by Zoë Archer
The study was decorated in the very latest style—a touch ornate for Marco’s preferences, but he wasn’t sorry his taste differed from a notorious crime lord’s. Immediately, he went to the large desk that dominated the chamber. Every drawer was locked. Not much of an impediment. The bigger challenge came from sorting through everything within.
He carefully pulled out stacks of papers and notebooks, and motioned for Bronwyn to start looking through them. He saw the name Reynard written on a book’s nameplate.
“What are we looking for?” she asked almost soundlessly.
“Banking ledgers,” he answered, just as quietly. “Like the ones our friend Bertrand showed us. Look for a series of numbers starting with 865–03.”
She nodded and began to sort through the sheaves of paper. A meticulous record keeper, this Grillons boss, detailing loans, smuggling ventures, profits from brothels, expenses and earnings from the importation of opium. Just like any businessman. But no banking ledger.
Until Bronwyn tapped him on the arm and placed a folder in front of him. Neat columns of numbers showed deposits and withdrawals from a bank. At the very top was a series of numbers: the account code.
From inside his coat, Marco pulled out a square of standard ledger paper. He tore off a tiny piece, and used a solvent he carried to patch the paper over the last three digits of the account number. The solvent made the original ink disappear. With the same pen on Reynard’s desk, Marco changed the numbers, matching the handwriting perfectly. He prided himself as Nemesis’s expert forger, and this was no exception.
“Remember when I left you alone in Montepulciano?” he whispered as he worked. “I was telegraphing Simon and Alyce. They went to Switzerland and opened an account with the Banque Suisse Nationale, using this number.” He pointed to the new account routing code.
“How did you know that’s the bank our Grillons friends would use?”
“Those starting numbers are among the exclusive codes the bank uses.” Marco blew on the ink to dry it. “Once the pressure starts coming down on Reynard, and Cluzet, they’ll both transfer money from their contingency accounts into their Swiss accounts. But they won’t know that the cash will actually be going to the new account—your new account.”
Setting the ledger carefully back where it had come from, he explained, “Les Grillons, they’re a distrustful lot. Don’t even trust each other. They’ve all got secret stashes of money and knives behind their backs. All of them have exigency plans should things head south. And they will.”
She stared at him. “Nemesis. It runs as intricately as one of those Swiss clocks. And your cunning mind … what’s it thinking? I’ll never know.”
Though she spoke in a neutral tone, he could feel the sadness and anger in her. Despite everything they’d done tonight, it was easier to jump between roofs than close the distance between them.
He glanced toward the door. “Right now I’m thinking the guard’s set to come by in minutes.”
They stole from the study, with Marco careful to lock the door behind him as they exited. Then they crept back up the long flights of stairs, pressing back into the shadows when a guard passed on the landing above them. He led and she kept watch on their backs, until they returned to the top floor. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the trapdoor and shove it open without getting a running start, and that would make too much noise.
“Get on my shoulders,” he whispered.
He crouched down, and she climbed up onto him. He stood, bringing her close to the trapdoor, which she pushed open quietly. She pulled herself up into the crawl space. Bronwyn extended a helping hand to him, but he shook his head. He weighed too much for her to support him. Likely, he’d just pull her back down.
But with the trapdoor now open, he could jump from a crouch and haul himself up.
A guard started up the stairs. Marco motioned for Bronwyn to close the trapdoor. She shook her head, gesturing for him to jump up.
The guard was almost there.
Marco ducked into a nearby room and hid behind an armoire. God, he hoped Bronwyn shut the trapdoor.
The door opened and the guard peered into the room. But he only glanced into the chamber for a moment before moving on. After several minutes, Marco emerged from behind the armoire and slipped into the hallway.
The trapdoor, which had been closed, opened, and Bronwyn’s relieved face appeared.
He quickly leaped up and hauled himself into the attic. Marco shut the door right before another sentry passed on patrol.
He had them wait a few minutes before creeping through the crawl space to ensure that the guard didn’t hear any suspicious noises above. Once he was certain they were in the clear, he waved her toward the open dormer window.
And then they were back on the roof. With its jump to safety. He went first. And this time, when it was her turn, she didn’t hesitate. Simply hunkered down and then sprang into a leap. And he welcomed her back into his arms for her landing. It felt … too good.
“Bene?” he asked.
She let out a tremulous breath. “That will never be my favorite thing to do.”
“Doesn’t have to be. Cluzet’s home adjoins its neighbor, so it’ll be a simple stroll.”
Softly, she whimpered. “We have to do this again?”
“It’s the best way,” he answered. “Set everyone in Les Grillons against each other. Nemesis doesn’t do things in half measures.”
“I should be grateful for Nemesis’s thoroughness.” She still hadn’t pulled from his arms, and it felt exactly as it should be, that they stood atop a roof high above Paris, wrapped around each other. “But when this is all over, I’ll be grateful for some wine.”
When it was all over. If everything went according to plan, that wouldn’t be much longer. And he and Bronwyn would have their affair, then part ways—forever.
As she extracted herself now from his embrace, he decided he’d welcome some wine-induced oblivion, too.
* * *
They went on to the second home, the one that belonged to Cluzet.
Though they didn’t have to jump from roof to roof, they still needed to enter from the attic, since Cluzet kept just as many guards positioned around the perimeter of his house as his nefarious colleague.
Once inside, it was a matter of locating the study. But soon after finishing changing the account numbers, a noise alerted Marco that they were soon to have company. He quickly replaced the ledger, then he and Bronwyn ducked behind some heavy curtains right before the door to the study opened. Someone walked to the desk and sat down.
Ah, damn! Apparently, Cluzet didn’t spend his whole night cavorting. The sounds of papers being shuffled indicated that the man was tireless in his devotion to his criminal work.
Bronwyn stared at Marco with wide eyes. They’d never get out of here without being noticed.
“Excuse me, Monsieur Cluzet?” One of the guards. “The supper you ordered is ready.”
“Yes, fine.” With a sigh, Cluzet stood and left the study. And he didn’t shut the door behind him.
Marco took Bronwyn’s hand, and they hurried out of the study. They both checked the hallway first for more guards. It was empty. So they rushed down the corridor, all the way to a set of doors that led to a garden.
Stepping out into the garden, she and Marco slid through the shadows of trees and fountains, until they reached the garden’s back gate. He hastily picked the lock, and in seconds, they were in the mews, speeding away from the house.
No one within was aware what had transpired. Or that the seeds of Cluzet’s and Reynard’s ruin had been planted.
* * *
Dawn came on in a gray pallor as Bronwyn and Marco made their way back to the toy shop. Her reflection in a window showed she looked equally ashen, weary from the long night’s events.
For all its reputation as a city of gaiety, Paris lived on bread and milk, like anywhere else. Marco and Bronwyn now passed the hardworking citoyens hurrying through the chill morn
ing, making their deliveries as the rest of the city just began to stir. It was a place of merchants, factory girls, and pickpockets. No different from any of scores of cities across Europe. No one en route to their work paid Bronwyn and Marco any notice. Unsurprising, since she’d noticed that he’d been careful to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. And with her tucked close beside him as they walked, his innocuous appearance seemed to extend to her, as well. They might as well have been crossing sweepers or paupers, people gave them so little attention.
He bought two rolls and coffees from a passing vendor, who barely noticed them. They ate their breakfast on foot, with no time to stop to even lean against a splintered wooden fence to eat.
“More evidence that the life of a Nemesis operative or an intelligence agent is the diametric opposite of glamorous,” he said to her between mouthfuls.
At last, they reached the toy shop. They double-checked to make sure the narrow street was empty before prying open the boards covering the door. Once inside, they passed the rows of sightless dolls and moldering game boards, until they reached the living quarters at the back.
Sooty light pressed through the gaps in the boards covering the windows. There hadn’t been time or opportunity to clean, so the place was just as dusty and stale as it had been when they’d first come here the other day.
Without a word, she trudged over to the bed, and sat heavily on it. She began to unlace her boots. Neither of them had spoken since Reynard’s, and the silence felt as heavy as ore.
“There won’t be any apologies,” he said into the quiet. “Not from me.”
She didn’t look up from unfastening her boots. “I didn’t ask for one.”
“So the fact that you won’t talk to me—hell, that you’ve stopped looking at me—means things are right as rain.” There was anger in his voice.
She glanced up at him. “Mocking me isn’t going to win my favor.”
“Damn it,” he muttered, “it was easier to break into Reynard’s and Cluzet’s homes. At least there, I knew what to do.” He paced away, then back. “You say there isn’t any favor that needs winning.”
She kicked aside her boots, one then the other. “All right, you want the truth of it? I’m disappointed.”
He tensed. “I’ve done everything—”
“Not in you. In myself.” She rubbed at her face. “I thought myself a realist when it came to the world. That I could see things as they were rather than how I wanted them to be. But it was just a trick I played on myself. I still believed…” She sighed. “I believed in dragons. And knights to slay those dragons.”
“I’m no knight.” His voice sounded rusty, unused.
“I know. And I also know that I don’t want to be rescued. What I truly need are lessons in holding the lance, so that any time another dragon crosses my path, I can slay it on my own.”
He crossed to her, and crouched down. “You’re already halfway there. More than halfway.”
“I had a good teacher.”
He shook his head. “What did I teach you, except not to trust me?”
“I should have. Who you truly are or aren’t is none of my concern. But everywhere that it counts, you’ve shown yourself to be honorable—”
He snorted.
“Honorable,” she persisted. “Loyal. Dedicated to your cause. Even if you don’t think the cause deserves it.” The very traits that made her love him. And kept her at arm’s length.
He winced. “That was … badly done of me. The others were right. I was being … a snob. Thinking that someone who came from your background didn’t merit helping. But even an old cur like me can learn.” He glanced toward the window. “This is a barbarous, cruel world. To women, especially. That doesn’t change just because you happen to have genteel parents.”
“No,” she said softly, bringing his attention back. “It doesn’t change.” Her lips pressed tightly together. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I can’t fault you for doing exactly what you said you would. Or being exactly who you claimed to be.”
For Marco, there was some relief in that. But not much. Damn it, he wanted to be the sort of hero she’d imagined. But heroism and survival didn’t go hand in hand. Besides, he didn’t think himself capable of that kind of golden, selfless altruism. He took, and he was ruthless, and he was empty.
But what was this pain that filled him, the way water filled its vessel? Why was it that when she finally understood the kind of man he was, a scraping sort of agony tore through him? He wished … he wished for things that could never be. That she could want him truly for all that he was. But it would never happen. And if, by some miracle, it did, could he accept it? Could he let her love him?
What did he know of love, except that he’d denied it to himself for most of his life. Impossible to unlearn that self-denial. To dismantle the fortifications he’d built around himself, even if he wanted them gone.
Now, all he did was nod. In acceptance.
“The account numbers have been changed,” she said abruptly. “What happens now?”
“First, we sleep for a few hours, get our strength back”—though he referred more to her than himself—“then we go to the police and let them know about the connection between Les Grillons and the murder of Olivier Maslin.”
A moment passed. She exhaled. “All right. But we can do all that later. I’m too weary to think.” She presented him with her back. “Get me out of this dress.”
With remarkably steady hands, he undid the fastenings of her gown, until it parted and revealed the smooth flesh of her upper back. His hands hurt with wanting to touch her there, but instead he curled them into fists as she got to her feet and continued to disrobe—impersonally, not looking at him once. Her dress came off first, then her remaining petticoats, and her corset. Until she stood in just her chemise and drawers, pale and weary in the morning light.
He forced his gaze away. For all the words they’d exchanged, and the acknowledged fact that he couldn’t be what she wanted, he still wanted her.
He rose from the bed and strode to a corner of the room. Taking off his coat, he rolled it into a ball and set it on the floor.
“What are you doing?” she asked, pulling the covers back from the bed.
“Getting ready to sleep.”
“Not on the floor, you’re not.” She pointed to the bed. “Get in. It’s big enough for both of us.”
Which was worse—sleeping on the floor with the spiders and the dust, or sharing a bed with Bronwyn and being unable to touch her? As if drawn like metal to a magnet, he couldn’t resist her. His feet took him toward the bed. He’d be close to her, however he could. And if that meant hours of aching and needing with no release or relief, he’d endure that. Because he had to.
FOURTEEN
I’m making a bloody mistake, she thought.
You can’t let him sleep on the floor like a dog, her mind argued back.
And if you and he share a bed, what do you think is going to happen?
Nothing. We’ll sleep.
Don’t be stupid. You can’t really be that naïve. Not anymore.
She shook her head, as if to dislodge the fight she was having with herself. But she’d made her decision. She couldn’t, in good conscience, sleep in the bed while Marco took the floor. He’d managed in truly desperate and dangerous situations during this journey—chasing Devere through the streets, fending off a Grillons assassin, and all the other Grillons thugs chasing them. Yet nobody could get any good rest on a filthy, hard floor, and so she climbed into bed and waited for him to join her.
First, she endured the trial of watching him undress. Tonight, she’d seen him in action. He’d made a sleek, dangerous picture leaping from rooftop to rooftop, gliding through the shadows like he was part of them. Now he stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, until he was bare-chested. He toed off his boots.
His hand hovered over the fastenings of his trousers, and the rigid line of his erection was the reason why. He didn’t we
ar drawers. So he’d be naked and aroused as they tried to sleep.
Did she breathe a sigh of relief or disappointment when he left his trousers on? She had to look away as he climbed into bed, the morning light carving the hard contours of his arms and chest.
Then they were in bed together. A distance of inches separated them, since the bed wasn’t especially wide. His heat radiated out, soaking into her skin. And when he shifted slightly, readjusting his position, his arm brushed against hers, sending her nerves sparking.
She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth. Exhausted as she was, her body felt awake, alive. A shiver worked its way through her.
It didn’t seem to matter what her brain understood. She hungered for him. Irrefutably. His touch, his mind. His heart—what little of it he could give her.
She couldn’t deny herself any longer. Opening her eyes, she rolled onto her side, facing him. Only to find him gazing at her, his eyes dark, nostrils flared, jaw tight.
She reached out and lightly caressed along his face, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath her fingertips. He leaned into her touch, his eyes still open, and pressed her hand closer to him. He cupped the side of her cheek with his hand, and for a moment, they did nothing but look at each other, the moment stretching out in slow, irrefutable pulses.
They leaned toward each other. His lips brushed against hers. Once. Twice. Lightly. Something in her heart cracked at the gentleness in his touch. It would’ve been easier to lose herself in something fast and explosive, without feeling. But this undid her. When he pressed his lips more firmly to hers, she met the kiss readily. They sank into each other, testing, delving deeper, relearning this thing between them that had its own bright life.
He trailed his lips down her neck, she felt a pang of mixed pleasure and sorrow. Nothing would come of their trysts but sensation, one that would leave her more empty than ever, mourning her shattered heart. But she couldn’t stop herself. And it seemed neither could he. They craved each other, even as they knew they could have only this.
