Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited)

by Zoë Archer

  The train pulled into a small village station, and a passenger entered the carriage. He gave them both a bow before settling down with a newspaper, the headline blaring the latest about the end of the triple alliance between France, Germany, and Austria-Hungary. No doubt the boys at the home office would be neck-deep in investigating what this meant for Britain.

  It surprised Marco that he didn’t itch to involve himself in it. He’d been content with his work at home—running an East End tavern that catered to Russian anarchist exiles. By operating the tavern, he could collect information casually, without any of the patrons aware of his activities. The police might think of those men and women as dangerous criminals, but to British Intelligence, the Russian émigrés provided valuable information about what transpired back in their home country. Besides, they weren’t half as risky to England as they were to Russia. It wasn’t Britain the anarchists wanted to dismantle, but their own tyrannical government.

  But the damn police had raided the tavern a few weeks ago, shutting it down. He’d be able to reopen in a month or two, but it left him with time on his hands. Which was why, out of all the Nemesis agents, he’d been the one picked to handle Mrs. Parrish’s case. At first, he’d cursed his luck, being stuck with a job he didn’t want, helping a woman from a class he didn’t respect. But now … something had changed.

  She wasn’t like the others. He saw that now. She possessed an unexpected depth. And a willingness to give, to help others. Damn it if that didn’t intrigue him. He was beginning to like her, beyond her obvious physical charms.

  With the passenger’s presence, Marco decided it would be best to keep silent until their arrival in Paris. He and Mrs. Parrish could speak in English, but there was always the possibility that their companion spoke that language, especially if he was the kind of man who could afford a first-class ticket.

  Within a short while, they arrived at the massive Gare du Nord station in Paris. Steam from the engines curled up to the soaring ceilings, and it seemed the entire mass of humanity had decided to gather on the platforms. After paying a porter to tote their baggage—though Mrs. Parrish insisted again on carrying her violin case herself—Marco tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her through the seething crowds. The air was full of the hiss and chug of trains and French voices shouting at top volume to be heard above the vehicles.

  Outside, cabs lined up, waiting for fares. He ushered her into one of the carriages and called up to the driver, “Hôtel Cluzet.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  As the cab rolled through the teeming, lively, filthy streets of Paris, Mrs. Parrish asked, “Is there anything I need to know about the agents we’re meeting, besides what you’ve told me?”

  “Simon’s been with Nemesis since the beginning.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  “Nearly six years now. Back then, it was just me, Simon, and Lazarus.”

  “Good to see you’ve been ambitious,” she said, “and added new people.”

  “We’re not an army,” he pointed out. “Only a collection of fools who think they can make a difference.”

  “As one of the beneficiaries of your mad foolishness, I’m glad you exist.”

  Maledizione, he might actually be enjoying her company.

  “I’ve been wondering about Simon and Alyce,” she said. “A man of society and a woman who worked at a mine. I can’t imagine his family was much pleased by the marriage.”

  “They weren’t,” he said flatly. “Things were strained before between Simon and his family. This wasn’t much help to ease that strain. But there wasn’t any talking Simon out of it. He was in love.”

  A thoughtful look crossed her face. “You think you can just talk someone out of love?”

  “I’ve got no ruddy idea what love is,” he answered truthfully.

  She sighed, and watched as the carriage drove past one of Paris’s innumerable, tiny parks. “Neither do I.”

  The cab at last pulled up outside a small hotel near the Place de l’Opéra. After getting down from the carriage and paying the fare, Marco paid several porters to take their bags up to their rooms. Mrs. Parrish at last surrendered her violin case, though she watched it with longing eyes as it was carried off by a uniformed porter.

  The hotel itself was of a decent quality—not the Crillon, but certainly not one of Paris’s innumerable cockroach-breeding facilities masquerading as lodgings for hire. It had an open and airy foyer, full of brass and potted palms, and well-dressed guests were gathered around small tables or perusing guides to the city. The hotel even boasted a clanking elevator. After checking in with a glossy front desk clerk, Marco escorted Mrs. Parrish toward the hotel’s café.

  In the fine French tradition, many of the tables were positioned in curtained alcoves, allowing for a measure of seclusion without the expense of a private room. A few men and women were having a casse-croûte of coffee and pastries. He inhaled deeply. Here, at last, was a culture that truly appreciated a fine cup of coffee. It could almost make a man weep.

  He spotted Simon and Alyce at once. Difficult to miss Simon, since he was the epitome of blond English aristocratic good looks. Thank God Marco had a decent amount of female company, or else he’d resent the bastard. Well, he couldn’t fault Simon for his looks anymore, since he was clearly, obnoxiously in love with Alyce, his wife, a woman of angular handsomeness and shrewd eyes.

  The couple sat together in one of the alcoves, engaged in conversation. Though Simon’s attention was riveted to Alyce, he seemed to know the moment Marco and Mrs. Parrish entered the room. Simon and Alyce stood at the same time.

  Marco brought Mrs. Parrish forward. “Mrs. Parrish, this is Simon—”

  “Addison-Shawe,” she finished. Her gaze was fixed on Simon, and not, it seemed, because of his handsomeness. “We’ve already met.”

  SIX

  What surprised Marco the most was not the fact that Mrs. Parrish already knew Simon, but the throb of melancholy that greeted this news.

  Simon smiled and shook Mrs. Parrish’s hand.

  “Agents don’t use last names,” Simon gently reminded her.

  Mrs. Parrish blushed slightly. “I was caught off guard. Of all the people to belong to Nemesis, I never expected someone like you.”

  “Like him?” Alyce asked pointedly. Her working-class Cornish accent was noticeable, especially in comparison to Simon’s smooth, elegant tones that came from generational breeding and punitive educational reinforcement.

  “Anything I say is going to sound horribly snobbish,” Mrs. Parrish said, “and I’m hardly in the position to judge anybody.” She offered her hand to Alyce. “I’m Bronwyn. Since we’re going by first names only, it seems only fair for me to forgo my last name, as well.” She sent Marco an edged glance.

  Point taken.

  As she shook Bronwyn’s hand and introduced herself, Alyce’s prickly demeanor lessened. Slightly. But she was in almost all ways a sharp woman—mind, appearance, attitude. Her only softness was reserved for her husband.

  “You know Simon, how?” Alyce asked as they all took their seats.

  “They moved in the same social circles,” Marco surmised. Stupid of him not to have thought of it sooner. London’s elite was a small, closed set, one to which both Simon and Bronwyn—odd to call her that after thinking of her as Mrs. Parrish for so long—belonged.

  And when this was over, she might cross Simon’s path again. But she’d likely not cross Marco’s. Thus the brief sensation of loss.

  “The Mayhews’ ball,” Simon said.

  “And the tea at the Baggets’,” Bronwyn added.

  Did Marco and Alyce wear the same expression? Because she reached out and took Simon’s hand in her own, staking her ownership. Marco didn’t have the same option. Besides, he had no claim on Bronwyn. Still, it was all he could do to keep from glowering. There wasn’t anything to be done with his unwelcome interest in her. He was here to do a job—one he hadn’t even wanted in the firs
t place—and nothing more.

  Yet there was an ember growing brighter inside him. He usually favored widows as bed partners. It was always casual and transitory. When this mission was over, he could look her up in London. See if this ember grew into something hotter. Temporarily, of course.

  “I was sorry to hear about Hugh,” Simon murmured. “He always boasted of your skill as a hostess.” He glanced at Bronwyn’s gown, which was assuredly not appropriate for a widow in first mourning.

  “Widow’s weeds stand out,” Marco said.

  Simon and Alyce nodded, though a blush continued to stain Bronwyn’s cheeks.

  “You’ve dragged us across the Channel for a purpose,” Simon noted. “Other than the pleasure of seeing Bronwyn again.”

  Quickly, Marco recounted everything that had transpired since he first set foot inside Bronwyn’s door, and all their discoveries. Including Devere’s disappearance into Paris.

  “Why involve us?” Alyce asked.

  “I wondered the same thing,” Bronwyn added. “If someone like Charlie knows about Devere, he likely doesn’t move in the same echelons as Simon.”

  “But Devere didn’t always slum,” Marco pointed out. He smiled his gratitude when a female server came and poured him a cup of coffee. For just a moment, he allowed himself simply to inhale its aroma, heady with the scent of earth and life. He wouldn’t shame the coffee by adulterating it with milk or sugar. Instead, he took a small, almost dainty sip, letting it coat the inside of his mouth with its richness.

  He hadn’t realized that he’d closed his eyes and sighed, until he opened them again to see Simon, Alyce, and Bronwyn staring at him. Unlike her two companions, however, Bronwyn looked dazed, as if she’d caught him in a very private moment—which she had.

  “It’s a wonder the English ever became a global power,” he said, “the way they butcher coffee. If this was Italy, and I had an espresso, ah then…” He couldn’t hold back his groan.

  Bronwyn looked even more stunned. He had a quick vision of that same hazy expression on her face after a bed-breaking orgasm.

  His plan of seeking her out after the mission was completed now seemed even more appealing.

  “Our friend Devere,” he continued, “isn’t addicted to coffee. It’s gambling that makes his pulse race.”

  “He wouldn’t be so stupid,” Bronwyn interjected. “Not after having to flee England for the same reason.”

  “There were men in my village,” Alyce said. “Barely paid enough scrip to keep a roof over their families’ heads and bread in their bellies. But every night, they’d be down at the tavern, playing cards, until they owed each man in Trewyn more scrip than they could earn in a lifetime. A sickness, it was. I’m guessing Devere’s got the same disease.”

  Marco continued, “So he’ll frequent any spot that will have him.”

  “Isn’t gaming illegal in France?” Bronwyn asked.

  “They outlawed it in Paris in ’37, and public gaming was made illegal in ’57,” Simon answered. “Everyone goes to the casinos in Monaco or on the Côte d’Azur.”

  “Then where would he gamble in Paris?” she pressed.

  “Underground gambling hells,” Marco said. “Floating games that change locations from night to night. That’s where Simon and Alyce will play their roles. They may be underground, but the gaming halls run the gamut from elegant to shabby. Simon can go to the higher-end gaming halls and suss out where a bloke might go to win a bit of dirty money.”

  “And me?” Alyce asked.

  “Wives understand a hell of a lot more than their husbands,” Marco explained. “If there’s more information about where the men and women of Paris go to secretly lose their cash, the wives will be the ones to know of it. At the least, they’ll be more willing to share their wisdom.”

  “So I get to needle the highborn ladies.” Alyce grinned. “Damn fine job you’ve given me.”

  “What about us?” Bronwyn pressed. “Much as I enjoy Paris, I doubt I could spend much time watching them build that new tower by Eiffel, or visit the Louvre, not while Simon and Alyce are out working.”

  She wasn’t content to sit idle. She wanted to be useful. The ember of attraction glowed brighter within him.

  “We’ll be collecting information on the ground level,” Marco said. “Asking a few discreet questions. Nosing around a few arrondissements and quartiers to see if anyone matching Devere’s description has been popping up.”

  “And when we do find him?” she asked. “What then?”

  Marco smiled. “Then we finally get some answers.”

  “Good,” Bronwyn said, but she rubbed her arms, as if warding off a chill.

  She had good reason to be cold. The closer they got to Devere, the greater the danger. All the more reason to keep her near.

  * * *

  When it came time to do reconnaissance, Marco didn’t leave Bronwyn alone at the hotel. He’d brought her to Paris for a reason, too. She was his best chance at identifying Devere.

  After parting company with Simon and Alyce, and settling into their rooms, Marco and Bronwyn set out to ground themselves in the city. He’d spent time in Paris gathering intelligence back in the tumultuous Seventies to keep an eye on the always shifting French government, but hadn’t yet had the unique privilege of searching for a habitual gambler on the run from English creditors.

  “What do you know of Paris?” he asked Bronwyn as they rode in a hired carriage.

  “I know its train stations,” she answered. “Hugh and I passed through here several times. Once on the way to our honeymoon in Italy, and then when we were en route to Amélie-les-Bains.”

  His interest was piqued. “Italy?”

  “Rome, Venice. Florence.” A warm glow suffused her face. “Every step felt imbued with history and beauty. I didn’t want to leave.”

  “My mother did,” he said. “Met my father, who was sourcing materials for his factories, and decided she’d rather have him than history and beauty.” Where the hell did that come from? She didn’t need to know anything about him—and yet the words had leaped from his mouth, as if they had a will of their own. He knew so much of her—though there was a part of him that craved more—it felt right to give something of himself back. Who he was. Beyond the Nemesis agent. Beyond the spy.

  “That must have been difficult for her,” Bronwyn said. “Leaving her family and friends behind.”

  Marco hesitated to speak. He’d seldom talked to anyone about his family. But perhaps because he knew so much about Bronwyn, he felt he could grant her a small piece of himself. “She claimed to miss the Tuscan weather more than her overbearing mother,” he answered, “but she lit up whenever a letter arrived from home. That’s what she called Lucca, the town where she grew up. Always home.”

  “Did she ever return for a visit?”

  He shook his head. “The thought of dragging three children all the way across the Mediterranean sent her to bed with skull-splitting headaches. But she wouldn’t leave us behind. A conundrum she hasn’t resolved, even though her children are all grown.” He wondered, now, what kept her from returning. Fear of confronting what might have been, had she stayed? Regret terrified her.

  Vivi senza rimpianti, she would always tell him. Live without regrets. Such a philosophy created in her son and daughters a need to always move forward, always look ahead. Regardless of the consequences. Alessia had moved to the United States to become a writer, and Francesca lived with an artist in Brompton, creating her own paintings, as well as serving as muse. And he—the spy, the secret righter of wrongs. An unconventional trio, the Black siblings.

  None of them had married. Odd, given the happiness of his parents’ marriage. Or maybe it made perfect sense. There wasn’t any hope of recreating that matrimonial satisfaction.

  Bronwyn hadn’t been content in her marriage. Like many of her class. A damned waste—especially for her.

  His mind kept going toward places he didn’t want it, eroding the control he so prize
d.

  He brought his thoughts back as the cab climbed a hill. “But Italy is a fair distance from Paris, and hardly our concern. We’ve got another destination right now. Rue Saint-Denis.”

  She frowned, clearly unfamiliar with the name. “Is there something particular located there?”

  “It’s the sort of place Devere might frequent. That’s my hope.”

  “I didn’t think you needed hope,” she replied. “Whatever you want, you simply will into being.”

  “I’m not a magician,” he noted.

  “Thank heavens for that. Nothing and no one would be safe if you could truly make yourself appear and disappear.”

  “What matters now is that you don’t disappear. From now on, you stay right beside me.”

  “For my protection, or yours?”

  He cast her a glance that said he wouldn’t bother replying.

  The cab rolled to a stop on rue Saint-Denis. No gentleman would ever bring a lady to such a place, but despite the circumstances of his birth, he was no gentleman, and never made claims to be one.

  At least Bronwyn seemed to understand this. She stepped down from the cab and managed—barely—to hide her shock at what she saw.

  Women in various states of dress and undress stood in doorways or leaned out of windows, calling to the men passing by in the street. Difficult to tell beneath the layers of cosmetics how old the prostitutes were, though they seemed to range in age from girls just out of childhood to older, worn women. Though no matter how old the prostitutes were, they all had the same tired, disinterested glaze in their eyes, having seen too much of the world and its ugliness. Yet they smiled and beckoned, offering a moment’s pleasure, companionship, the illusion of love or its absence. Whatever a man desired.