by Zoë Archer
Glancing inside, Jack found a narrow bed covered with a faded calico quilt. A dresser, desk, and washstand with a basin made up the rest of the furnishings. The braided rag rug looked as though it had been present for the queen’s coronation. Yellowed lace covered the single window. No gaslights, just an oil lamp set up on the dresser and a squat coal stove crouched in the corner.
“Until we’re done with you,” Eva said, walking into the room, “this is your home.”
“Claridge’s has nothing on this palace.” In truth, the plain little room did look like a palace to him after his bare cell. No bars on the window, no slot in the door through which he could be seen by patrolling warders. Jack took a step inside, examining every detail, from the web of cracks in the plastered ceiling to the book lying on the desk. The Return of the Native. Sounded like an adventure story.
“I’m in ecstasy from your approval,” drawled Marco. “The privy’s in the backyard. Only the kitchen’s got running water. If you’ll want a wash, you’ll have to fetch and heat the water yourself.” With that, he stalked back down the hallway and down the stairs.
Leaving Jack with Eva. They hadn’t been alone together since the train, when she’d given the other gents the boot so he could eat comfortably. He became aware suddenly of the smallness of the room, and her presence within it. Though he ached with tiredness, a fine electric tension threaded itself over his skin. Hard to say in the lamplight, but her cheeks looked a little pinker than they had when Marco had been around.
They stared at each other warily, and he noticed how she kept herself out of striking distance.
Baffling, that’s what she was. Tough and hard as a bruiser, but she showed small moments where she seemed almost … kind. Like when she let him take his first long, deep breath of London air.
And there was something else between them. Something that wasn’t kindness at all. She looked at him not as a pawn in Nemesis’s game, and not as a subject of pity. But with the kind of sexual awareness a woman had for a man. She didn’t want to, he could tell. Yet it was there, anyway.
Maybe he could make use of that, somehow. Work his way free of Nemesis by exploiting her interest in him.
He almost laughed at that. Him? Play the seduction angle? That was for pretty lads and confidence men. He was a sledgehammer, not an artist’s chisel. As he watched her move through the little room, making tiny adjustments to the quilt and the furniture, he knew he couldn’t trap her using seduction, not without getting trapped himself.
Better to think of her as just another Nemesis obstacle than a woman.
Better … but not possible. He still smelled of her, that pretty citrus and flower smell.
“This has to be better than Dunmoor,” she said.
He didn’t want her to think that he was in any way grateful, so he just shrugged. “It’ll do. Isn’t permanent, is it?”
“Once we bring Rockley down and get some restitution for the wronged girl, you’ll be free to lie in any gutter you please.”
He scowled at the mention of the bastard. “Haven’t slept in a gutter since I was a tyke. And I didn’t for long. You can get gnawed on by rats for only a short while before you think of other places you’d rather be.”
A troubled frown crossed her face, brief as mercy. “Thousands of others in London have the same story.”
“But not you.” He gave her a thorough stare, from the top of her slightly mussed blond curls to the hem of her skirts. A stripe of mud edged the fabric, a souvenir from her sprint across the moors, but the quality of her clothes was good. No secondhand dresses and petticoats for her. And her underwear was probably snowy white.
A picture of her in nothing but her chemise, drawers, and corset popped into his mind, as vivid as if he’d taken a photograph. It was a damned pleasant image.
“Not me,” she said, a nice bit of huskiness in her voice. She cleared her throat. “It’s late, and I’m starting to see double. We’ll work out our strategy in the morning.” A clock somewhere in the flat chimed three. “Later in the morning.”
He might not be able to work the seduction angle, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep her as off balance as he was. “Which room is yours? I might get a night terror and need soothing.”
“Somehow I feel that nightmares would be more afraid of you. And you’d look rather ridiculous wandering the streets of Brompton in your nightshirt.”
“Before I went into the clink,” Jack said, folding his arms over his chest, “I slept naked, so I’d be running around Brompton with my tackle knocking against my knees.”
She gave a low, worldly chuckle. “I’ve seen your tackle, Mr. Dalton, so you can’t paint yourself in such a flattering light.”
“Against my thigh, then.” But neither he nor his cock had forgotten she’d had a look back in that carriage on the moors. And they were both interested. “But we’re in Clerkenwell, not Brompton.”
“Your knowledge of London geography hasn’t vanished during your incarceration.”
“So you don’t live here.”
Her brows rose. “God, no. Is that what you imagined? That all the Nemesis operatives dwelt under one roof?”
He didn’t much care for her tone, as if he were some snot-nosed kid who didn’t know the first thing about life. “Gangs of thieves do it all the time.”
“Thieves don’t have other identities to protect.”
“But you do. An identity that lives in Brompton.” He wondered who that other Eva was, how she might be different from the one who helped convicts escape and then blackmailed them into collaboration.
“All of us have lives and homes elsewhere. And jobs, too. That’s how we keep Nemesis funded.” A neat dodge on her part, telling him nothing about herself.
“I’m right sorry we won’t be sleeping under the same roof.” Which was the truth. Of all the Nemesis crew, she was the only one he liked talking with, and he found himself looking forward to those quick flashes of wicked humor in those sherry eyes of hers.
“Given that I’m certain you snore, I’m not sorry.” She added, “You aren’t going to have the run of the place, though. Lazarus will be staying here while you’re our—”
“Prisoner,” he said.
“Guest,” she countered.
“Pawn.”
“Temporary operative.”
This time, it was he who laughed, a quick bark of laughter that caught him off guard. “A pretty way with words, you’ve got. Precise and nimble. Like one of them sailors’ carvings on ivory.”
“Scrimshaw.” Her mouth curved. “I rather like that image. Perhaps you’ve a bit of the poet in you, as well, Dalton.”
“This is my pen.” He held up a fist. “I use it to write sonnets across blokes’ faces. That’s the only poetry I know.” Lowering his hand, he said, “Describe me however you want—we both know Nemesis has got me by the baubles.”
She pursed her lips. “Not forever.”
“When you’ve got a man by his baubles, love, even a minute feels like a lifetime.”
“Having none of my own, I’ll have to take your word for it.”
Goddamn, she was a brazen one. And goddamn if she didn’t intrigue him, this woman who talked in a posh accent about a man’s goolies and led two lives. A woman like her couldn’t be trusted.
He didn’t trust her, not by a mile, but he was fascinated by her.
“Eva!” Simon shouted up the stairwell. “Everything all right up there?”
Jack wanted to yell down to the toff that he could go bugger himself, but Eva called over her shoulder, “My virtue’s intact, Simon.”
“What’s left of it,” hooted Marco.
“Spoken by the biggest trollop this side of the Thames,” Eva answered. She walked to the bedroom door and leaned out into the hallway. “And stop shouting up the stairs. This isn’t the dockyards.” Turning back to Jack, she said, “On that charming note, I’m leaving. We’ve a lot of ground to cover in the morning, so I suggest you get some rest.”
“Don’t know how I’m supposed to,” Jack growled, “with that murdering son of a bitch out there and me shackled to a bunch of bedlamites.”
She didn’t look insulted. “It’s because we’re all somewhat insane that the success of our missions is ensured. And, believe me, Mr. Dalton”—her gaze held his—“we will succeed in this operation against Lord Rockley. He’ll pay for what he did to Miss Jones, and to Edith.”
Staring into her eyes, he felt more than her presence as a woman. He’d been around some of the toughest, meanest bastards—he was one—and none of them had half her resolve. The truth gleamed in her gaze: she truly believed that she and her crew would take Rockley down.
“In my experience,” he said, “no one’s more dangerous than a man who believes he can’t fail. His confidence makes him sloppy and reckless.”
“I’m not a man,” she pointed out. As if he didn’t know.
“A woman who has faith in herself is like a gun that shoots fire. She’ll burn everything down just to hit a single target.”
She tilted her head, studying him. He wondered what she saw.
I don’t give a good goddamn.
Still, he liked seeing her try to puzzle him out. Maybe he wasn’t entirely what she had expected him to be. Good. Let her ponder and stew and fret. Only fair.
“Good night, Mr. Dalton. Welcome to Nemesis.”
“You’re wrong about something, Miss Warrick.” He planted his hands on his hips. “I don’t snore.”
“How do you know that for certain?”
His smile was a leisurely one. “None of the women who shared my bed ever complained.”
She shook her head, then turned and left.
He listened to her footsteps as she walked down the hall, and down the stairs. The room in which he stood wasn’t pretty, but it turned far more dingy as soon as she left. There were murmured exchanges down below—he didn’t quite catch all the words, but it was clear that Lazarus was being warned to stay on his guard around Jack. After some more words, people filed out of the flat. Marco, Simon, Harriet. And Eva.
The past five years he’d spent making sense out of quiet nighttime sounds. Lights out in prison didn’t necessarily mean falling asleep right away. He learned to tell guards apart by the rhythm of their walks. He knew that the man two cells down from him whimpered the name Cathleen every hour. He figured out who was a restless sleeper and who liked to give himself a wank before nodding off and who ran into the arms of forgetful sleep as fast as he could.
As for Jack himself, he hadn’t thought of pretty girls or foods he missed, or even about how rough life was within the walls of Dunmoor. No, he’d lie awake, staring at the stone ceiling, and think about killing Rockley.
He’d do the same this night, even though he wasn’t in prison any longer.
Two strides took Jack to the grimy window. Holding back the curtain, he stared out at the little courtyard behind the house. There wasn’t a lot in the yard. Just a bench, a bucket lying on its side, and the previously mentioned jakes. Hard to tell in the dark, but not much grew out there except some weeds poking up through brick pavers. Beyond the yard were more houses, all of them dark and shuttered.
He’d never been able to look out his cell window. A view like this would’ve been prized. But suddenly, it wasn’t enough.
“Where the hell are you going?” Lazarus demanded as Jack shouldered past him in the hall.
“Can’t go out,” Jack growled, “so I’m going up. This place got a roof, don’t it?”
For a moment, the older man just stared at him. Then, “This way.”
Jack followed Lazarus through a narrow door—he barely fit through the thing, turning sideways and ducking his head—and up another, even tighter staircase. They emerged onto a slate-shingled roof that fell away sharply on all four sides. The flat part of the roof wasn’t sizable, only three good strides in any direction, and the chimney took up a decent section of it. Grime and soot coated everything. Bitter cold poked chilled fingers through the gaps in his clothing.
But Jack didn’t care. He walked to the edge of the flat part of the roof. Stared up at the sky, the London sky, the one under which he’d been born. It was such a damn luxury to have the night surrounding him, when he’d been herded indoors at the first sign of darkness for five years.
“You won’t see any stars,” Lazarus said. “Not with the smoke and fog.”
“I’m not here for stargazing.” When he’d been on the lam, after his escape from Dunmoor, he hadn’t been able to appreciate being outside. But here he was now. With London spread all around him—Bethnal Green and Whitechapel to the east, Smithfield Market and St. Paul’s Cathedral to the south. And off to the west, in the posh neighborhoods of Mayfair and St. James’s, that’s where he’d find Rockley.
Eva was out there, too. Heading toward her other life in Brompton as a … a what? She said they all had jobs to keep Nemesis afloat, so what did she do? Was she some gent’s fancy piece? She couldn’t be a factory girl like the ones Jack knew. A shopgirl? Maybe she was one of those “modern” women who worked as a clerk and could use a fancy typing machine. None of it seemed right, though.
He could ask Lazarus, but it wouldn’t do to have the old soldier know how much she interested him. He’d give none of these Nemesis lot anything that could be used as a weapon. They were the sort who hoarded knowledge and used it against people. Maybe Rockley. Certainly Jack. Ruthless bastards.
And he’d delivered himself to them. Right on a fucking platter.
“It’s colder than a Frenchwoman’s cunt out here,” Lazarus grumbled. “Time to go back inside. You’ll be no good to us if you catch the pleurisy and die.”
“I never get sick,” Jack said.
“And tonight won’t be the first time, not while I’m on watch.” The older man nodded toward the door. “Down you go.”
“Or what?” Jack rumbled.
“Or I summon the coppers and you don’t get to look at this fine night sky ever again.”
Anger churned in Jack like bad gin. If he could, he’d sleep on this roof, no matter how blasted cold it was. But it was clear from the set of Lazarus’s jaw that he’d make good on his threat if Jack didn’t do as he was told.
Cursing foully, Jack ducked through the door and trundled down the staircase. Each step back toward his little room felt like more weights being added to his invisible shackles. He’d broken out of prison, yet he still wasn’t free.
A voice whispered in his mind, Have I ever been?
CHAPTER FIVE
“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” said Simon.
Eva glanced over at him as the hansom cab rattled toward her lodgings. That they’d been able to find any cab at this hour—and a sober driver—had been something of a miracle. She’d been fully prepared to make the long trek on foot. But in that inimitable way of his, Simon had simply walked out onto the corner, and a hansom had rolled up, asking their direction.
Things came so easily to a man like Simon. Cabs included. He had everything—birth, wealth, position, aristocratic blond good looks that made women instinctively pat their hair and widen their eyes like fawns eagerly awaiting a wolf. Of all the Nemesis operatives, Simon seemed the least likely to involve himself in their work. Why should he? He’d never been on the wrong end of justice before. He served as Nemesis’s de facto leader, but he never made unilateral decisions. Everything was discussed among the operatives.
Simon’s time in the army had shown him hard lessons. And, like a few other men of his class, he had a strong belief in morals and ethics. Not so strong that he wouldn’t make use of a man like Jack Dalton, however.
“We’ve utilized men such as him before,” she pointed out.
“They were easily manipulated. Too afraid of the consequences of defying us to be a threat. But him…” Simon exhaled roughly. “He’s got nothing to lose.”
“Except vengeance.” She and the others of Nemesis had counted on Dalton’s need for revenge as a
key element of their plan. What none of them had anticipated, she especially, was the depth of his feeling. It was far more than the animal desire for retaliation.
The pain in Dalton’s eyes when he spoke of his sister dying … beyond loss, there was self-recrimination. Somehow, Dalton held himself responsible for Edith’s death. Having read the file, Eva knew that Dalton had had nothing to do with Rockley’s going to the brothel where Edith had worked. Dalton hadn’t been anywhere near Rockley that night—his bodyguards received one day off a week, and that day had been Dalton’s. Somehow, Dalton had learned of Edith’s death that same night, and had unsuccessfully tried to avenge her in the early hours of the morning. Yet he still felt culpable. Eva had seen it in the glaze of rage and anguish in his dark eyes.
Killing Rockley wouldn’t bring Edith Dalton back from the dead, but to her brother, it had to mean some measure of absolution. A man would do almost anything to achieve forgiveness.
“He’s going to be trickier to handle than the others,” Simon insisted. “Remember Fetcham? He was a bruiser, too, but when it came right down to it, he fell in line. Dalton’s far more dangerous.”
“I can handle him,” said Eva. “Thumbs to the eyes, a knee to the groin. He might be big and strong as a bull, but every man has vulnerable places.”
Passing lamplight glanced off the pristine planes of Simon’s face as he frowned his displeasure. He verged on being too handsome, if such a thing were possible, almost uncomfortable to look upon. To her, however, he was merely Simon, her colleague, the architecture of his face admirable but not stirring.
Not like Dalton. He wasn’t handsome, not in the known sense of it, anyway. Yet she couldn’t banish his face from her mind, its rough contours and hard lines. If Simon was a mathematically perfect temple, its columns placed precisely, the proportions expertly rendered, Dalton was a granite mountain, all crags and peril, alluring because it was hazardous. Both drew the eye, but for very different reasons.
