Sweet Revenge nu-1

by Zoë Archer

  “About time you did.”

  She could hardly believe it. He was defending her work. Defending her. When he had no reason to do so. She knew when someone lied, told her half-truths, or spoke with the intent to flatter and deceive.

  Dalton had meant every word.

  Without thinking, she brought her hand up to press in the center of her chest. As if she could hold back the pieces of self-protection that crumbled from around her heart. She didn’t want to like him, or feel grateful for his understanding. She didn’t want to feel anything for him.

  It couldn’t be helped, though. He’d found a vulnerability.

  And he didn’t even know it. He continued to stare into the ballroom. His lip curled as he watched several bejeweled matrons gather in a circle, fanning themselves. “Every now and then, do-gooders would come parading through Bethnal Green, clanging bells and clapping hands. Women like that lot. The way they treated us,” he scoffed, “like we were idiot children.”

  Giving herself a mental shake, she brought herself back to the conversation.

  She knew precisely what he meant. Some missionaries thought of their charges as little better than animalistic brutes, and it was their duty to elevate them. Not as high as the missionaries themselves, but out of the mud of their ignorance. Her parents, at least, were not so blinkered in their ideology.

  Dalton said, “Then they’d get angry when they figured out that us poor folk weren’t as simple as they wanted. We couldn’t be shaped into what they wanted us to be. And more than a few of us didn’t care for their sort of charity.” His jaw tightened. “Most of ’em lost interest after a bit. They’d find another charity or just give it up altogether, like they were bored of poor people.”

  “When my parents and I would return to some ladies,” she said, “asking for more donations, they’d look at us with this confusion. Wondering why we’d come back. As though giving a handful of pounds or a few dozen blankets should suddenly, magically cure poverty.”

  “Or that we should be grateful to find jobs that barely paid nothing. Honest work, they called it. Anything to keep us low.” He tugged on the silk fabric of the curtain, a swath of fabric that, if sold at a secondhand shop, could feed a man for months. “We couldn’t dream of having this for ourselves. Couldn’t aim for anything beyond just a roof over our heads and a measly bowl of mutton for supper.”

  “And you?”

  He frowned. “What about me?”

  “You must’ve aimed for more than a roof and mutton.” If she was coming to understand anything about Dalton, it was his ferocious determination. A man like him wouldn’t be satisfied with crumbs. He’d want the whole banquet.

  “Always had bigger plans for myself,” he admitted. “I wanted out of Bethnal Green, and no dirty factory job was going to make that happen. So I became a housebreaker, then a fighter. Nothing aboveboard, only underground brawls they’d hold in deserted buildings. Earned me the name Diamond Jack, on account of being hard as one of them stones. After that, I came on as Rockley’s bodyguard.” His sneer of disgust seemed aimed not just at Rockley, but at himself. “The most money I’d ever had, all to watch some toff’s back. I took it, and gladly. Didn’t matter to me what the bastard did, so long as I kept him safe and got my wages.”

  The bastard in question had ended his waltz and stood talking with two men she recognized as top parliamentary figures. One of the men laughed at something Rockley said, and gestured toward the card room.

  “Maybe those nobs are in on the scheme with the cartridges,” Dalton said, nodding toward the men talking with Rockley.

  “They aren’t afraid of him,” she said. “You can see it in the way they look at him, the ease of their laughter. He doesn’t have any hold over them.”

  Dalton grunted softly, a sound partway between amusement and reluctant admiration. “Ought to consider becoming a card sharp, the way you read folks.”

  “The late hours would interfere with my work for Nemesis. And I don’t care much for the smell of cigars.”

  Rockley and the other two gentlemen strolled from the ballroom, seemingly eager to immerse themselves in the masculine world of importance.

  “Damn,” Eva muttered. “There isn’t going to be another room in Sir Harold’s house that will have a view of the card room.”

  “He’ll have to come back through the ballroom to leave,” Dalton noted.

  They wouldn’t know who Rockley spoke with in the card room, but at least she knew he couldn’t slip away unnoticed.

  Eva leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the windowsill. “Did you ever think about being anything other than hired muscle?”

  A fleeting look of contemplation crossed his face, something almost wistful. But it was gone before she could be certain. “Nah. Folks always knew me as a bruiser, and that’s what I became. Either in the ring or on that nob’s payroll.” He held up his fists. “These have always been more valuable than this.” He tapped the side of his head.

  “You overvalued the wrong commodity,” she said.

  His expression was confused, as though she suggested paying for oxygen. “Muscle is all I’ll ever be.”

  Unaccountable anger surged through her. “Stop calling yourself that.”

  Again, he looked mystified. “Don’t know why you’re getting so cross. What difference does it make to you how I think of myself?” He folded his arms across his chest as he gazed at her.

  Why, indeed? She couldn’t answer him. Only that it did upset her, far more than she would have believed. He seemed to accept the role he’d been given, a role that vastly underestimated his capabilities. No one, it appeared, ever told Jack Dalton that he could be anything more than a brute for hire.

  But he had a brain. A very good one. And it had lain fallow for far too long.

  She saw examples of wasted potential every day. One couldn’t live in London without seeing the mudlarks, crossing sweeps, match girls, or men sitting on curbs when their jobs had been made redundant. It always stirred her. But never as much as Dalton did.

  “I just don’t like to see squandered possibility,” she muttered.

  “A missionary at heart,” he said, wry.

  If that’s what he believed, she wouldn’t disabuse him. Better that than him thinking she had more than a professional interest in his welfare.

  A faint noise sounded in the corridor outside, the creak of floorboards beneath carpet as someone made their way down the hall. Both she and Dalton stiffened, exchanging glances with each other. From beneath the door, light gleamed. Something jingled. The housekeeper’s keys.

  Dalton dropped the curtain immediately, throwing the chamber into darkness. Both he and Eva raced for the shelter of the folding screen. The screen itself wasn’t particularly large, but Dalton was, so they had to stand close together, her back pressed against his front. His arm wrapped around her, beneath her cape, and his hand spread across her stomach.

  The moment they settled into place, the door opened. More jingling and footsteps as the housekeeper walked into the room. A small glow spilled upon the walls—she must be carrying a lamp.

  Eva tensed and felt Dalton do the same. Had the housekeeper heard her and Dalton and come to investigate? If so, behind the screen would likely be the first place the housekeeper looked. Talking their way out of the situation wasn’t possible, and Eva didn’t want to subdue and tie up the poor woman—though if it came to that, she was prepared.

  The footsteps stopped, and the housekeeper sighed. Yet she didn’t look behind the screen. More light filled the room.

  Cautiously, Eva peered around the edge of the folding screen and saw the housekeeper standing exactly where she and Dalton had been moments earlier. The older woman gazed out at the ballroom across the way, a wistful look upon her face.

  “My, isn’t that lovely?” She sighed again, then hummed along with the faint music, swaying slightly.

  Eva edged back. She and Dalton hadn’t been seen. And so long as they stood behind the screen
, they wouldn’t be. Yet she couldn’t feel calm, not until the housekeeper left. From the expression on the older woman’s face, rapt with attention, it appeared that might be a while.

  She kept herself still, willing her breathing and heartbeat to slow. But as she did, she became aware of Dalton’s nearness. With so little room behind the screen, their bodies pressed against each other. Knowing that she was going to be in and out of a carriage all day, she’d worn a small bustle, and it now kept a minor distance between her and Dalton. Yet her back leaned fully against his chest. His heat spread through her, and the hard, broad muscles of his torso formed a living wall. She caught the scent of soap and wool and … him.

  Her every part was aware of him—his size, his strength, the potency of both his body and his will. Her own flesh felt tight, sensitive, and when his breath curled warmly over the back of her neck, she fought a shiver of burgeoning arousal.

  His palm was large and hot against her belly. She shifted, adjusting her footing, and his thumb brushed against the underside of her breast. Heat streaked through her. Such a simple, light touch, yet it spread through her in quivering waves. She was half afraid, half desirous that his hand would move higher, cupping her breast.

  His hand stayed where it was. She felt and heard a slight catch in his breathing. He was as affected as she.

  She could sense that his mouth was barely an inch from her nape, and had a powerful urge to lean back even more so his lips could touch her flesh. What would his lips feel like? Rough? Soft? Or both? Yet, despite her desire to find out, she held herself motionless.

  It was all she could do to keep her eyes open. She felt both languorous and inflamed, conscious not only of Dalton but also the fact that they had to remain quiet and still. They couldn’t be discovered by the housekeeper. They couldn’t take this attraction any further.

  After what felt like ten lifetimes, the housekeeper sighed again and let the curtain fall. She walked back to the entrance to the chamber, paused for a moment at the doorway, then closed the door behind her.

  Both she and Dalton waited as the housekeeper’s footsteps faded down the corridor. Another minute passed, yet neither she nor Dalton moved. Eva told herself it was merely to ensure that the housekeeper didn’t suddenly return.

  Finally, when a suitable period of time passed, she stepped—stumbled—from behind the screen. Her legs felt unstable, her head light.

  She heard Dalton’s muttered curse behind her. It sounded as though he were making adjustments to his clothing—specifically, his trousers.

  Immediately, she went to the window and pulled the curtain back to look into the ballroom.

  “Rockley’s still there,” she said in a low voice. “We’re safe.”

  “Wrong about that, love.” Dalton appeared beside her, his face hewn into hard angles. Dark stubble lined his jaw. He was the embodiment of uncompromising masculinity.

  “You and me,” he continued in a rumble, eyeing her, “we’re dangerous as a loaded gun.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The night yielded nothing. Nothing useful, anyway.

  At two in the morning, Rockley had finally left the ball and gone home. No other side trips. No late-night secret meetings in riverside warehouses. No visits to one of his preferred brothels. Just home.

  Far as Jack could tell, all he’d gained was an even greater hate—if it was even possible—for Rockley. The bastard continued on with his life just as he’d always done. Protected, privileged, Society’s untouchable ideal. Finding a way to ruin him would be one hell of a miracle.

  The other thing Jack had gained tonight: a fierce hunger for Eva.

  As he lay in his narrow bed at Nemesis headquarters, staring up at the patterns of light on the ceiling and listening to Lazarus snoring in the room down the hall, he still ached with wanting her. Having her pressed up against him, smelling so sweet, feeling her curves … it had been a temptation almost no man could’ve resisted. Somehow, he had, but it didn’t help that she’d shown him far more empathy than anyone ever had before.

  Through the whole of that day, dragging back and forth across London, stuck in a small hackney, his awareness of her kept growing. Like a weed, poking through the stone wall of his anger.

  She seemed cold as frost on the moors, but beneath that was a woman of determination, of passion. What would it be like, stripping away all her layers, thawing that frost? What kind of woman would be underneath?

  A hot-blooded one. And damn him if he didn’t burn to uncover her.

  Lying in his bed, he let his mind travel down the path he hadn’t taken behind that folding screen. He pictured it: his mouth on the back of her neck, kissing, biting her silky skin, his hands cupping her breasts, feeling their shape and softness. He pretended that her corset didn’t cover her breasts, so that when he played with her nipples, he’d feel them grow hard beneath his fingers. She’d lean into his touch.

  Jack closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall deeper into his fantasy. He reached down and took his aching cock into his hand.

  His hands would pull up her skirts as she continued to stand in front of him, and he’d touch her legs until he found where her stockings ended and her bare skin began. There’d be her drawers, too. Little frilly things, he decided. He’d find the opening in her underwear and then he’d find her sweet, hot pussy, glossing his fingers with her wetness.

  He stroked himself now, imagining what it would be like to dip his fingers between her lips, feel her heat and response. She’d fall back against him as he touched her, her head turning to the side so he could take her mouth with his. He’d slide his fingers inside her. Hell, she’d be deliciously tight, and his fingers were thick. She’d squirm against him, her hips pushing into his hand, but they’d have to be quiet, so quiet. Not a word or sound to give themselves away.

  He thrust harder into his hand, brutal, as he pictured her twisting and silently gasping with pleasure. She’d reach back and undo the buttons of his trousers, then grasp his cock and stroke him, just as he touched her. Faster, now. She’d be a little rough, just the way he liked it, the way he touched himself now, but her hand would be so much better, slim and soft. They’d stand like that, behind the screen, pleasuring each other, moaning noiselessly into each other’s mouths, until she tightened around his fingers and gasped as she climaxed.

  Jack snarled as he and his imaginary self came. He bent up from the bed, body stiff, as his seed shot from him in a hot arc. But in his mind, his come didn’t splatter on his stomach and chest, but over Eva’s fingers. And then she licked them, one by one, her eyes on his.

  He fell back onto the mattress, panting. Looked down at himself. He’d never come this hard before, not from his own hand.

  “Christ,” he muttered. He used a corner of the sheets to clean himself off, before lying back in bed.

  Usually, when he had himself a nightly wank, it took him only minutes to fall asleep afterward. It had been a long day, too, exhausting him with its frustrations and anger. But now he found himself wide awake, wondering if Eva was thinking about him, too. If she was in her own bed, remembering how he felt against her. If she also pictured what might have happened between them, and if she touched herself, too.

  At the very thought of her hand drifting beneath the covers to nestle between her legs, Jack was hard again.

  “Fuck.” He tried to ignore it, but it was like ignoring a telegraph pole sticking up from his groin. No other choice, then. He took hold of his cock once more and pumped it, knowing it was going to be a long, frustrating night.

  * * *

  “Did you learn anything?”

  Sitting at the table in the parlor, Jack glanced up from hunching over his cup of coffee. Simon stood in the doorway, throwing his hat and coat onto a nearby chair as he glowered at Jack. After the rubbish night he’d had, Jack had the strongest need to hit the toff right in his pretty face.

  Just as he was about to open his mouth and tell Simon to piss off, Eva came up the stairs. The day ou
tside must be a raw one, for her cheeks were rosy and she carried the scent of wind and rain on her.

  Or maybe her cheeks were pink for another reason. She looked at Jack and more color came into her face.

  If he thought he’d wanked her out of his system, he was wrong. He couldn’t stop staring at her, not as she also took off her hat and coat, not as she bustled into the kitchen to pour herself some coffee. And when she came back into the parlor, his gaze refused to go anywhere else.

  He caught Simon’s dark frown and curled his lip in response. Let the nob try to do something. Jack wouldn’t mind a good, healthy brawl right now.

  Lazarus and Harriet also entered the parlor. The swarthy-looking bloke, Marco, hadn’t appeared all morning. Had another mission, Jack supposed, or he could be floating in the Serpentine. Jack didn’t much care.

  Cradling her cup of coffee, Eva sat on the arm of a cushioned chair. Pale purple smudges ringed her eyes. Had she been thinking about him last night, and that’s what had kept her awake? Or was it the fact that their operation against Rockley had stalled before it’d truly begun?

  The fact that they hadn’t made any progress soured Jack’s mood further. “Didn’t learn bollocks,” he rumbled.

  “Not entirely true,” Eva said. Her voice shivered over him, and he tore his gaze away from her to glare into his coffee. Inconvenient, this attraction. Bloody inconvenient.

  Continuing, she said, “We saw that he spoke with two high-ranking parliamentarians, and they clearly weren’t under his thumb. None of Rockley’s usual haunts have additional security, either. Which means that wherever he keeps the evidence of his embezzling is not part of his standard schedule.”

  “Unless it doesn’t exist,” Harriet noted.

  “It does,” Eva said, confident. “He’d be certain to keep documentation in case any of his collaborators try to turn on him.”

  “And if Rockley knows that Dalton’s on the loose,” added Lazarus, “he’d be sure not to go where the evidence is stored, so he doesn’t lead Dalton right to it.”