Olivia Twist(71)

“Jack,” snipped a birdlike voice. Olivia started, having forgotten they were in a room packed with people. She turned and met the glassy eyes of a pheasant perched on top of Lois March’s head. The old woman tapped her cane against the marble floor with a sharp crack. “I need your assistance, posthaste!”

Jack glanced down at the woman and then returned his glowing blue gaze to Olivia. Stepping close, he leaned in to whisper, “Please don’t move, love. It’s urgent that I speak with you.” He gave her hands a firm squeeze before releasing them and turning to follow his impatient benefactor. But before he went, he glanced back at Olivia, white teeth flashing in the candlelight. The force of that smile nearly knocked her back on her heels.

“Excuse me. Are you Miss Olivia Brownlow?”

Olivia turned to find a young footman, his sandy brows scrunched in a troubled expression. “Yes,” she answered.

“This urgent message arrived for you.” The servant bowed, thrust a sealed envelope into her hand, and headed back the way he came. As he rushed through the crowd, Olivia noted that his uniform was mismatched and slightly rumpled, but worries for her uncle quickly turned her attention back to the letter.

She ripped into the missive with trembling fingers.



Ollie,

Brit missing. Come quick.

Archie

Talons gripped her heart. As if moving underwater, her senses muffled and sluggish, Olivia began to struggle through the crowd. She pushed past an older man, almost knocking him off his feet. Issuing a quick apology, she kept moving, all the while praying for God to keep Brit safe. Had he been mugged? Was he lying hurt and alone in the street? Or . . . A much more ominous thought sprang into her mind. Monks.

She stopped and turned in a circle, searching for Jack’s dark head. But he was nowhere to be found. There was no time. Picking up her skirts, she rushed out of the ballroom and into the corridor.

As she sped past the life-sized statuary and giant potted ferns, she formulated a plan—she would rent a hackney, stop at home to change out of her gown, and take the hack to Turnbull Road. She just hoped she could find the boys’ new hideout.

Guilt and fear churned in Olivia’s stomach. Why hadn’t she visited the boys this week, despite Jack’s warnings? What if she was too late? She glanced over her shoulder in indecision, wishing she had time to find Jack, and smacked into something solid. Stumbling back from the impact, Olivia blinked at the petite, purple-clad wall halting her progress.

Francesca, eyes narrowed, tapped her foot in annoyance. “I’d hoped such a lovely gown would lend you some civility. I can see that I was wrong.”

No time for a retort, Olivia folded Archie’s letter and stuffed it back into the envelope. “Fran, find Jack and give him this note. ’Tis most urgent.” Olivia thrust the missive at her cousin, but Fran’s arms stayed at her sides. “Please!”

“Jack?” Fran arched a dark brow in question.

“Bloody Jack MacCarron! You know exactly who I’m talking about,” Olivia exclaimed as she grabbed Francesca’s gloved hand and closed her fingers around the note.

Her cousin’s eyes went wide, finally realizing Olivia meant business. “Yes, of course.”

Olivia spun away and called a quick thank you over her shoulder.

The click of her heeled slippers echoed down the seemingly never-ending hallway as she ran, her mind whirling with questions. If Monks had taken Brit, would he hurt him? What could he possibly hope to gain by taking an innocent child? Was it a blackmail attempt to gain the missing inheritance? Her lungs contracted. Her brother was more unbalanced than she—

“Olivia?”

She turned her head and saw Maxwell rushing toward her from a side hallway. Thank God!

She spun toward him, talking as she ran. “Max, I need your help! I just received a note that one of the orphans—the ones I told you about—has gone missing. We must—” She sucked in air, as he took her shoulders in a firm grip. “We must help him.”

“Now? In the middle of our engagement ball?” Max held her gaze, his brows scrunched together over his nose.

Olivia went very still. Surely he was not angry. She must not have explained the situation properly. “Max, a child’s life is at stake.”

He let out a long breath. “Olivia, street children are . . . capricious by nature. How old is this boy?”

“He is twelve,” Olivia answered, working hard not to cry as she pictured Brit’s serious dark eyes and freckled cheeks.

Max paused, a tight smile on his face. He looked past her and then back again as if searching for the right words. “I’m quite certain the boy was distracted by some form of iniquitous amusement. He likely doesn’t even want to be found. Now, let’s go back to the ball.” He tipped her chin up, the look on his face more condescending than beguiling. “We haven’t yet had our first dance.”

Olivia jerked her chin out of his grasp and took a step back. “You are quite serious, aren’t you? You expect me to return to the party as if I haven’t a care in the world, when I’ve just received an urgent message that a child—a child I know and care for—is in danger!”

“Calm down, Olivia. You can check on the boy tomorrow.” He took her arm and looped it through his, patting her hand as he steered her back down the corridor. “Let’s find you one of those marmalade tarts you love so much.”