jack settled in, prepared to let Topher do the talking. Fixing a hangdog expression on his face, he anticipated a good bit of entertainment.
“What is it I can do for you, er . . .” Maxwell’s gaze flicked to Jack and then slid away. “Gentlemen?”
“Yes, well, we’re here to prevail upon your sense of romance, as it were,” Topher replied.
Maxwell’s brows met in the middle and he scratched one of his abnormally small ears. “You don’t say.”
“There is a certain young lady whom Jack, here”—Topher waved a hand in Jack’s direction in case it wasn’t clear which Jack he was referring to—“wishes to woo, and he fears if he cannot continue his suit at your ball—it being the social event of the year, of course—he will lose out to a more well-connected gentleman.”
Jack stifled a groan as he watched Maxwell’s posture straighten and sweat beads pop out on his forehead. Either Topher was being deliberately obtuse by omitting the name of the woman Jack intended to court, or he was a complete fool. Jack settled on the former as Topher leaned back in his seat, a smirk on his lips. Nothing like prodding a crocodile with a sharp stick before pushing your enemy into his swamp to extract a bit of revenge.