by Zoë Archer
It was the right choice to hold him off. Yet when she swung her hammer again, it felt a little heavier, as if the pull of gravity had grown stronger.
* * *
Picks in hand, Simon crouched beside a large strongbox in the managers’ office. He inserted the thin metal tools into the lock and began to carefully manipulate them. Shadows blanketed the room, and desks and filing cabinets made dark, blocky shapes in the empty chamber. A clock on the wall chimed twice. Little danger that an enterprising clerk might show up in the middle of the night, catching Simon in the middle of ferreting out the company’s secrets.
Simon worked by touch. He couldn’t risk a lamp, no matter how much he dimmed it, and he didn’t need to see what he was doing. Long ago, Marco had made every Nemesis operative spend weeks practicing opening locks of all varieties—from basic padlocks to top-of-the-line safes—in total darkness.
It’s like making love, Marco had said. You don’t need to see what you’re doing to do it properly.
It doesn’t hurt, though, Simon had added. Watching’s part of the fun.
Then watch yourself get carted off to prison because you need a lamp to get that damned lockbox open.
So, they’d practiced breaking into safes, and practiced some more, until everyone could get into the toughest coffer or padlock within minutes. Now Simon hunkered down, carefully manipulating the picks to get inside the lockbox that held the mine’s latest financial records. He felt the tumblers sliding into place, the shift of metal against metal. For all the teasing he’d given Marco, there was something deeply satisfying, and oddly sensual about gently, delicately liberating the secrets from a lock. The initial tension, then the seduction, the yielding, until, at last, the lock opened itself to him, inviting him in. Better that the lock released itself than trying to blast his way in like a brute.
He never wanted an unwilling partner.
As he worked on the strongbox, his thoughts drifted to Alyce. Since that day a week ago, she’d stayed clear of him during the long walks to and from the mine, surrounding herself with other bal-maidens, or else marching so quickly ahead that he’d be forced to jog to keep up with her. He couldn’t smoke where the women dressed the ore, but she’d made no attempt to keep him company when he’d taken cigarette breaks close to the engine house. And whenever he’d tried to talk with her, she’d given him terse little answers. Nothing like the badinage they’d shared earlier.
She was deliberately avoiding him. Had he said or done something to offend her? Or did she suspect him of being more than just a machinist? Neither option pleased him, but if she was wary of him, he had to make sure that she didn’t share her doubts with anyone else. Right now, success in this mission meant keeping himself invisible.
There! Another tumbler fitted into place, but he wasn’t in yet.
He’d have to keep working on Alyce, too. She knew the most about the mine, and had already proven herself a valuable source of information. She was also a voice for change, and could be a useful ally when his plans were finally set in motion. He’d subtly tried to glean knowledge from Edgar, Nathaniel, and a few of the other people he’d come to know, but self-preservation made them deliberately ignorant. It was Alyce he needed.
For the mission, he reminded himself.
With a quiet snick, the lock to the strongbox opened.
Inside, leather-bound ledgers were stacked one atop the other like conspirators huddling in the shadows. He hunkered down on the floor and began pulling them out, one by one, flipping through their pages. Back when he’d been in the army, he’d often been picked for night patrols, his vision nearly as good in the darkness as it was during the day. So reading the rows of numbers and precise handwriting filling the books didn’t offer much difficulty.
The only trouble came from the tedium of reading each ledger. As he finished one, he’d slip it back into the strongbox, then begin on another. What he found didn’t give ample comfort.
If a company could be brought down for shortchanging its workers’ wages, then all the businesses in England would shut their doors for good. Wheal Prosperity earned far more than it paid its employees. The managers kept a tidy sum for themselves, and the rest went to the owners in Plymouth. Meanwhile, the miners, machinists, and bal-maidens scraped by. Hardly newsworthy or scandalous. Nothing he could use.
He cursed softly as he put the last ledger back into the strongbox. Then cursed again silently as the light from a patrolling constable’s lamp flashed through the office’s windows. The door to the office rattled when the constable unlocked it, and the floorboards creaked beneath his heavy boots when he stepped inside. The room brightened as the lamp swept from side to side, lingering briefly on the strongbox. But the door to the safe was closed. Nothing was out of place.
Simon held his breath as he folded himself beneath a desk. Thank God the desk had a solid panel in the front, shielding him from the constable. But there was always the chance the patrolman felt particularly ambitious that night, and he might conduct a more thorough search of the office.
The lamplight stopped on the desk Simon hid beneath. Quick scenarios played through his mind. He could pull his knitted jumper up enough to hide part of his face and pretend to be a burglar. None of the constables carried firearms. It’d be the work of a moment to leap out and knock the lawman unconscious, then plant evidence that the “burglar” had been looking for money. Might make things a little sticky in the morning, setting the law on alert for thieves, but he’d rather face that than have the managers know his true purpose or the real threat he posed.
He was just about to tug up the collar of his jumper, his body preparing for a fight, when the light moved on. More heavy steps on the floorboards, and then the constable locked the door to the office behind him.
Five minutes passed. And then another five minutes. Finally, Simon unfolded himself from beneath the desk. A strange mixture of frustration and excitement thrummed through him. He was almost—almost—disappointed he didn’t get to fight the constable. Back in London, he trained at a gymnasium every day, and as exhausting as manning the pump engines was, it didn’t quite compare to the satisfaction and freeing of energy that came from sparring in a ring. He craved the release of tension.
The ledgers hadn’t shown him enough financial misdeeds to take down the owners and managers of the mine, either. He’d have to find another tactic.
And he knew exactly what—more precisely, who—could help him.
* * *
Alyce waited outside as men emerged from the change house. Some were still wiping rags across their faces, scrubbing away the traces of red copper mud, and leaving their cheeks chafed and ruddy. Others were tucking in their clean but worn shirts as they walked out. Everything smelled of damp and minerals and sweat. For all that the miners tried to clean themselves after a day down in the pit, they only had a long basin for washing—or so Henry told her. She’d never actually been in the change house. Probably the miners would just get missish and shriek if she caught a glimpse of them in only their drawers.
The idea of big Hal Martin holding a tiny rag up to his chest and squealing like a terrified girl made her smile. Hal weighed at least sixteen stone and towered over most of the men in Trewyn. She’d no idea how anyone could get so big on the bare scraps of food the miners were able to afford.
She exchanged greetings with some of the men as they left the change house. Wives and daughters who worked as bal-maidens joined Alyce in her wait. The long walk home was always better with company. Evelyn Fields waited for her husband, Ted.
“Waiting for your machinist?” Evelyn asked.
Heat crept into Alyce’s face. “Machinists don’t need to use the change house.”
Evelyn shrugged. “Maybe he got himself all slick with grease from the machines and wanted to make himself look pretty for you.”
“It’s Henry I’m waiting on,” she answered. Her brother wasn’t an ideal companion; they almost always found something to quarrel about, but she�
��d rather make the trip back to the village with him than run the risk of meeting up with Simon. “Besides, that machinist”—she didn’t want to refer to him by name—“doesn’t come around the dressing floor to prattle on anymore, so he doesn’t give a tinker’s damn if he looks pretty for me.”
The disappointment in her voice was a surprise. She hadn’t realized how much she liked talking with him until their conversations had stopped. It was her doing, too. For a few days, he’d made up excuses to come and chat with her—the other machinists were arguing and trying his patience, he wanted a woman’s opinion about a birthday gift for his sister—but she hadn’t taken the bait. Eventually, he’d gotten the hint, and didn’t come around anymore or try to catch up with her walking to and from the mine.
The right choice, she reminded herself. Looking out for herself had to be her top concern. He could be a lodestone for trouble.
But it surprised her how, after knowing him for such a short time, she missed him. His wit. The tiny dent in his cheek when he smiled. It was like she’d been given a little sip of sweet, cool water and discovered she was thirsty.
She’d heard through gossip that Tippet hadn’t bothered Simon since that one day. No one else had anything to say about Simon, except that Jenny Grigg and Nan Bassett had both set their caps for him, and both baked him meat pasties to have for his luncheon yesterday and today.
Maybe Alyce had been too quick in spurning him. Maybe she ought to have Sarah teach her how to bake a meat pasty.
The thought made her snort. A fine day it would be when she’d go begging for a man’s favor, luring him with food like she was trying to trap a badger.
Ted Fields came out of the change house, and, smiling, took his wife’s hand. Together they joined the procession heading back to Trewyn.
No husband or sweetheart would emerge from the change house for Alyce.
Instead, her brother marched out, tugging on his coat and looking cross. Before Alyce could say a word, he was already scolding her. “Charlie Pool said he saw you going into the managers’ offices this morning.”
Annoyance prickled up her spine. “Did he tell you I had an itch on my nose and needed to scratch it, too? Seems like everything I do in the village or at the mine is everyone else’s sodding business.”
“Itches I don’t care about. Let your nose fall off for scratching it. But riling the bosses makes life tough for all of us.”
“The butter at the company store’s gone rancid,” she fired back. “I warned them that it would, and it did. Nobody will be able to work if they’re all sick from bad butter. You’d think the managers would have sense enough to understand that.”
“Maybe so,” he conceded, “but storming into their offices and shouting at them won’t get much done.”
“I wasn’t shouting. I was being resolute.” For all the good it had done her. She’d been forcibly escorted out of the office by Constable Freeman and told that she’d be docked pay if she wasted any more her time harassing the managers and not processing ore.
Henry gave a long-suffering sigh. “There’s a better way to get things done, Allie.”
A retort formed on her lips, but before she spoke, someone behind her and Henry spoke. “Not interrupting any family business, I hope.”
Recognizing the voice at once, she swung around. Simon stood right behind her and Henry, with a faintly apologetic smile. It caught her off guard, how seeing him again, and so close, made her heart beat a little faster. It’s just because he surprised me. Either she and Henry had been arguing loudly, or Simon had moved with particular quiet, for one moment, he hadn’t been there, and the next, there he was, bright as refined and polished ore.
“Nothing worth hearing,” Henry said with a sharp look at Alyce.
She glared back at her brother before turning to Simon. What should she say when he tried to talk to her? Should she brush him off again? Should she try being warmer to him?
But after a polite nod in her direction, Simon’s attention fixed on Henry. “They tell me you’re the lad to talk to about rugby,” he said.
“I’m captain for the mine’s club,” Henry answered with the pride a man uses when he isn’t trying to sound too boastful, but wants the other man to know how impressive he is, just the same. “And set up the matches against other mines.” He narrowed his eyes. “Interested in joining up?”
“If the club’s got room for me.”
“What position do you play? Don’t tell me—second-five.”
Alyce scowled at the implied insult—that Simon was just a pretty face who didn’t do much for the team—but Simon only smiled affably.
“Winger, actually.”
This caught Henry’s attention, and Alyce’s, as well. Wingers were known for speed, and they scored the most in a match. “Where’d you play?”
“I wasn’t always dodging bullets in the army. Lots of time between pitched battles with the enemy.”
“How was your record?”
“Scored seven tries in a game,” Simon noted, also using the same tone of humble boastfulness.
Henry whistled, impressed. “I play flanker, myself. Have a record of five tries in a match.”
“So,” Simon pressed, “can you use me?”
Real regret sounded in Henry’s voice. “We’ve already got Rob Turner as our winger, but he’s rubbish. And our season runs from Whitsunday to Lammas, so we’re done until next year.”
Simon looked disappointed. “Shame.”
“We host trials at Easter.” Henry knocked a fist into Simon’s shoulder. “You should give it a go.”
With a smile, Simon said, “I just might.”
Alyce glanced back and forth between her brother and Simon. Neither of them seemed to pay her any mind, and the dislike Henry had carried for Simon had been brushed off like so much dirt from a jersey.
“You’ve got some stories to tell, I’d wager,” Henry said.
“And you,” Simon answered.
Henry waved Simon forward. “Come on, then. It’s a long walk back to the village.”
Stunned, Alyce followed as Henry and Simon chatted like the oldest of chums on the trek homeward, recounting tales of different rugby matches they’d played over the years. She knew all of Henry’s stories—she’d watched every match from the sidelines and heard them told again and again until she could recite each maneuver and play from memory. She’d heard there were men who made it their life’s work and passion to study one particular time in history—ancient kings of England, say, or Egypt and its monument-building rulers.
Either accidentally or on purpose, Simon had found Henry’s beloved history: the rugby matches of Wheal Prosperity from the past fifteen years. And Simon actually listened as if these stories of rivalries between copper-mine rugby clubs were the most fascinating subject in the world. Alyce liked a good match herself, and they certainly livened up a summer Sunday, but for the love of all that was sacred, did she have to hear again how Henry scored the winning try against East Wheal Bolton in the last seconds of the game?
She was much more interested in hearing about the matches Simon had played in. But Simon kept asking Henry question after question about local matches, and her brother was eager as a puppy to talk about them—and his own heroic role in each game.
And not once did Simon glance back at her with a smile, a wink, or even a look acknowledging that she was there. She’d half a mind to stomp off on her own, but she just couldn’t seem to make herself move on ahead.
It didn’t hurt that walking behind her brother and Simon gave her a nice view of Simon’s arse. Good and tight, it was, with a high round shape. Was it as firm as it looked?
She pressed her lips tight to keep from laughing, imagining herself pinching Simon Sharpe’s bum as if she were some randy old codger groping serving girls in a pub. But it was an interesting idea …
Finally, they reached the village, and the long column of workers broke apart as they each headed off toward their homes. As she, Henry,
and Simon reached the entrance to the lane that led to their house, she fully expected Henry to wish Simon a good night and part ways.
Instead, Henry said, “Listen, Simon, I want to hear everything you’ve got to say about creating gaps in the other club’s defense. Sounds like you have some good strategies.”
“A few, yes,” Simon answered.
Henry tilted his head toward the lane wending toward their house. “Come to my home for supper tonight.”
Alyce’s mouth dropped open. This from the same brother who warned her to keep her distance from Simon? Now Henry invited him into the privacy of their house for a meal?
Treachery, thy name is rugby.
“You sure you can spare enough for another head at the table?” Simon asked.
Henry smiled affably. “My Sarah can stretch a meal so far, you’d think it was made of India rubber. But her cooking tastes better.”
“If that’s the case,” Simon said, taking off his cap, “I’d be most honored.”
“Half past six, and no later.” With that, Henry ambled down the lane. “Don’t dawdle, Alyce.”
“In a minute,” she called after him. She stared at Simon, who finally turned and looked directly at her. He gave her an irresistible grin, mischievous as one of the fairy folk they spoke of in old stories.
Protectively, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You never mentioned that you were a winger.”
“It didn’t come up. And blokes generally don’t start most conversations with ladies by reciting the number of tries they’ve scored in a match. Not interesting chaps, anyway,” he added. “But Henry cares, and it got me what I was after.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So you had a hidden motive.”
“Of course I did,” he said easily. “I wanted to see you again, and now I’m going to have supper with you. Sounds like I got even more than I’d hoped for.”
His blunt confession—and what it meant—left her briefly speechless. She could only gape at him. No man had ever pursued her so directly or with such determination. Moths fluttered through her belly.
