Dangerous Seduction: A Nemesis Unlimited Novel

by Zoë Archer

  It wasn’t the first time Simon had walked in a long column of men. He’d done a considerable share of marching during his stint in the army—sometimes beneath blazing blue skies, sometimes through soaking monsoon rains. Muddy roads, dusty tracks, or straight through choking jungle. There’d been camp followers, too: an assortment of women and native people who tended to the sundry needs of the regiment.

  Even so, as he headed toward Wheal Prosperity with miners and bal-maidens, his shoulders knotted, his body tensed. Maybe he wasn’t marching into battle, but the danger was still real. The mine wasn’t a place of safety.

  And somewhere in this vast column of humanity was Alyce. She’d skipped in and out of his restless dreams last night.

  It was barely past sunrise, the sky pale gray, and a low-lying mist was draped between the craggy hills. Sheep bleated from the tops of the hills. Hedge-dwelling birds sang the morning chorus. The workers murmured as they walked toward the mine, and his sense that danger lurked ahead sharpened. Yet he felt an odd kind of peace.

  London’s unofficial motto seemed to be, “Noise at every hour.” Especially between the hours of six and ten o’clock in the morning, which had to be filled with the rattle of wagon and omnibus wheels, the shouts of vendors, people cursing one another in the street—under penalty of law. Anyone caught being quiet would be immediately subject to fine, and the punishment of tin pots tied to the offender’s legs.

  But he wasn’t in Cornwall on holiday, and the quiet wouldn’t last. Mines, their machinery included, ranked as some of the noisiest places on earth. And he was here to do a dangerous job. Peace was not part of his agenda.

  “I don’t see George or Joe,” Simon noted to Edgar beside him.

  “Joe didn’t come back to the lodgings last night,” Edgar said. “And George’s wife said he never made it home. Reckon they got put into gaol.”

  “How long will they stay there?”

  Edgar shrugged. “Depends on the will of the masters. It could be we’ll see ’em tomorrow. Or maybe we won’t see ’em again until Michaelmas.”

  That was three weeks away. The conditions in the local gaol probably weren’t the most salubrious. A few days there could wreak havoc with a man’s health. At least the law here didn’t flog, the way they did in the army—even though the practice had been theoretically abolished. Out on campaign, imprisoning a soldier for an infraction wasn’t possible; the lash or flog served for punishment. He’d seen many a man tied to a post or tree and flogged until the poor blighter had mercifully passed out.

  Thank God, Simon had never earned such discipline. He’d come damned close a time or two. Almost got caught sneaking back into the cantonment after a night gadding about the pleasure quarters of Secunderabad. He’d made it back just in time for morning inspection with one hell of a throbbing head.

  “That can’t please George’s wife,” Simon murmured. No wonder Alyce had tried so hard to keep the two miners from being taken away. Men in prison earned no chit, and she knew it.

  “Nor his kids, neither,” said Nathaniel. “But there’s nothing to be done.” He patted Simon on his shoulder. “Don’t you fret, Simon. Do your job, stay quiet—which means no more tripping into constables—and you won’t see the inside of the gaol.”

  “Maybe in gaol I won’t have to hear Edgar snoring,” Simon answered, earning him guffaws from Edgar, Nathaniel, and the few other men he’d met last night.

  Yet he didn’t miss the cautious glances thrown his way by many of the other miners nearby, or the wake of space around him. Keeping their distance.

  “Haven’t been in Trewyn a full day,” he said in a low voice to Edgar. “I’m getting a lot of chary looks.”

  Edgar made a scoffing sound. “Folks around here have a goodly number of reasons to keep to themselves.”

  Gazing around the long column of workers, Simon noted most of the men walked in groups, chatting and swinging their lunch tins, sleepy and careless in the early morning. But not everyone. Others were sharp-eyed, too attentive. As if they were eavesdropping on conversations. Taking mental notes in case anyone spoke seditiously.

  Spies. Not much of a surprise there. The managers had some of the miners in their pockets, serving as their eyes and ears above and below the surface. He’d have to be wary around them, and committed their faces to memory.

  One of the spies kept one hand in his coat pocket—tapping his fingers on what looked like a pencil for writing notes. Another man—a chap with a squashed-in face—had been sticking close to Simon for most of the walk toward the mine. But something else must have caught the spy’s attention, because he moved off, leaving Simon with a moment’s opportunity.

  “People can keep to themselves around me or not.” Simon spoke loudly enough so that more people nearby could hear him. “But they ought to know that I don’t work for the company.”

  A handful of men looked shocked by this statement, and even Nathaniel and Edgar sputtered their surprise.

  “Who I work for,” Simon continued, “is the miners. I’m at Wheal Prosperity to keep the pumps running and the shafts safe. I may draw a salary, but it’s the miners who are my real bosses, not the managers.”

  As he’d hoped, his words were circulated among the miners in quiet murmurs. The mistrustful glances faded. Some even looked at him with friendly consideration. Hopefully, word would spread that newcomer he may be, Simon was on the miners’ side. That would make the next steps of the mission easier to accomplish.

  A flash up ahead of a woman’s dark, pinned hair and slim neck caught his attention. Was it Alyce? He forced himself to keep from hurrying to catch up with her. She walked with several other women, and they talked quietly among themselves. One of the women said something to make Alyce laugh—a low, throaty laugh like honey over smooth river rocks. He’d never heard her truly laugh before. The sound surprised him. Even more surprising was how the sound traveled through him in electrical pulses.

  Her back suddenly stiffened, and she cast a glance over her shoulder. As if drawn by a lodestone, their gazes found each other immediately.

  She looked as momentarily stunned as he felt. Her steps faltered. Then she whipped her head around, facing forward.

  He kept his own steps even and measured, and feigned interest in whatever it was that Edgar spoke about—an indicator of Simon’s discipline if ever there was one.

  What the hell is wrong with me? No denying she’s important for the mission. I can flirt with her, get the information I need. But I’ve got to keep my head.

  They crossed over the next rise, and came to the main part of the mine. He’d seen it yesterday when applying for the job, but today he was struck by the rough, industrial scars upon the rolling green hills of Cornwall. Granite buildings and chimneys rose up, and the metal bars of the beam winding engine were unburied bones sticking out of the earth. Perched atop the structure were deathless, unblinking eyes: the large wheels of the winder that watched the miners and bal-maidens mercilessly.

  All hint of green had been stamped out by wagons, carts, thousands upon thousands of boots treading on the dirt. Nothing grew in the soil. The only source of fecundity lay hundreds of feet beneath the earth. Heaps of rocky debris were piled like ancient graves around the mine site. Simon recalled that this rubbish, separated from the valuable ore, was known as “deads,” and so it seemed—lifeless and thrown aside.

  Steps leading to different structures had been gouged out of the ground. Men were already emerging from the change house, where they’d donned their rough, dirty work clothes, some still damp from yesterday. A transformation from men to miners. They wore helmets with candles affixed to their fronts with lumps of clay, like creatures from folklore. Nothing magical about the work they were about to perform. As they readied to go down into the shaft, down into the darkness, many took one last look at the sun feebly poking through the morning haze. Hours would pass before they’d see its light again, feel its warmth. Down below, it was infernally hot, dank, cramped. Danger
ous.

  God—to do that day after day, climb down into the depths of the earth, uncertain whether or not there’d be a collapse or flood, and never see daylight again … Respect for these tough men swelled in Simon’s chest. Maybe they didn’t have the means to fight their corrupt masters, but they had bollocks of steel to earn their living this way.

  Simon headed across the hard-packed dirt toward the engine house. He nearly stopped short when Henry Carr passed by, throwing him a suspicious glare. But then Henry’s attention turned elsewhere at the sound of men arguing.

  “It’s been three damn months, Ralph,” one man angrily asserted. In contrast to the coarse, dirty clothing worn by the miners—including Ralph—this man sported a relatively clean white coat.

  “I’m telling you,” Ralph answered, just as heated, “I gave it back.”

  “Then it’s turned invisible, hasn’t it? Because I can’t bloody find it.”

  People nearby, miners and laborers, stopped what they were doing to watch the row. Any moment now, and the two men would start swinging at each other.

  To Simon’s surprise, Henry walked over to the men. Without hesitation, he clapped a hand on each of their shoulders.

  “Lads, why the fuss?” he asked calmly.

  The men shouted in unison, until Henry said to the man in the white coat, “Owen, let’s start with you.”

  “Ralph borrowed my best pick. ‘Just for a few days,’ he said, ‘until I can buy myself a better one.’ Three months it’s been, and where’s my damned pick? I’ll tell you where. The bugger’s gone and nicked it.”

  “I gave it back,” Ralph shouted. “Isn’t my fault that you’ve got granite for brains, and can’t remember. Besides,” he added sulkily, “you’ve been promoted to underground captain, and haven’t got a need for a pick anymore. You just watch us work and strut around like a bloody prince. Like you’re not one of us anymore, but one of them.”

  The disease of mistrust and anger between management and workers had spread deeply through Wheal Prosperity.

  Owen opened his mouth to fire back a retort, but Henry spoke first. “You’ve made your family proud by getting that promotion, Owen. It’s true, though, that you haven’t got much use for a pick anymore.”

  Ralph looked smug, until Henry said evenly, “Maybe you ought to search your tools once more, Ralph, just to be sure you didn’t overlook Owen’s pick. Who knows? Perhaps you thought you returned it, but it slipped your mind. We’ve all got heavy burdens right now. Tough to keep the thoughts straight. Easy to think you took care of something, but actually forgot to do it.”

  Both men made grudging, grumbling sounds, as men are wont to do when caught in the snares of their own egos and sense of righteousness.

  “Who knows?” Henry continued, still clasping the men’s shoulders. “Ralph might find that pick, and maybe Owen might let him borrow it for a while longer. Everyone’s satisfied.”

  The men muttered again, but with less animosity.

  “An agreement then.” Henry smiled amicably. “Go on, lads. It’s a long day ahead of us, and we’re only making it longer.” He let go of their shoulders, giving them each imperceptibly slight pushes to send them in opposite directions.

  Masterfully done. Simon nearly congratulated Henry on diffusing the situation, but held back. The man wouldn’t want his commendation. For a brief moment, the shadows beneath Henry’s eyes deepened, and his face sagged in exhaustion. Clearly, he’d been playing the role of peacemaker for a long time. Like wearing a heavy suit of armor, such responsibility was a burden, dragging him down.

  Without acknowledging Simon, Henry walked on to the change house.

  Simon glanced over toward the area where the bal-maidens and some men waited, holding their hammers and shovels in preparation for breaking up the ore. A warm feeling like the stroke of a hand passed over him, unexpected in the cold morning. He turned around, searching for the source. And found Alyce looking at him. She didn’t turn away from him this time, instead tipping up her chin, as if in a dare.

  Alyce and Henry Carr—two different sides of the coin. One, a firebrand, trying to rouse the workers of Wheal Prosperity to action. The other, a peacemaker, seeking the path of least resistance in order to ensure calm.

  Both stances were admirable, but Simon was himself a rabble-rouser, always had been. He’d never have created Nemesis if he had been satisfied with the status quo. Surely there were times when Henry’s cautious approach worked, but not always, and not for Nemesis. Slow, gentle progress didn’t fit their modus operandi. They wanted results. The best way to get those results: action.

  It gnawed at him again, the idea that Alyce might have been the one who wrote to Nemesis. If she did, she might have access to more information about the owners and managers of the mine. That information could help him find the means of taking the corrupt structure down.

  The company would have to be replaced with something else, however. Hundreds of men and women could lose their only source of employment. A conundrum, that was. One he knew he’d be able to reason out. But it’d take time.

  So, was Alyce the mysterious correspondent? It had been written on a typewriter. Even if he had a sample of her handwriting, he couldn’t make an analysis. And typewriters were costly. Maybe she’d sneaked into the mine’s offices late at night and used one of theirs. A damned courageous thing to do—if she’d done it.

  One of the other bal-maidens elbowed Alyce. He realized then that he and Alyce had been staring at each other across the yard. They both turned away at the same time.

  He walked up the hill, toward the engine house. He’d faced some difficult missions before, but this one was going to be a long, tough voyage

  * * *

  Simon introduced himself to the weary night-shift men monitoring the pumping engine. He’d never expected water to be one of the biggest problems when it came to mining, but so it was. The deeper they dug, the more ground water seeped into the shafts. The lapse of even an hour could be a bloody disaster—making shafts and chambers flood. So men were there at all hours, operating the pumps. The three men seemed more than happy to meet Simon, offering rough, grease-stained hands to shake. Feet dragging, they hauled themselves from the engine house for the long walk home.

  Two men entered the engine house. One of the chaps had a full, dark mustache, and introduced himself as Abel Lawrey. The other was Bill Dyer, with a face as cragged as a rough morning. His fellows on the day shift. Three more men attended to the boilers, shoveling coal to keep the engine and its pumping rods in continual motion. Everyone made quick introductions and exchanges of history before getting to work.

  He’d been in this building yesterday, but had been focused on getting the job more than scouting the location. A massive pumping engine dominated the building, one of the marvels of this modern era. It towered over Simon and the other men, a titan of brass, pipes, and moving parts. Two hundred years ago, what would men have thought of such a creature? Did it herald the beginning of a new, glorious era for humanity or the end of it? He’d seen the mills and factories of the north, the smokestacks that pointed accusing brick fingers into the air as if to blame the spirit of progress that smothered England in coal smoke.

  The world changed so quickly now. There were fortunes to be made, new horizons to explore. And tens of thousands of people to be crushed beneath the machinery of progress.

  “Won’t do you any good to be woolgathering this early,” Abel called to him from the other side of the pumping engine.

  “I’ll be sure to drink more coffee tomorrow,” he answered, and made himself useful.

  The labor itself alternated between mindless and complex. Attend to the valves. Bleed the pressure. Tighten what loosened and loosen what seized up. Thank God he’d done his research ahead of time, and that he had a good head for remembering things. He could perform his tasks without hesitation. Soon, his jacket was off, his sleeves rolled up, as he kept a careful eye on the pumping engine.

  It did
n’t matter how often he wiped his hands on the cloth tucked into his back pocket. Grease and dirt were inexorably part of the job.

  A old conversation with his father flashed through his mind.

  Our family has responsibilities, Horace Addison-Shawe had lectured a seventeen-year-old Simon. Simon hadn’t been looking at his father’s face, but was studying the patterns of the Turkey carpet on the study’s floor. Someone had made that carpet, an unknown craftsman joined to England by the remarkable power of steamships. Simon’s thoughts had often spun off into such tangents, about how the world was separate and yet connected by a massive web.

  A reputation, his father had continued. We don’t simply stick our arms into the mud because it amuses us.

  Better to be dirty and immersed in life, Simon had retorted, than stuck up here in this airless tower of privilege and turn into dust.

  His father, as always, had been unrelenting. Just because you’re a second son doesn’t absolve you of your obligations to this family or to Society. You will go back to Oxford, and we’ll talk no more of apprenticing yourself to some ruddy gunsmith. Coming home every day with oil beneath your fingernails—my God, your mother wouldn’t leave her bed.

  She doesn’t now, anyway. Why should she? She’s bored senseless.

  That had earned him a slap across the face.

  It hadn’t been the first or last time he’d been called before Father. It was a wonder his ears weren’t permanently scarred from all the blistering lectures he’d received.

  Fortunately, Horace Addison-Shawe was safely tucked away in his club in London, and couldn’t see his son now, in a working man’s clothes, hands grimy, and sweat filming his back. No ornamental society bride on his arm.

  What would Alyce Carr make of the other Simon—not Simon Sharpe, machinist, but Simon Addison-Shawe, who knew all the sacraments of fine Society? House parties, shooting parties, dinner parties with ten courses and enough wine to drown a horse. The Season, with its debutantes in white tulle and men in their bride-hunting uniforms of black wool and starched shirtfronts.