Olivia held her hat in place as wind whipped the thick strands of her wig against her cheeks. The crisp scent of coming snow had her wishing for her fur-lined jacket and muff. Jack trudged along beside her, his ragged-looking coat little protection against the elements. The harsh turn in weather didn’t allow for easy conversation, but that didn’t stop the questions spinning in Olivia’s head.
She’d just overheard Jack instruct Brit and the boys to tell anyone who would listen that the Dodger was back and he was their new kidsman. They’d all heard of the Dodger; he was a legend among the street folk. And tonight, watching him fight like a warrior, Olivia had witnessed a good part of the reason why.
Stunned silence had clouded her brain as the boys threw questions at Jack from every side. True to his nature, he avoided giving specific answers, all while rallying the boys around his plan—If Monks wants a turf war, he’ll get one!
Then he’d helped them invent ideas to fortify the hideout. Jack pointed out vulnerabilities, such as the accessible opening in the floor, and then led the boys through possible solutions. They’d agreed to build a hatch with a sturdy lock. As the little ones drifted off to their beds, Jack, Brit, and Archie addressed the windows, concocting an elaborate rope and pulley system that would dump wet paint on anyone who attempted to break in.
Before leaving, Jack had pulled the two older boys aside, handed them a wad of cash, and given them a list of supplies they would need to create the protective measures they’d discussed. That kind of cash flow would certainly gain attention, which seemed part of Jack’s master plan.
The only problem being that, as far as Olivia knew, Jack “The Artful Dodger” MacCarron had left that life behind, going so far as to fake his own death. He was hiding something. She just couldn’t figure out his angle—yet. Not that she wasn’t grateful for his help. But had he thought through the possible repercussions? Resurrecting his past could jeopardize his new life, and if his current or past crimes came to light, it would land him behind bars . . . or worse.
Leaning into the wind, Olivia turned off the walk to cut through the park. Jack moved ahead of her and lifted branches out of her path as they wove through the trees. She knew he had a noble side—she’d witnessed it over and over again when they were children—but that still didn’t explain the terrible risk he was taking by diving headfirst into his past. It only illustrated how very little Olivia knew about the person he had become. His whole life was a mystery, from his parents to his arrangement with Lois March.
At the gates of her garden, Jack touched his hat with a nod, propped the umbrella on his shoulder, and turned to go.
“Jack!” she yelled, but he either ignored her or couldn’t hear over the wind. “Jack!” When he didn’t respond, she caught up to him, looped her arm through his, and guided him toward the townhouse, doing her best to ignore the powerful curve of his bicep under her fingers. There was a place where three brick walls of the house formed an alcove. It was where she hid her stolen trinkets until she could take them to the boys.
When they reached the spot, she reluctantly removed her hand from the warmth of his arm and pushed aside the hedge that disguised the entrance. The moonlit niche got them out of the wind, but as they both squeezed in together, she realized it was much smaller than she remembered.
“If you want to get me alone, I could arrange a more comfortable meeting place,” Jack quipped, a wicked glint in his eye.
Olivia’s stomach did a tight flip as she shifted into the corner to create some much-needed space between them. “I simply want to talk.”
Jack rolled his eyes and slumped back against the wall. “Must we?”
“Yes, we must.” Olivia scratched her wig, longing to pull the itchy thing off her head, but instead she assumed her “boy stance” and crossed her arms. “What are you hiding?”
He remained silent.
“Why do you want to go after Monks?”
His eyes turned glacial.
She fired another question. “How did you end up with Lois March?”
The way Jack’s brow lifted, she could tell her question surprised him. Good. He’d had her off balance since the day he walked back into her life.
He recovered quickly, a tiny smirk sliding across his lips. “She’s my aunt. Or hadna ye heard I’m a wee orphan from Ireland?”
His accent was spot on, but his words were complete twaddle. Her chest burned like it was filled with hot coals. How dare he treat her with such cavalier disregard? “I shared every sordid detail about my parents with you. And you can’t be honest with me about this one thing?”
“I’m helping your precious orphans, so what does it matter?” he sneered.
“It matters, you insolent dolt, because by trotting out the Dodger like some diverting party trick, you’re risking everything Lois has done for you! It could endanger your life!” She didn’t realize she’d moved until she felt his hands circling her upper arms, holding her back.
“A party trick! You think I’m playing some blasted game?” He let go of her so suddenly that she fell back against the bricks, knocking the air out of her lungs. She’d meant to provoke a reaction out of him, but by the thunderous look on his face, she’d gone too far.
“Jack—”
“Do me a favor and leave off. Stay home tucked into your cozy feather bed,” he spat. “And bury that foolish costume. I’ll take care of the orphans. You’re only making it harder for all of us.”
Speechless, Olivia watched Jack crash through the hedge, the branches shuddering in his wake. She leaned against the cold bricks, her harsh breaths clouding the air in front of her eyes. Why the devil couldn’t she just keep her mouth shut?
Snow began to fall; a trickle at first, and then a deluge. Fat flakes stuck to her lashes and melted on her already wet cheeks. She’d lashed out, desperate to see behind the mask he showed the rest of the world, but instead she may have pushed him away for good.
The next morning Olivia arrived at the tearoom early, a bell tinkling against the door as she entered. With a shiver, she wiped snow from her boots. The comforting scents of hot tea, wood smoke, and fresh baked goods welcomed her as a server indicated a variety of seats. She scanned the room, and noting that Vi and Francesca had yet to arrive, selected a cozy arrangement of overstuffed chairs draped in sunlight.
After ordering a pot of strong black tea, she settled in and stared blindly out the window. She’d awoken that morning with a melancholy she couldn’t shake. It was as if she were drifting without a tether anchoring her to anything solid.
She removed her fur-lined gloves and placed them in her lap. Jack was right; her connection to Monks was putting the boys in more danger. Perhaps her days of gallivanting through the city as Ollie were at an end. If Jack promised to take care of the orphans, could she leave them in his hands? Her heart physically ached at the thought of never again seeing Chip’s little face, or Archie’s mischievous grin, or Brit—Olivia took a sip of tea and swallowed the lump in her throat—brilliant Brit, who took the weight of the world on his shoulders.
It wasn’t a matter of trust, exactly. She was sure Jack could meet their needs and provide protection. But was he in it for the duration? Or would he forget all about the boys once the novelty of being their hero wore off?
The fact of the matter was, without those boys, Olivia had no idea who she was anymore. Was she the future Mrs. Maxwell Grimwig? Endeavoring to be the perfect society wife, her days filled with conversations about the latest wall-papering trends, the most frivolous hat designs, the grandest parties, and who was dallying with whom? God forbid!
Her cup clanged against its saucer, drawing the eyes of the few patrons in the shop. Olivia smiled wanly in apology and turned back to the window, where the foot traffic was picking up despite the snow-covered streets.
At least if she were going to become a wife, it would be not only for her uncle’s guaranteed security, but to assist as many of the unfortunate as possible—and that included the Hill Orphans.
She’d let Jack serve his purpose and protect them with his reputation, but she refused to step aside quietly. Besides, if Monks hadn’t deduced who she was by now, he was unlikely to link a street thug named Ollie with his lost little sister.
That morning, she’d worked up the nerve to ask Uncle Brownlow about Edward Leeford. He hadn’t shown much of a reaction to her half brother’s existence, but had assured her that her father’s wealth had been squandered on asinine inventions and failed business ventures long ago. So Jack’s theory that Monks sought to do her harm because of some long-lost fortune didn’t hold weight.
The bell on the door tinkled and Fran and Vi rushed in, all rosy cheeks and laughter. Olivia waved, and Violet rushed over, rubbing her arms and shivering. Fran, much too sophisticated to show physical weakness, stamped her boots and swept over to the table wearing her perpetual smug smile.
“You’ll never guess who we’ve just run into!” Violet proclaimed, taking a seat on the chair across from Olivia.
“Who?” Olivia asked, forcing herself out of her self-absorption for her best friend’s sake.
“None other than Mr. Jack MacCarron,” Fran pronounced as she hung her sable-trimmed jacket on a nearby coat tree.
Olivia swallowed a large gulp of hot tea and began to cough. Saints! Could she not escape the man for even a moment?
“Good heavens. Are you quite all right, Livie?” Violet handed her a napkin, which Olivia gracelessly snatched and pressed to her mouth as coughs racked her chest.
Francesca perched on the edge of her seat and poured her tea, ignoring Olivia’s outburst. “Yes, Mr. MacCarron was on his way to Beakmans to have his final fitting for a suit of evening clothes.”
“Just like us,” Violet interjected, earning a scathing look from Fran, who wasn’t finished gloating.
Since the Grimwigs’ ball was next week, they’d planned to meet before heading to their ball gown fittings with the fabulous Madam Franchon. Olivia could only tolerate the pretentious woman in small doses, and never alone. She clucked around Olivia like a disapproving mother hen, shaking her head at Olivia’s freckled skin and tsking at her sun-lightened hair.
Fran cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Jack made a point to inquire if I would be attending the ball.”
Olivia arched a brow at Francesca’s blatant use of his given name, and almost laughed out loud as she imagined what her sheltered cousin would do if she had witnessed Jack beating those men to bloody pulps in the street the previous night. An ungentlemanly practice to be sure.
“He inquired after both of us, Fran,” Violet insisted, snatching a brown-butter cookie from the tray of sweets.
“I’m sure he was only asking you to be polite. Those evocative blue eyes didn’t leave my face the entire conversation,” Francesca replied.
Violet didn’t respond, but Olivia could see her internal struggle as she pursed her lips and shoved the rest of the cookie into her mouth. Her best friend displayed commendable restraint, but knowing Vi as she did, it was only a matter of time before Fran found herself pushed from behind into a reeking pond. Olivia only hoped she’d be there to witness it.
“Speaking of the Grimwigs, how is a certain Mr. Grimwig these days?” Violet asked, wiggling her russet brows suggestively.
Only Uncle Brownlow and Max’s parents knew of the engagement. But her cousins suspected Max’s intentions, and were constantly prodding her for the latest information.
“I haven’t seen him in several days. He’s just returned from inspecting a property in Southampton with his father.” Olivia leaned forward and selected a glistening apple-raisin tart from the tray. “I’m attending the theater with him tonight . . .”
Olivia lifted the tart to her mouth, but before she could take a bite, the scent of spiced apples filled her head with visions of Jack, their breath mingling, his body pressing hers in the darkened doorway.
“Olivia?”
She blinked the wayward images out of her mind’s eye and focused on Violet’s pertly wrinkled nose. “Whyever do you have a string tied around your finger, Olivia dear?”
As she glanced down at the piece of black thread, heat rushed into her cheeks. She’d placed the string on her ring finger that morning as a reminder of her commitment to Max. She set the tart on her plate, untasted. “Um . . . it’s to remind me of something . . . I . . . er . . . need to tell Maxwell this evening.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. Tonight, she was determined to show Max what a proper, devoted fiancée she could be to him. The theater was the perfect venue to spend some quality time and demonstrate her commitment, and at the very least, it was the one place she’d never run into Jack.
“If this is one of your little tests to gage my dedication, I’ll tolerate it, but I promise I won’t enjoy it.” Jack stared across the shadowed interior of the carriage at Lois’s pillowy face, her expression inscrutable—or devious, more like.
“The theater is not torture, my boy. It will do you good to gain a bit of culture. And this is not an examination, I simply needed your escort this evening.”
“Right, and the queen of England is my long-lost sister,” Jack muttered under his breath. Lois March never did anything without a precise purpose.
“What’s that, my boy?” Lois asked over the creaking of the carriage.
“Nothing,” he responded, slouching in his seat. “What play are we seeing?”
“The Bohemian Girl.” Lois twirled her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “The opera, you know.”
“And why would I know?” Jack asked, lifting his brows in question.
“With your musical aptitude, I was sure you would’ve heard of it.”
The carriage rumbled through a rough patch of snow and Lois gripped the hand strap and edge of her seat, softly cursing the perils of modern transportation. She preferred to walk whenever possible.
Even after the wheels found purchase and the ride smoothed out, Jack was unable to follow Lois’s twisted logic. “To what musical aptitude are you referring?”
“The violin, of course. Your little impromptu performance at the Dells’ musicale was inspired.”
Jack grinned at her praise. He’d learned to play on a beat-up old fiddle he’d found in an abandoned Gypsy trunk. He’d picked up the instrument out of sheer boredom, but with a little instruction from Fagin, the music seemed to flow through him with ease. His performances had become a nightly entertainment on the Hill and a pure source of happiness for him.
“You should have seen how Little Miss Amethyst practically swooned at your feet that night.”
Remembering the lovely set of amethyst jewels Lois referred to, Jack knew she spoke of Francesca Lancaster, Olivia’s cousin. Olivia. Dark heat pulsed in his chest. How could she accuse him of being reckless? He’d weighed all the risks of dragging the Dodger out of the past. And he knew exactly what was at stake.
She was the one taking needless risks by wandering around the city in that thinly veiled disguise. A wig and dirt-smeared cheeks couldn’t hide her innate grace and beauty. He’d never wanted to kiss and strangle someone in the same breath, but that incongruous and decidedly uncomfortable state had become the norm when he was with her.
Jack realized Lois was still talking and he’d tuned her out.
“. . . an association?” Lois met his gaze expectantly as the carriage rolled to a halt.
Parting the curtains, Jack saw that they were still down the block from Drury Lane Theatre. They jerked back into motion, moving forward in the line. “What type of association?” Jack asked distractedly.
“Blast it, Jack! Where is your head? You disappear for days on end without a word, and don’t think I haven’t noticed that it’s been several weeks since your last score.”
Jack ran a hand through his hair; he’d known this interrogation was coming. “I thought it best to lay low for a bit. The Dells reported the theft, and the beaks launched a full investigation.”
“Be that as it may, it’s time to refocus our efforts. And if you’d been attending you would realize this next assignment is complicated, but . . . fruitful.”
Now she had his attention. “I’m listening.”
“As I was saying, the Emeralds’—” She stopped and shook her head. “I mean, the Grimwigs’ ball is next week. It should be a huge crush and the perfect time for a heist. The gems are flawless, a total of fifty carats. I already have a potential buyer lined up in Calcutta.”
“If they’re so fabulous, how do you know Mrs. Grimwig won’t be wearing them at the ball?”
The old woman leaned forward, her eyes glowing through the gloom. “I have it on good authority that she’s had a scarlet dress designed for the occasion. Emeralds would clash horribly.”
Jack nodded. If this hit was as big as Lois claimed, it would be their most lucrative yet.
“Here’s the rub. For some inexplicable reason, we haven’t received an invitation to the ball.”
Jack didn’t have to guess why. String-bean Grimwig didn’t want Jack anywhere near Olivia. Little did Maxwell know that Jack didn’t need a formal invitation to spend time with his girl.
“Wipe that smirk off your face and focus!” Lois gave his calf a whack with her cane. “And stop slouching.”
Jack winced and rubbed his stinging leg as he straightened in his seat. The old woman was stronger than she appeared.
“Now, if you were to cultivate an association with the highly sought-after Francesca Lancaster, I’m sure we would receive an invitation post haste.”
From the seductive looks Miss Lancaster had thrown his way that morning on the street, his attentions would be more than welcome. But he feared Francesca would take his interest to heart.
“I know you don’t have an aversion to rich, beautiful women, so why the reluctance?”
Jack ran his thumb over the pads of his fingers in contemplation. He wanted to tell her no, that he wouldn’t do it. But in this case, the ends more than justified the means. “I know Miss Lancaster rather well. It won’t be a problem.”
“Good. Because I invited her to the theater on your behalf, and she’ll be sitting in our box tonight.”
The woman worked fast, he had to give her that.