Olivia Twist(74)

She cut behind a row of neighboring houses and then entered her garden through the back gate. Sobs hitched her chest as she slid open the dining room window to find Brom, tail wagging like a metronome, waiting to greet her. After climbing over the sill, she threw her arms around her dog’s warm, solid body and buried her face in his coarse fur. She’d certainly made a mess of things. Guilt hammered on her brain until she thought her head might explode. She should have separated herself from the orphans weeks ago, when Jack advised the association had become too precarious. But instead, her pigheadedness had almost gotten Brit killed.

Brom stiffened, and a moment later banging reverberated through the house. Cautiously, she rose to her feet and moved toward the front door. It had to be after two o’clock in the morning, long past reasonable visiting hours. Another round of loud knocks filled the foyer as Olivia peeked between the curtains of a front window. Four coppers, in their black uniforms and helmets, stood on the front stoop, and a plain-clothed man approached from the street. Had her petty thefts finally caught up to her?

Olivia yanked the hat, wig, and net off her head, and stuffed them in the umbrella stand. She was removing her jacket when Thompson emerged from his apartments in the back of the house, grumbling and knotting the sash on his robe as he hurried to the entryway. Olivia sank back into the shadowy parlor as the butler opened the door.

“Is Miss Olivia Brownlow at home?” a clipped voice demanded.

Brom growled menacingly, and Thompson grabbed his collar to hold him back.

“She’s abed. Come back in the morning.” The butler moved to shut the door, but a club shoved into the jamb propped it open.

“This is a police matter.” The door swung open, pushing Thompson back several steps. Brom strained against his collar, barks exploding out of his chest. “Do something with that canine, sir! It’s urgent we speak with Miss Brownlow straightaway.”

As Thompson tugged a ferocious Brom down the hall, likely to lock him in the broom closet, Olivia began to shake. There was no mercy for thieves and pickpockets. As if it were yesterday, she could feel the beak’s rough hands latching her arms behind her back and carting her through the streets, the judge sentencing her to hang. Darkness edged in on her vision, but when Thompson returned, his next words snapped her back to herself.

“I’m sorry, sir. I had forgotten Miss Olivia is attending a ball at the Grimwig mansion this evening.” The loyal butler straightened his robe and lifted his chin. “May I inquire what this is concerning?”

The man in the bowler and tweed coat stepped into the foyer and flashed his credentials at Thompson. “Inspector Martin, sir. And you are?”

“Thompson, sir. Burt Thompson, the Brownlows’ butler.”

“I must apologize for the late hour, but we have permission to search the premises.” The detective moved into the house flanked by all four officers. “Have you seen Miss Brownlow this evening?”

Olivia crept backward on silent feet and ducked behind a curtain as she heard Thompson answer that he had not seen her since she left for the party. Olivia froze, praying her feet were not visible from beneath the drape. What could a detective want with her? If this was about the occasional stolen doorstop or silver fork, the regular constables would be sufficient to investigate.

Directly on the other side of the curtain, a voice said, “Please direct us to Miss Brownlow’s bedchamber, Mr. Thompson, and then we’ll let you return to your rest.”

Olivia caught her breath, and a warning bell clanged in her head. Her ball gown was strewn across her bed, where she’d thrown it in her haste to find Brit. If they suspected her of some crime, that bit of evidence would destroy her alibi of being at the ball the entire evening.

Thompson’s voice rose and cut into her thoughts. “Master Brownlow is gravely ill. If I wake him, he will be unnecessarily agitated. Surely this inspection can wait until morning.”

“No, sir. It cannot,” replied the curt voice of the inspector. “Miss Brownlow’s wrap was found at the scene of the crime, and we’ve received a tip leading us to investigate her quarters. We cannot risk the evidence will not be tampered with. Now move aside.”

Boots tromped on the wooden staircase like an army marching to battle. Olivia didn’t know if she should sneak out the front door or turn herself in. But whatever they suspected her of, she imagined her male disguise would not be well received. She could sneak to Violet’s house, pretend to have spent the night there, borrow one of her dresses, and return in the morning.

Deciding it was a sound plan, Olivia peered around the velvet drape. The parlor was empty, so she crept out, staying close to the wall. She tiptoed into the foyer and reached for the front doorknob, then heard the unmistakable tap and shuffle of her uncle’s footsteps. Olivia stopped. She simply could not leave him to deal with whatever mess she’d unintentionally made. Turning, she caught her uncle’s surprised gaze as he took in her attire. “Uncle, I can explain this later.” Olivia swept a hand toward her clothes. “But right now, the constables are here because they think I’ve committed some crime. I can assure you—”

“Olivia,” her uncle rasped. “Go. Go now!”

Olivia searched her uncle’s alert eyes. Trust and love mixed with fear. He was right, she had to go. Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she spun on her heel and pulled open the front door.