Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited)

by Zoë Archer

  “Heard about them when I was doing intelligence work abroad,” he answered, remarkably calm considering a man had just been shot to death. “Never crossed paths, but I knew all about their work. They’d been around for decades but truly came into their own in the ashes of ’71 and the fall of the Commune. Made a killing—sometimes literally—through loans to rebuild businesses and the city itself. Then the spirit of entrepreneurship overtook them. It’s not just loans at exorbitant interest rates that fill their pockets, but demanding protection money from shops and businesses, importing opium, keeping brothels. Name a corrupt enterprise, and Les Grillons has their fork in the pie.”

  Despite Marco’s strong hand gripping hers, she shuddered. “This has to stop. We’ll take the next packet back to England—”

  He didn’t slow his steps, but stared at her. “We’re not giving up. Not now.”

  “A man’s dead, for God’s sake!”

  “He is.” He finally stopped walking and faced her. “Because he ran. If he’d stayed with me, he’d still be alive.”

  “So it’s over.” She verged on desperation.

  “Les Grillons can’t get what they want with a bullet.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she didn’t know whether to lean into his touch or shy away from it. “Devere was killed, but I’m alive, and I don’t stop a job until it’s finished.”

  “I’m the client,” she insisted, “and I say it’s not worth it.”

  “I’m from Nemesis, and I won’t quit till we get your fortune back.”

  Anger washed through her. “Kill yourself, then. I’m going back to England.” She started to turn away, but his grip on her tightened, holding her in place.

  “You heard him. They know us now. Including my name.”

  Her heart pitched—that had been her mistake.

  “Even when we get your money back, the danger isn’t going to go away,” he continued. “Not here and not in England. The only way to take the heat off us is to wound them, destabilize their organization.” He gazed off into the distance, his brow furrowed. “This is much bigger than I’d planned for,” he growled.

  The knowledge chilled her. He planned for everything. But Les Grillons fell outside of even his carefully articulated schemes. My God.

  He shook his head. “If I could, I’d send you home, but you’re not safe on your own. You’d be vulnerable, even in Britain. He saw your face, and learning your identity would be a child’s game to him. I’ve got to keep us both alive, so you’re staying at my side.”

  Again, she was poised on the edge of something deep and cavernous. Now blood had been spilled. Where would it all end? In more death?

  But he wouldn’t stop. And neither would Les Grillons. Everything felt wild, spinning out of control, and she was caught up in the middle of the maelstrom.

  “What if I stayed in the hotel until everything was settled?” she asked.

  “This could take months, and we don’t have the funds to keep you here.”

  “If I returned to England, I could go to my sister’s in the country. Or stay with Harriet.”

  “I can’t go back to England now, and I don’t trust putting you on a ship with no one to protect you.”

  Frustration welled. She was trapped, no matter which way she turned.

  “Tell me where to start,” she said at last.

  “We start,” he said, “in Italy.”

  * * *

  She would’ve expected Devere’s murder to make the front page of the newspaper, but as Marco perused it the next morning over breakfast at the hotel, all he found was a small paragraph buried behind political scandals and reviews of art exhibitions. An unknown man’s body had been discovered at the college, and in the absence of a positive identification and witnesses to the crime, the police chalked it up to yet more examples of the city’s chaos. The victim would be buried in a mass grave within a week’s time, unless someone came forward in the interim to claim the body.

  “Life comes so cheaply,” she murmured. Her toast lay uneaten and cold, and even drinking her tea seemed an impossible task. How could the ending of someone’s life be reduced to cold, anonymous words in a newspaper? She’d heard the gunshot, smelled the cordite and blood. Seen his lifeless body in the wake of brutal violence.

  How could she ever look at anyone again without imagining them with a hole in their chest?

  “The only thing less valuable than a human life is dust,” he answered, still scanning the paper.

  Tension made her nerves and temper snap. “Do you have an answer for everything?”

  His dark eyes met hers. “Not everything.”

  She picked her toast apart into little pieces, scattering crumbs. “You said last night that we have to go to Italy.”

  “A man I know lives in Florence.” He set the paper aside and crossed his legs, wicked and elegant. She remembered the knife in his hand, and how familiar he was with using it, and how comfortable he looked holding a gun. Yet heat continued to spread through her whenever she looked at him or heard his voice. Which only proved that she’d completely misjudged herself. Far from enjoying a quiet life, some part of her strangely liked this danger. This uncompromising, grim world.

  Yet he was more than just danger. He’d shown her understanding—more than anyone else ever had. There was respect in his eyes when he looked at her. She wasn’t a thing to him, a decorative object. She was … real. And he helped her recognize that for the first time in her life.

  “An Italian spy,” Marco continued. “Giovanni helped a member of Les Grillons go into hiding. If anyone’s going to know the key to retrieving your fortune, it’s the one man who got out of their grip alive.”

  “That information your friend Giovanni has sounds sensitive,” she noted. “Not the sort of thing he’d go telling just anyone.”

  Marco smiled, and her stomach clenched at the flash of white teeth surrounded by his dark goatee. “I’m not just anyone.”

  How could she feel anything other than horror at what was happening around her? Yet when she was with him, that awfulness receded.

  “Giovanni owes me a debt, too,” he went on. “He’ll tell us what we need to know.”

  “A telegram is just as effective as a train ride all the way to Italy.”

  “But not as discreet. As our friend said last night, Les Grillons has spies all over the city. For now, the hotel is secure. It’s run by money older than Les Grillons. But as soon as we’re outside the doors, there are few places they can’t touch. Including telegraph offices.”

  She took a sip of her cold tea. “If Les Grillons knows about us,” she mused, pushing past her continuing shock, “then we won’t be able to go straight to Giovanni. Not without risking ourselves and him. We’ll have to do some evasion.”

  A corner of Marco’s mouth turned up. “You’ve changed since first we met. More observant. Aware.”

  Was she? When she’d come into the hotel café that morning, she’d quickly scanned the room, looking for exits, assessing people and whether or not they might pose a threat. Not the kind of behavior a socialite usually indulged in.

  She had changed. Continued to evolve, even now. She might not ever be a Nemesis agent, but there was something within her, an awareness that maybe had always been there, being brought to the fore.

  Even if she retrieved all of her money, she wouldn’t be the same woman she’d been just a few weeks ago. The metamorphosis was irreversible.

  * * *

  The Gare de l’Est station was a veritable hive, with people, porters, shoe blacks, and newspaper vendors swarming over the platforms. Though Bronwyn carried her violin case, a porter followed them with the remainder of their luggage. While Marco strode with his usual upright, alert pace, she could sense an even greater sharpness within him than before. He didn’t glance around or behind him, yet she felt tension in him as her hand rested lightly in the crook of his arm.

  He walked to the ticket booth. “Two tickets to Vienna,” he said to the clerk, �
��and two more to Marseille.”

  “Are more Nemesis agents joining us?” Bronwyn asked in English as the clerk totaled up the amount.

  “It’s just us.”

  “Then why—” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Does this have to do with … the crickets?”

  “They’re watching us now,” he answered in a low voice. In French, he thanked the clerk when four tickets slid across the counter.

  Her blood chilled. She fought the urge to look around and see if she could spot the men from Les Grillons. So she kept her gaze on Marco, calm and steady as he pocketed the tickets.

  He turned to the porter. “We left our trunk outside,” Marco said in French. “It’s gray with brown straps.”

  The porter rolled his eyes. “Of course, sir.” Leaving their bags, he ambled off.

  They didn’t have a trunk. But everything Marco did was for a reason, so she didn’t question him.

  She followed his gaze toward a cart full of bags of various sizes and colors. Another porter stood beside it. With his eyes still on the cart, he said to her, “I need you to ask that porter whether those bags are headed to Vienna. If they are, give me a signal. Something small enough that our Grillons friends on a bench over there don’t see it.”

  It was a struggle not to look toward the row of benches to try to pick out which of the people seated upon them were from Les Grillons. “And then?” she asked.

  “Then keep the porter busy for a few minutes,” Marco answered. “You’ll think of a way to distract him.”

  She wasn’t certain she had his faith in her abilities, but, drawing a breath, she headed toward the baggage cart. As she walked, she felt conscious of someone watching her. With a surreptitious glance, she caught sight of two large, muscular men sitting with apparent ease on a bench. One read a newspaper, while the other gazed at his fingernails—the picture of boredom. Yet she knew they followed her progress as she walked toward the cart.

  Ice crystallized along her spine. Marco had spoken the truth. They were being followed by Les Grillons.

  “Excuse me, monsieur,” she said to the porter in deliberately accented French. “Are these bags headed to Vienna?”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” the man answered with as little interest as he could muster.

  She shifted slightly, and tugged on the cuff of her glove. She hoped Marco recognized the signal for what it was.

  And he must have, because when she glanced over to where he’d been standing, he was gone—along with their suitcases.

  But her responsibilities weren’t over.

  “Are you sure these are going to Vienna?” she pressed the porter. “Because I would hate very much for my luggage to wind up in Berlin, when I absolutely have no intention of going to Berlin, and I would be very cross, indeed, if I were to wind up in Vienna with entirely nothing to wear but the clothes on my back.”

  “I’m certain, mademoiselle.” The porter sighed.

  In the very edge of her vision, she espied Marco doing something with their baggage and another set of cases that were heading to Vienna, but she couldn’t be quite certain, since he crouched behind the cart, invisible to both the porter and the Grillons men on the bench, as well as the rest of the station.

  Whatever it was, he was still doing it, so she had to keep up her distraction.

  “I’m visiting my brother in Vienna, you see,” she chattered on. “We all thought he was mad to move so far away from London, but he fell in love with a Viennese woman and insisted he’d follow her to the ends of the earth.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “It sent my mother into an absolute nervous frenzy, I can tell you. She wouldn’t leave her bed for weeks. We had to call a physician. Even so, it wouldn’t dissuade my brother from moving away to the very edge of the civilized world.”

  “Oui, mademoiselle,” the porter said, desperately bored.

  She almost felt sorry for the poor man. Marco suddenly appeared beside the porter, and set their bags upon the cart.

  “Don’t forget these,” Marco said loudly to the porter. He handed the man a coin.

  The porter looked grateful for the interruption. “I won’t, monsieur.”

  Offering Bronwyn his arm, Marco led her away from the cart. And when the porter wheeled it away, one of the two Grillons men rose from the bench and followed it.

  Speaking low in her ear, Marco said, “They know we’re aware of them, and that we’ll try some way of evading them. But our luggage can be followed, so that bloke will be sticking close to what he thinks are our bags. Once he sees the bags being loaded onto the Vienna-bound train, he’ll be Vienna-bound, too.”

  “What he thinks are our bags?” she whispered.

  “While you effectively distracted the porter, I did a bit of sleight of hand. Switched the contents with another set of luggage. These.” From behind a pillar he pulled out two suitcases—gray with brown straps.

  Before she could respond to his sleght of hand—and thievery—the first porter returned, looking cross. “Didn’t see any gray trunk with brown straps, monsieur.”

  Marco gave a rueful chuckle. “That’s right. We left it at home for this voyage.”

  It appeared that the porter barely kept himself from troweling a thick layer of curses over Marco. Instead, he said through clenched teeth, “Where are you heading, monsieur? I’ll load your baggage.”

  “It’s all right.” Marco handed him a coin. “We’ve inconvenienced you quite enough for one day.”

  After snatching the coin, the porter trundled off, grumbling to himself.

  “I cannot believe you stole those bags,” Bronwyn muttered.

  “I didn’t leave the previous owners with nothing,” he answered. “They’ve got perfectly decent replacement luggage. And the switch helped us lose one of our Grillons companions.”

  “Leaving us with one more. Unless you have plans for these bags, too.” She nodded to their new cases.

  “Only that they’re accompanying us.” He picked up the two bags and, motioning for her to follow, began to stride toward one of the platforms. Sadly, she’d had to leave behind some of her new clothing, but she’d wear nothing but rags if it meant getting away from danger.

  The sign proclaimed the train steaming at the platform as heading for Amsterdam. Marco climbed aboard a second-class carriage, and she followed without question. In this realm of subterfuge, he was the reigning king, while she barely ranked as a courtier.

  They continued on down the aisle between the second-class seats. Behind her, she heard the door to the carriage open and close. Pretending to examine the brass racks overhead, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder and saw the second Grillons man trailing after them.

  More fear clambered along her neck, digging in with chilled claws. She wanted to turn to the seated passengers and beg for their help—but it was a futile hope. What could any of these people do against a force as powerful and terrifying as Les Grillons?

  Marco gestured to two seats near the back of the carriage. “Here we are, my dear,” he said loudly enough for anyone in the car to hear.

  She took a seat, forcing herself into silence when she wanted to demand of Marco just what in heaven’s name he was planning. He sat beside her, though he kept their bags with them instead of sliding them into the overhead racks.

  “Tickets to Marseille aren’t very effective for getting us to Amsterdam,” she whispered.

  “We’re not going to Amsterdam. But our ami in the next train car is. When I say so, follow me as fast and quietly as you can.” He adjusted the cuff of his trousers. Then, suddenly growled low, “Now.”

  At once he was on his feet and out the door at the back of the carriage, carrying their bags. She wasted no time in following, all the while her heart pounding painfully.

  They found themselves in a freight car, stacked high with cages full of dogs, cats, and even a goat. The animals kept up a steady stream of barks, meows, and bleats as Marco strode to the other end of the carriage, where another door stood. He tried
the door, only to rattle the handle. It was locked.

  Instantly, he knelt in front of the lock and had produced his picks. As he worked the picks, Bronwyn kept one eye on the other door—waiting to see if the man from Les Grillons would follow—and the other on an orange tabby cat, reclining in what had to be the most plush cage she’d ever seen. It had Sèvres porcelain bowls full of food and water, and a velvet cushion, on which the cat lolled, utterly indifferent to the chaos around it.

  “Lucky beast,” she murmured.

  The door at the back of the freight car swung open, and Marco was on his feet, their bags in hand. She trailed after him onto a small open structure between train cars, shutting the door behind them. Still no sign of Les Grillons.

  Marco lightly tossed the baggage onto the tracks below, then leaped down nimbly. He helped her descend, and then up onto the platform. They walked briskly away from the Amsterdam-headed train.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no evidence that the Grillons man pursued.

  “We’re safe,” she said.

  “No such thing as safe,” he reminded her. “Only safer.”

  “Thanks to your diabolical mind, we’re definitely safer.”

  He nodded, as if this were his due. But he had no need for false modesty. Not where subterfuge and skill were concerned.

  “That blade you used on Devere last night,” she continued. “I … where in God’s name do you carry it?”

  He tapped the lapel of his coat. “Special pocket sewn here. In case I can’t get to the knife strapped to my calf.”

  “What about getting … blood … on your clothes?”

  “There’s a reason why I wear dark suits.”

  God. Good thing he was on her side.

  Within moments, she and Marco were settled in a first-class carriage on a train marked as bound for Marseille. There continued to be no sign of the men from Les Grillons.

  The storm of the past few minutes was over, but she still shook from its whirlwinds. Had all that really happened? It had transpired so quickly. But her hands continued to tremble.

  Seeking comfort, she cradled her violin case close as the train steamed and idled, waiting for more passengers. Even here, no one cared that a man was murdered last night, and that she’d seen it happen. Or that she and Marco had just eluded two men who wouldn’t hesitate to kill them. “What is this world? I don’t … recognize it. It’s so much more … brutal … than I thought.”