Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited)

by Zoë Archer

  Not qualities he cared for. And though Mrs. Parrish had been shielded from the outside world, she’d already shown that she wasn’t actually frail.

  “Let’s move this conversation to a more salubrious location,” he said.

  “An abattoir would be more salubrious,” Mrs. Parrish murmured.

  “This building was, once,” he noted.

  She grimaced. “It must have been much more pleasant back then.”

  Charlie gave another raffish grin. “And right cesspit it is. But I’m the gem floating on the top.”

  “That’s a mental image I’ll always treasure,” Mrs. Parrish said.

  The bookmaker laughed. “I like you, your ladyship. There’s more than steel and whalebone holding up your spine.” She glanced around the boxing arena. “It’s going to be a few minutes before the next match is announced. We can take this to my pub.”

  “You own a pub?” Mrs. Parrish asked.

  Charlie smirked. “There isn’t a piece of this filthy city I don’t own, in one way or another.”

  * * *

  The Two Cats pub wasn’t much of an improvement on the boxing ring. Tucked into a rotting corner of a nameless street, choked with coal and tobacco smoke and crammed with furniture that had barely survived countless scuffles between patrons, the pub could safely be called a hovel. Marco had seen his share of run-down taverns and hostelries from here to Constantinople. The Two Cats impressed even him with its shabbiness.

  None of which he voiced to Mrs. Parrish. He made sure she was tucked close beside him in the settle, away from the searching eyes and groping hands of the patrons. Patrons being an elegant term in this case for shambling drunkards. Of course, if anyone did make a play for her, Marco had more than his share of weapons tucked away to defend her. His fists being two of them.

  He felt her warm presence beside him. Not her actual heat, but something else, a searching quality that made him aware of her every movement, every breath. It drew on him. Intrigued him.

  Across the table sat Charlie, with Desmond wedged against her in the small booth. Their gazes kept catching on each other, then breaking apart. Desmond drummed his fingers on the table, as he always did when unsettled. The agent had faced down gun-toting gangs and drug-addled madmen without a bead of sweat, but Charlie seemed to put him on edge.

  A barmaid thumped down four glasses of dubious beer. She scuttled off when Charlie jerked her head, dismissing the server.

  Mrs. Parrish picked up her glass. Gently, Marco laid his hand on her wrist and pushed the glass back down onto the table.

  “You don’t want any part of that,” he said sotto voce. “Unless you fancy spending half the night in the privy.”

  After giving him a grateful look, she carefully pushed the glass away from her.

  Charlie, however, had no concerns about the beer. She threw hers back and finished the entire contents in two swallows. Likely she’d developed some immunity to whatever lived in the beverage.

  Charlie wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “If it’s another favor you want…”

  “Not a favor,” Desmond said. “Information.”

  “Information is a favor,” the bookmaker corrected. “Nothing more powerful or dangerous.”

  “Then add it to our bill,” Marco said. “No one else in London’s got the knowledge that you do.”

  “Damn right,” Charlie said. “The British Museum ain’t nothing compared to me.”

  “We’re looking for someone,” Desmond said.

  Mrs. Parrish continued, “A financial advisor named Edgar Devere.” She then gave the bookmaker the same description of Devere that she’d given Marco earlier.

  Charlie snarled. “I know him. Owes me thirty pounds. Worst bloke to count on to come through with blunt.”

  Raising a brow, Marco prompted, “Bad investment?”

  “A money-thieving bastard is what he is,” snapped Charlie.

  Mrs. Parrish said nothing at this foul language, though her hands tightened into fists as they rested on the tabletop. “Does he owe other people money?” she asked.

  “No bookmaker in London will take his bets anymore,” Charlie answered, “on account of he doesn’t pay anyone back.”

  “Maybe he did come through for some of them,” Desmond said, “and you didn’t hear about it.”

  “There isn’t a bloody thing that happens in this town without me knowing about it,” Charlie countered. “Especially when it comes to welching.” She glanced at Brownyn, then at Bronwyn’s drink.

  Bronwyn waved at it, silently giving the other woman permission.

  Charlie grabbed Bronwyn’s glass and downed her drink in only a few gulps. Desmond stared like one transfixed.

  “When was the last time anyone’s seen Devere?” Marco pressed. The man might not have been at his offices for three months, but that didn’t mean he kept away from London’s gaming action.

  Charlie shrugged. “It’s got to be months now.” She peered at Mrs. Parrish. “Did he take a bet from you?”

  “He took everything from me,” the widow answered.

  Charlie whistled. “Bad investment, love.”

  “It wasn’t mine, but the result was the same.”

  Charlie pulled a pocket watch from her waistcoat. The case was engraved and set all over with rubies—a risky item to own in this part of town, but it was a measure of her stature that she could carry such a precious object without concern that she’d be a pickpocket’s victim. No doubt someone found out the very hard way not to steal from Charlie.

  “Delightful as this little chat’s been,” she said, rising to her feet, “I’ve got beer money to earn. Consider this another favor Nemesis owes me.” She winked at Desmond. “Come and see me if you want to see how the bad people play.”

  Before Desmond could answer, Charlie was gone. The other Nemesis agent leaned back, looking stunned.

  “Seems I’ve missed a lot since I’ve been in America,” he muttered. Then, with a “what the hell” shrug, he drank down his beer.

  Mrs. Parrish looked almost as stunned as Desmond. “That was … an interesting woman.”

  “A London original,” Marco answered. “But she taught us one thing tonight. Your money isn’t anywhere in the city. And neither is Devere.”

  “Somewhere else in England, then?” Mrs. Parrish asked.

  “We’ve got one good place to find out,” Marco said. “Devere’s lodgings. It’s time for a break-in.”

  “My God,” the widow said on an exhalation, a look of trepidation on her face. “There’s more?”

  His look was pitiless. “It never lets up, not from one moment to the next, until the job is done.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Parrish looked gray with exhaustion, and still stunned at the new world she’d seen and her immersion within it, so after parting ways with Desmond—who had his own agenda for the rest of the night—Marco found them a cab and headed back toward headquarters.

  He sat opposite her, watching as she fought to stay awake. But at last her tiredness won, and she leaned against the threadbare squabs and fell into a light doze. Yet her hands were still curled into fists, protecting her even as she slept.

  Did she miss her husband? His presence in her life, in her bed? Society proscribed strict rules for the means and how long a woman was supposed to mourn the loss of a spouse. If left to her own devices, would she cast off her weeds already, or would she be like the queen, and cling to her sorrow for the rest of her life?

  Why should it matter to him?

  He wished for a glass of good vino nobile. He’d be sure to pour himself one when he returned home—though, damn it, Lazarus would be there and demand a glass of his own, and Marco’s cache of imported wine was a private hoard he didn’t like to share with anyone. He was far more jealous of his wine than his women. When his lovers demanded more devotion from him, and he was unable to give it to them, he let them move on to other men without a word of objection.

  Spies didn’t form commitments
. They couldn’t. Neither did Nemesis operatives—usually. Though Eva had with Jack, and Simon with Alyce. Even Michael with Ada. But Marco was different from all of them because he alone worked as a spy.

  When he’d taken the job with British Intelligence, it was the same as a vow of celibacy. Not literal celibacy, because he’d go mad if he couldn’t give and receive pleasure. But another kind of celibacy. He’d never know what it was like to court a woman. To speak with her father. To see her waiting for him at the end of the church aisle, or waiting for him at the window of their home. And while part of him mourned that loss, he knew he’d never be content with that life.

  He’d picked espionage for a reason. Those in power were usually of the elite, and it gave him no small amount of gratification to dismantle their plans. Stability, however, wasn’t one of the reasons why he’d chosen spying as his profession.

  But here was Mrs. Parrish, wearing the very symbols of her commitment to another. He didn’t care for the late Mr. Parrish. That man was dead, leaving behind a woman unprotected. And maybe Hugh Parrish hadn’t had any control over whether he lived or died, yet there was a petty, mean part of Marco that thought it damned selfish for Parrish to die without ensuring his wife’s safety.

  Diavolo. Maybe Mrs. Parrish did deserve help from Nemesis.

  She stirred, her eyes blinking open. Looked at the carriage. Then him. She started.

  “It’s not a dream,” he said.

  She sat up straighter, tugging on her cloak. “I couldn’t decide if it was a fulfilled wish or a nightmare.”

  “A bit of both.” He watched her rub at her face, then asked, “Still want to move forward with this?”

  “Yes,” she said after a moment. “I want my fortune back—and, as you said, there’s so much I could do with that money. Some real good. Maybe I won’t live as lavishly as before, but I don’t need six bedrooms to be happy.”

  What did he need to be happy? He usually considered himself a contented man. He had his work for the government, but more importantly, his missions for Nemesis. Both shaped and changed the world. Perhaps in small ways, but enough to give him a sense of accomplishment. Not many could say the same, including his father, who manufactured vulcanized rubber gaskets, which brought him wealth but didn’t erase the lines of worry from his forehead. Or gain him entry into the realm of high society. For the titled, Marco, his father, and his grandfather would never be more than tradesmen, more fit to enter through the servants’ entrance than the front door of the houses of the aristocracy.

  A sharp memory jabbed him. His first year at university, and though his father had also attended the same university, Marco had still been the object of the titled students’ scorn. They’d locked him out of his room several times. Left boot black, shoes, and rags on his bed. As though he were their servant.

  Instead of returning home, as they’d hoped, Marco had made sure to excel at every endeavor. Including captaining the rugby team, earning trophies in boxing, and taking top prizes in his courses.

  And for Prescott Black, the only thing that had real power wasn’t a thing at all, but a person, Marco’s mother, Lucia. Her smiles made his father smile, and her raucous laugh made him laugh.

  And if he envied what his parents shared, he knew it to be an anomaly. In his work, he’d seen too many unhappy marriages, too many people tied together for the wrong reasons. His preferred lovers were widows, and hardly any of them had good things to say about their dead husbands.

  Mrs. Parrish was a widow.

  He kicked that notion out of his head like an errant football. All his thoughts needed to be on the mission. As much as he enjoyed making love, he could always put his desires on hold until the time was right. And the time—and the person—were definitely not right when it came to Mrs. Parrish. Pretty as she was, and admirably fighting hard against her own fears.

  The widow frowned as she looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Strange. I’ve never thought about … what I needed to be happy.”

  “Happiness isn’t a promise when we come into this world.”

  “Duty, responsibility,” she murmured. “Those were the things I’d been taught. To be a good daughter, a wife. A mother.”

  Interesting that, though she was childless, there was no wistful longing in her voice at this last word. “How long were you married to Mr. Parrish?”

  “Doubtless Lucy told you.”

  “It might’ve escaped my notice.”

  She looked up, her lips curling into a wry smile. “I have a difficult time believing anything escapes your notice. So I can only imagine that your question is a circuitous way of asking me why I have no children, despite the six years I was married.” She gave a short laugh. “Your roundabout question would have shocked me only yesterday.”

  “And today?”

  “Perhaps I’m just exhausted, and can’t summon enough energy to be scandalized.” She rubbed her face. “But in answer to your question-yet-not-a-question, Hugh wanted a family.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Not yet. I needed…” A frown creased between her straight brows. “Time as myself, before someone called me mama.”

  “Mr. Parrish supported this idea?” If so, the dead man was far more progressive than others of his sort. While Marco was raised among the sons of self-made men and had two sisters, Simon came from the ranks of the elite and possessed many, many siblings. From what he’d described, and Marco’s own observations, genteel women were treated like prized hunting bitches, whelping one pup after another to ensure the family line. The queen herself had birthed nine children, though two were no longer living.

  Mrs. Parrish picked at the seam of her cloak. “My husband believed something wasn’t quite right with my…” She cleared her throat. “He thought it a biological issue. Made me visit several doctors, all of whom declared me of sound health and perfectly able to … breed. Yet to everyone’s bafflement, I never did.”

  Scratching at his goatee, Marco said, “A vinegar-soaked sponge.”

  The widow did look shocked now, her gaze flying to his. “How did you know?”

  “Unless he was remarkably unobservant,” Marco said, “your husband would’ve noticed if you put a prophylactic on him.” God above—Marco would have been aware if her slim hands rolled one of the lambskin or rubber devices over his uccello. “Same with rinsing after coitus. If my wife leaped up right after we’d made love”—odd how his voice grew deeper at those words—“to clean herself, I might get a little suspicious.”

  “Do you have a wife?” she asked.

  “I am and will always be a bachelor,” he answered.

  “You cannot say always,” she said. “Unless you’ve got the gift of prophecy, too, no one can know the future.”

  “I might not be able to read tarot cards or tea leaves, but I know that I’ll never marry.” He continued before she could press him further. “Getting a cap would have required you seeing a doctor for a fitting, which was risky, since it might lead to Mr. Parrish finding out. He was likely the sort of man to announce his intention of visiting your bedchamber ahead of time. After dinner, say, when you were both in the drawing room, and you were reading a novel while he perused the evening paper. Giving you plenty of time to prepare for his marital attentions.”

  Mrs. Parrish was silent.

  What a dull and passionless way to conduct a marriage. And entirely typical for the English. Marco had memories that he’d like to forget, of his mother stalking up to his father and dragging him by the neckcloth out of the study, and then they’d reappear several hours later, flushed and languorous. At the time, he’d been repulsed. Even now, he didn’t relish the thought of his parents’ sex life, but it set a standard that he’d rarely seen replicated.

  He never thought about what kind of husband he’d be—that was a path he’d deliberately gated and locked. But if he’d been married to Mrs. Parrish …

  Basta. An unprofitable thought to pursue.

  She spoke stiffly.
“I expect you’ll call me unnatural. One of those awful progressive women subverting God and the law.”

  “You might’ve noticed, Mrs. Parrish, that I’m not really the man to accuse anyone of subverting anything.” He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his thighs. “Every Nemesis agent chose their work because they don’t believe that anyone should have a say in how others lead their lives. Especially when it comes to the powerful dictating the choices—or lack of choices—for those without power. So if you decided you didn’t want to swell up with child every nine months, I’m not going to pass judgment on you.”

  She stared at him. “You’re not?” she said, disbelief plain in her voice.

  He shook his head. “I applaud your guile. For years, you were able to trick your husband and several doctors. That takes bravery and cunning. Two things Nemesis always appreciates.”

  “And you?” she asked. “Do you appreciate a woman with cunning?”

  He found himself smiling. “What do you think?”

  She actually smiled back. “I think you’re the oddest man I’ve ever met.”

  “But you’ve admitted to being somewhat sheltered.”

  “Yet instinct tells me that there aren’t many men like you roaming this earth. And I do believe that’s for the best.”

  He laughed. “I’m deciding whether or not to be insulted.”

  “I’m deciding whether or not I tried to insult you,” she answered.

  Unexpected heat pulsed through him, rattling him. Though he moved quickly when it came to missions, he liked knowing all the variables ahead of time, understanding exactly how every component worked, and what to anticipate. It made him nimble, fast to react, and completely confident in his actions.

  Yet here was this little widow, sheltered but struggling against the bonds of her insulated life, carrying a small yet bright torch of rebellion. Consistently unbalancing him. He didn’t like questioning his own judgment. It made everything dangerous. Including himself.

  He was grateful when the cab pulled up outside headquarters. After paying the driver, Marco let him and Mrs. Parrish into the chemist’s shop. Together, they went through the secret entrance, and within a minute, both stood in the parlor, where they were met by Harriet and Lazarus. Their voices abruptly stopped the moment Marco and Mrs. Parrish set foot in the parlor, but judging from the dark stain on Harriet’s cheeks and the way Lazarus tugged on his beard, yet another argument had been interrupted.