by Zoë Archer
Jack weaved to the side as a club-wielding thug swung at him. He countered by striking with the pan. The thug wasn’t fast enough to dodge the hit, and took the pan hard on the side of his head. He staggered. Jack cracked the pan onto the bloke’s arm. The thug shouted in pain, and his club went flying, smashing into the racks on the walls and sending pots and pans crashing to the floor. The bloke sank to his knees, whimpering as he cradled his broken arm.
Miss Jones shrieked, flinging her handkerchief into the air.
Jack didn’t pay her any mind as he faced the other two near the kitchen entrance. They rushed him at the same time. He picked up an iron spit that lay on the ground, and, armed with the pan in one hand and the spit in the other, parried the bruisers’ strikes. One club caught him across the back, and he grunted with the impact. But he wouldn’t release his makeshift weapons. He kept swinging at the two thugs, holding his ground when they tried to force him back into the corner.
Simon wrestled with the bloke holding the pipe, grabbing hold of it with both hands and using it as leverage to shove his attacker into the wall. Once he had his opponent pinned against the wall, Simon rammed his knee into the bloke’s gut. As the thug doubled over, Simon punched him in the nose. Blood spurted, bright red, and Miss Jones screamed again, louder than the bloke with the smashed nose.
As Jack continued to fight with the two other bruisers, he saw Eva swinging the chair at Brass Knuckles.
“Careful with that, little miss,” the thug sneered. “Might hurt somebody.”
“Like this?” She brought the chair up and raked the points of its legs across Brass Knuckles’s knees. He staggered, then landed on his hands and knees right in front of the stove. She leaped to him and opened the stove’s door, slamming it against his head. Brass Knuckles shouted in pain, but his shouts stopped after Eva gave him a few more good knocks against the iron stove and he collapsed onto the tile floor.
Well, goddamn Jack if the sight of Eva pummeling a thug into unconsciousness wasn’t one of the prettiest things he’d ever seen.
He still had his two club-holding attackers to worry about, though. When one of the blokes lunged for him, Jack slapped the length of the spit against his belly. As the thug crumpled, Jack plunged the spit in and out of his shoulder. The bloke clutched at his wound as blood seeped through his fingers.
That left one remaining thug. He looked at Jack, then at Eva, then at Simon, and finally at his friends writhing in agony on the floor of a suburban kitchen. Dropping his club, he ran from the room.
Jack chased him to the front door. The thug pushed a passing man to the ground as he raced down the street, and Jack shouted at the bruiser’s retreating back, “You tell that fucking bastard that nothing’s stopping me!”
The thug turned a corner and vanished.
As Jack started to shut the door, a bobby marched up the walkway. He tensed, readying himself to fight or run if the copper tried to nab him.
“No need for that language, sir!” the bobby snapped. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”
Before he could say anything, Eva appeared at Jack’s side. “Thank God you’re here, Constable. There was an attempted burglary, and we only just managed to escape unscathed.”
The copper blew on his whistle, and in a few minutes, half a dozen patrolmen milled around inside Miss Jones’s kitchen. Jack kept a good distance between himself and the police, hovering at the edge of the room, keeping his face in the shadows.
“What the hell happened?” one of the bobbies demanded, staring at the groaning, wounded thugs. “Beg your pardon, ladies,” he added, glancing at Eva and Miss Jones.
“We were visiting our friend when these horrible men burst in and demanded our valuables,” Eva said in a shaky voice. “It was simply dreadful!” She ran and threw her arms around Jack, burying her face against him, and he patted her back. It didn’t help that his blood was high after the fight, and feeling her pressed against him made him want another kind of action.
“Looks like you did a number on them,” another copper said, sounding chary.
“I was at Rorke’s Drift,” Simon said flatly.
The constables all looked suitably awed and impressed, and Jack had to admit he was, too. He hadn’t known that about Simon—if it was true. It had to be. That wasn’t the kind of thing a bloke lied about.
“And you?” the first constable asked Jack.
Simon spoke before Jack could. “He was my batman.” With a shrug, Simon added, “It’s impossible to lose a soldier’s instincts. When these men attempted to rob us, we acted according to our training.”
“Thank the heavens for it!” Eva added. “These criminals would have stolen our valuables and murdered us, had it not been for these gentlemen’s quick thinking.”
“Whose house is this?” the constable asked.
“M-mine,” Miss Jones stammered. “It happened j-just like they said. Please—take these men away.”
“We’ll need you to file a report, miss.”
“It will have to wait until tomorrow.” Simon’s tone wouldn’t take a refusal. He sounded exactly like the upper cruster he was. “The women are clearly distraught.”
The coppers all blustered their agreement. After clapping restraints on the thugs, the police carted them off in a Black Maria. Cramped and uncomfortable, those vans were. Jack had slammed around in it like a caged dog when they’d taken him away, as if he could have knocked the metal sides down. But the blokes inside now were too injured to do more than groan as the van drove off.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Jones cried once they were alone again in the wrecked kitchen. Weeping, she covered her face with her hands. “I’m so very sorry. I had no choice.”
As Jack and Simon stood with their arms crossed, Eva held out a fresh handkerchief. “Tell us what happened.”
The girl blew her nose. “I saw in the paper that a criminal’s body was pulled from the Thames, and I recognized Mr. Dutton—that is, Mr. Dalton—from the picture accompanying the story.” She glanced at him. “You were so kind to me, and I believed for certain that Lord Rockley had killed you. I was … horrified. Outraged. I knew I had to do something.”
Eva pinched the bridge of her nose. “God, tell me you didn’t.”
Miss Jones gazed at the broken crockery scattered across the floor. “Clearly, I did.”
“And clearly, I ain’t dead,” Jack said.
“I know that now,” the girl answered.
Jack snorted. “Don’t sound so glum about it.”
Clenching his jaw, Simon said, “You should have come to us.”
“I thought it was my involving you that led to Mr. Dalton’s death,” Miss Jones replied. “I was determined to see an end to this. So I summoned my courage and went to Lord Rockley.” She held up a hand before Jack, Eva, or Simon could scold her for such stupidity. “It was dangerous and injudicious, I know, but I believed I could handle the problem on my own. I said that I knew he’d murdered Mr. Dalton, and that he had to turn himself over to the police at once.”
“Which he didn’t do,” Jack said.
“He laughed at me,” the girl confessed. “‘Dalton’s an escaped convict, a menace,’ he said. ‘I’ve done the law a favor by killing him. They’ll give me a commendation for ridding the world of such scum.’”
Fire raced through Jack’s veins to hear Rockley’s words—though they weren’t a surprise. If ever two men had been placed on this blighted earth to hate each other, those men were Jack and Rockley.
“Then he threw me out,” Miss Jones continued. “He said I was to tell no one, or he’d make my life even more miserable than it already was. I was so … ashamed … and frightened, I couldn’t leave my home or speak to anyone. Not even my parents. But then, this morning, Lord Rockley showed up at my door. He said that I had to summon the people I had working for me, and that he would take care of the rest.”
“And if you disobeyed him?” Eva asked.
“He’d hurt my parents.” The g
irl’s eyes and voice were pleading. “I had to do it. You must understand that.” She broke down into another round of sobs.
“The bastard put it together.” Jack swore under his breath. “The girl goes to him on account of him ‘killing’ me, then I show up at the brothel to take the evidence.”
“So he connects you and the blackmailing to Miss Jones,” Eva said.
“And Miss Jones to us,” Simon finished.
“He might not know Nemesis’s name,” said Eva, “but he realizes that there’s a larger force behind her attempt at retribution. What could be easier than luring us to her home and killing us all in one fell swoop?”
Jack wished there were more of Rockley’s thugs around so he had something—someone—to hit.
“We can’t wait another bloody minute,” he snarled. “It’s got to end. Now.”
“It will end.” Eva’s gaze moved to the small windows set high in the wall, where the last shreds of daylight died. “Tonight.”
* * *
Eva knew the threat had never been higher. None of them could discount the possibility that Rockley had Miss Jones’s house watched. They’d instructed the girl to take her family and go somewhere safe for a few days. Things with Rockley had escalated, so the Joneses needed to be out of harm’s way.
Eva, Jack, and Simon took a twisting, circuitous route back to headquarters—doubling, sometimes tripling back, changing carriages, riding omnibuses, and going on foot. By the time Eva, Jack, and Simon reached the chemist’s shop, it had been hours since sunset.
When she reported to Marco, Lazarus, and Harriet about the ambush at Miss Jones’s home, the first response was shocked silence. Followed by every voice raised at once. All of Nemesis had an opinion, and they spoke it—loudly.
Eva raised her hands, demanding quiet. “We’re finishing this. Immediately.”
“I’ve got a note here,” Simon added, “that will be delivered to Rockley within the hour. We’re arranging an exchange: ten thousand pounds in return for the evidence.”
“That won’t do any sodding good,” Jack rumbled. “Saying he doesn’t double-cross us—which he will—all we’re getting out of him is money. He’ll continue grinding people into the dirt. Nothing’s going to keep him from hurting more women.”
She pulled out a metal strongbox, smaller than the one taken from the brothel, and removed a packet of documents. Handing the papers to Jack, she said, “Have a look at these.”
He studied them. “It’s what we took from the whorehouse.”
“Duplicates,” Marco said. “Forgeries, actually.”
“I ain’t an expert,” Jack murmured, examining the papers, “but they look exactly the same.”
Marco smirked. “One of my specialties when I was still in her majesty’s employ. A good forgery can be worth more than the original.”
“That’s what Rockley will be given,” Eva explained.
“Someone gets the real things,” Jack deduced.
Simon revealed, “I’ve high-up contacts within the government. Men who haven’t been touched by Rockley’s influence. By midnight tonight, they will be in possession of the real evidence.”
Taking the forgeries back from Jack, Eva said, “His treachery will be revealed. Tomorrow morning, everyone shall know about his perfidy. He’ll be utterly ruined.”
“But he won’t know that when we do the swap,” Jack said. “We bilk him out of ten thousand quid, and still get to destroy the son of a bitch.” He looked around the room with a vicious smile. “I think I like you Nemesis lot.” His gaze lit on her, the cold light of retribution warming to something much more personal.
She could get far too comfortable seeing that heat and intimacy. She could start to crave things she shouldn’t have, and leave herself open to immeasurable pain.
Yet her bones, her heart—they ached with wanting him. In the midst of all this madness, the flame of her need burned even brighter.
She busied herself putting away the forged documents, striving for the control that had served her so well for most of her life. The only time she truly lost control was with him. A hazardous thing.
“Now isn’t the opportune moment for celebrating,” she said briskly. “It’s almost certain that if Rockley agrees to the exchange, he’ll try something. We’ve got him cornered, and that makes him dangerous. Today at Miss Jones’s was proof. This juncture is critical, so we cannot let our guard down.”
Jack said, “I don’t get … what’s the word…”
“Complacent,” Eva filled in.
“Yeah. Nobody complacent survives Bethnal Green.”
“Or escapes from prison,” added Harriet.
“Or ascertains the patterns in seemingly random vagaries in a man’s schedule,” Marco threw in.
“Or fights his way in and out of a heavily guarded brothel,” Simon said.
Jack tipped his head in acknowledgment. It warmed her to think how, when first she’d met him, he hadn’t given much value to his intelligence, and neither had the others in Nemesis. A radical evolution had transpired.
Simon headed for the door. “I’ll use our usual means of obfuscation to have this note delivered to Rockley. I won’t wait for a reply, but there will be no way for him to trace the note back to our location.”
“How will we know if he agrees to the drop?” asked Harriet.
“He’ll go for it,” Jack said with certainty. “He won’t play by the rules, but if he thinks he’s got a way to take us out, he’ll grab any chance. Make sure he knows that I’ll be the one doing the drop. That’ll definitely bring him out, not just his thugs. He’ll want to see with his own eyes that it’s been taken care of.”
Nodding, Simon slipped out the door. Harriet, Lazarus, and Marco tried to fill the time by discussing a mining town under the thumb of despotic owners and managers, but all of them were tense, distracted. Her mind spinning with dozens, hundreds of possible outcomes for tonight, Eva couldn’t join in with her colleagues’ talk. Through it all, Jack stood off to the side, massaging his hands in preparation for a fight, his expression distant and brooding.
Needing some way to occupy herself, Eva said to him, “Show me how you escaped from here without anyone knowing.”
He considered it for a moment, seeming to debate whether or not it was a good idea to reveal his secret to her and to Nemesis. Then, “Awright.”
Yet instead of going up to his room, he went downstairs, with Eva following. They walked through the chemist’s shop. He stepped outside, and she trailed after him as he went through the narrow space that ran alongside the building. They emerged in the little yard behind the structure. Their breath steamed in the cold night air, as though she and Jack had become half dragon.
He pointed up to his room. “Just opened the window, climbed out and down. Simple.”
“Not so simple.” She stared up at the thirty-foot climb. “There isn’t much to hold on to, and if you’d fallen, you could have broken something. A leg, or your neck.”
He shrugged. “Something any housebreaker worth his picks knows how to do.”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “Let me be impressed, damn it. For a man with so much braggadocio, you can be ridiculously modest sometimes.”
“Bragga—”
“It means swagger, confidence. Arrogance.”
He snorted. “Yeah, I’ve got that. But I don’t see the point in talking up something that anyone can do.”
“Not anyone.” She glanced around the yard, dark and bare. “Desmond—he’s on assignment, so you haven’t met him yet—he tried to start a garden out here. A vegetable patch and some flowers.”
Jack scraped the toe of his boot through the dirt. “You couldn’t grow rocks out here.”
“For a year, Des kept at it. We’d find him out here at all hours, digging in the dirt, muttering over seeds and soil composition.” She nudged a dried, twisted root with her shoe. “But nothing took. Drove him half mad.”
“My ma said her grandda could grow any
thing anywhere. He’d drop a pebble into the dust and a whole cabbage would spring up, or so she told us.”
“Did you know him?”
Jack stuffed his hands into his pockets and scuffed around in the dirt. “He was long dead by the time me and Edith came around. And Ma hadn’t seen or spoken to her kin since she was a girl. She came to London looking for work.” He made a low sardonic sound. “Turned out right dandy for her. Wasn’t no more than six and twenty when she died.”
A long life, by Bethnal Green standards. Daily, Eva had evidence of the cruelty of humanity, yet it never failed to pierce her whenever she confronted it again. Was it any wonder she fought so hard to keep herself protected?
Looking over at Jack as he moodily contemplated the barren soil, that same piercing sensation struck her. She was too vulnerable to him—yet she couldn’t stop herself from wanting him.
They both turned at the sound of footsteps. Lazarus appeared at the edge of the yard. “Oi, you two. Simon’s back.”
Upstairs, they found Simon surrounded by the others. He was keen as a knife about to be thrown. “It’s done. We’re meeting Rockley at two in the morning, at the Tower Bridge construction site. No one will be there at that hour, so there’s less chance of a passerby getting caught in the crossfire.”
Nobody disputed that there would be crossfire.
The clock on the mantel showed the hour to be several minutes past ten. Fortifying themselves with coffee, the members of Nemesis and Jack gathered around the table to discuss strategy. Lazarus drew up a map of the construction site, and they used this to plot out their positions and tactics. Every eventuality was considered—but no one had the gift of precognition. Situations might arise that no one could foresee. The consolation was that everyone had enough training to handle the unexpected.
By midnight, the air had grown thick with strategies and possibility, dense as the smoke from Lazarus’s pipe.
Simon leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his head. “The only chance we have to ensure the success of this mission is if everyone acts in accordance with the plan.” He looked pointedly at Jack.
