Sweet Revenge nu-1

by Zoë Archer

  “What?” he demanded.

  “I’m not going to play Pygmalion with you,” she answered. “But you’re going to have to smooth down your manner.”

  He didn’t know who that Pygmalion lady was, and wasn’t about to ask. “It never hurt me before.”

  “You lived a different life before, where being unseen didn’t matter. But now”—she gave him a look that started at the top of his head and went all the way down to the toes of his boots—“a great big unmannerly brute of a man is the kind that shopkeepers tend to notice and remember. We don’t want anyone recalling you, should they ever be questioned. And if we want information from anyone, they’re more inclined to give it if we deal with them courteously.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Ought to think about being a teacher.”

  To his surprise, she tensed, and seemed wary. “Why do you say that?”

  “Lecturing comes natural to you.”

  She gave a quick glance to make sure no one in the shop was looking their way, then, certain they weren’t being watched, she made a rude hand gesture at Jack.

  Which startled a laugh out of him. And also attracted the attention of his groin. Something about seeing a prim and proper lady giving him the two-fingered salute made for an intriguing contrast. It made a bloke think about what other kinds of naughty things the lady knew.

  “But no,” she continued, “Rockley wouldn’t destroy any evidence about the government contract. He couldn’t have gone into the deal alone, and he’d want to keep documentation as leverage in case anyone tries to cross him.”

  “You’ve got your hands around my neck, but I’m gripping yours, too.”

  “Exactly.”

  They continued to watch the front of the building that housed Mitchell’s office. Foot traffic sped by, carriages and wagons in the street, and an occasional customer came into the shop.

  “Never heard what Rockley and Mitchell talked about,” he said. “Like I said, if he’s in for fifteen minutes, it’s a normal day. Ten if Mitchell has good news.”

  “He might be in there longer today. Rockley knows you’re out, so he may be making special provisions.”

  “A will, if’s he’s smart.”

  Several minutes later, Rockley came out of the building, with his hired man in the lead. As before, Rockley got into the carriage and Ballard climbed up beside the coachman.

  “How long has it been?” Jack demanded. He didn’t have his pocket watch any longer to keep track of the time.

  She consulted her own watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “He’ll be going to the Carlton Club next, then.”

  “We need to get back to the cab now,” Eva said.

  They left the shop, and Jack was fairly certain the shopkeeper muttered a little prayer of thanks to have them gone. Fortunately, the hackney driver had decided they were a ripe pigeon to be plucked, and still waited for them on Portugal Street. Eva jumped into the cab with the same speed and strength she’d demonstrated since Jack first had met her. As he climbed in after her, he realized with a start that he’d only met her yesterday. Seemed like much longer than that. A half-dozen lifetimes, at least.

  “Stay with that carriage,” she called up to the driver.

  In an instant, they were off again. It didn’t seem as though Rockley, his hired muscle, or his coachman noticed the hackney in pursuit.

  “I get the feeling our cabman’s done a spot of tailing before this,” he muttered to Eva.

  “If it keeps Rockley from seeing us,” she answered, “let’s be thankful for the dubiousness of his character.”

  Christ, there was something about the way she talked that made his blood go hot. He couldn’t understand it. There was nothing about her that was like his usual type of woman. He preferred them light and frivolous as soap bubbles—the rest of his life was tough and harsh. When it came to female company, he didn’t need challenges, just thoughtless pleasure. But Eva dared him at every turn, and damn him if he wasn’t starting to look forward to her next bit of cheek.

  “We definitely appear to be heading toward Pall Mall,” she noted, looking out the window.

  “It’s giving me a twitch.” Digging his knuckles into the padded seat, he felt the scratch of horsehair through the threadbare cushion. “All this shadowing Rockley but not making a move. If we ain’t going to hit him, I can just take you everywhere he goes. See if he’s added more men for security. Then we don’t have to wait for him. Could be done in half the time.”

  “He may have altered his schedule in five years,” she said. “Or he might break from his usual patterns today, knowing you’re at large. If he does anything unusual, we have to be there to see it.”

  Jack glowered at the passing streets. “Going to need another go on that punching bag the toff set up for me.”

  “His name’s Simon.”

  “He your man?”

  She raised her brows. “Good God, no. Not that my personal life is any of your concern.”

  “So, you don’t have a man.”

  “How tiresome this subject is.” She studied the stitching on the seams of her gloves.

  “That means, no, you don’t.” He didn’t like how glad that news made him. “But you run around with dangerous blokes at all hours of the day and night.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I had no idea that they instilled such puritan values in prison.”

  Jack snorted. “We had chapel once a week. They stuffed us into these little stalls that weren’t more than standing-up coffins, and made us listen to some dry old stick of a chaplain lecture us on meekness and humility and Christian duty. Didn’t feel so Christian when they’d flog you for talking too much. Or stick you in the dark cell just ’cause a warder didn’t like your look.” He fought a shudder.

  The physical pain of being flogged was easier to bear than the long days and weeks spent in utter darkness, with nothing to drink but water, and nothing to eat but bread. He’d never slept well, always caught in a haze of exhaustion—men in the dark cell didn’t get mattresses or blankets, just a hard wooden board set into the wall. And the silence. God Almighty, the silence. The lack of contact with others. Just thinking of it now made his throat close. Prison was never a chatty, cheerful place, but the absolute void of sound and human contact within the dark cell made many lads snap.

  “Spoken as one who’d suffered such punishments,” she said quietly.

  “Aye.” Had the marks on his back as proof. And a hate of complete darkness. He tipped up his chin. “Didn’t break me, though. They tried, but never could.”

  She tilted her head as she gazed at him. “That must’ve taken some extraordinary strength on your part.”

  “Strength, or being pigheaded.” He shrugged. “Whatever you call it, it got me through five years without losing my mind.”

  Her look was troubled, thoughtful. “I don’t know if I could have survived that.”

  “You would’ve,” he answered at once. “If only to drive the matrons barmy.”

  Her quick smile came as a surprise. “I do believe you’re right, Mr. Dalton.”

  He could not lean back, couldn’t be easy, not so long as he trailed after Rockley like a wolf denied its prey. Yet there was something oddly gratifying about having Eva with him on this mad hunt, talking with her as he’d never talked to another human being. Those five years at Dunmoor must’ve changed him, far more than he’d realized.

  * * *

  From the cab, Jack and Eva watched Rockley go up the steps and into the imposing Carlton Club. The footman at the door bowed at Rockley’s entrance, then gestured toward his carriage to wait for his lordship around back. It wouldn’t do to have carriages lined up outside like a common opera house, even if the carriages were the gleaming vehicles of England’s elite, drawn by horses that cost far more than a working man could make in a year.

  “Ballard is staying with the coach,” Eva noted as the vehicle rolled away toward the mews.

  “Even a bloke as high in the instep
as Rockley can’t argue with the club’s rules. Only members and the club’s servants are allowed inside.”

  “Surprising that he’d feel comfortable there,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the daunting stone arches that lined the building’s walls, “without his paid muscle to watch his back. Unless he could put his paranoia aside long enough to rub elbows with the conservative elite.”

  “What’s paranoia?” Jack asked.

  “An irrational or overinflated sense of persecution. Excessive suspiciousness.”

  “That’s Rockley, all right.” He sneered. “He uses his paranoia to make the world safer for him. Only it ain’t safe. Not from me.”

  “Or Nemesis.” She studied the outside of the club. “So he wouldn’t be able to post additional men here.”

  “If he had evidence of something, he wouldn’t keep it at the club.”

  Still, they had to wait for him. As they did, Eva stepped out and purchased them all several pies from a shop a few streets over, even bringing food to the cabman. They ate their luncheon without speaking, still sitting inside the cab. He still couldn’t quite get used to eating in front of another person, and had taken his breakfast in his room, but he’d spoken truly last night. It was easier to eat in front of a woman than a man.

  “All this Nemesis work’s pretty dangerous,” he said between mouthfuls. “Surprised that they’d let women be part of it.”

  She scowled. “Harriet, Riza, and I want to see justice served just as much as any man. More so, since so much harm is perpetrated against women, and little protection. My God, they only just repealed the Contagious Diseases Acts.”

  He’d heard some of the prostitutes complaining bitterly about those acts, and how they could be forced to go through humiliating medical examinations, or worse, locked up against their will, if found to be carriers of disease.

  “Don’t doubt there’s plenty wrong done to women,” he said, “but what if you or Harriet get hurt?”

  “Just like any army, all the operatives of Nemesis are trained for many months before becoming officially part of the group. Simon has an estate outside of town we use for training. Firearms. Hand-to-hand combat. A few other skills I’m not at liberty to divulge.”

  “And you went through this training, too?”

  She gave him a cold smile. “Test me.”

  He smiled right back. “Be delighted to.”

  They resumed their meal in silence, but the dare hung between them like a lit fuse.

  Some hours later, Rockley emerged. They followed at a distance, but after making several turns and doubling back twice, the cabman opened the sliding door that allowed him to talk to his fares.

  “Sorry,” the driver said, voice tight with apology, “but that blighter slipped away from me.”

  Eva cursed. “This kept happening to us before. He could be heading anywhere.”

  “Not anywhere,” Jack said. “Did you see him, when he came out of the club? He ran his hands down the front of his waistcoat and patted his stomach. That means he’d had a big luncheon. But he don’t like feeling all stuffed and lazy. He’d want to go to his gymnasium next. It’s on Church Street, right by the river.”

  Her eyes widened. “Don’t tell me. Tell our driver.”

  Jack repeated his directions to the cabman, and they were off again.

  They reached Church Street a few minutes later. Jack couldn’t stop the small bit of pride that swelled in his chest when he and Eva spotted Rockley’s carriage outside a two-story stone building. A brass plaque read CHELSEA GENTLEMEN’S GYMNASIUM.

  “The ace up our sleeve,” Eva murmured. No mistake about it—respect shone in her eyes when she looked at Jack.

  And he liked it.

  “After this,” he said, “he always goes home to bathe. The driver might change the route up, but Rockley don’t care for being mussed.”

  Which proved true. Though the hackney lost Rockley’s carriage on the return trip, when they reached his home on Grosvenor Street, they were just in time to see Rockley head inside.

  Eva pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “This is Simon’s list of parties Rockley’s been invited to tonight. A dinner given by the industrialist Edward Cole. Another dinner, this one hosted by Lord and Lady Scargill. A ball at the home of Lord and Lady Beckwith.”

  “He’ll bathe and change for his night out, then.”

  They continued to wait. The sun had lowered itself behind the skyline, throwing long shadows, and the street lamps came on to push those shadows back.

  “Can you stop shaking your leg?” Eva didn’t try to hide her annoyance.

  He hadn’t been aware he’d been doing so, his leg restlessly jiggling. “I’m going round the twist, sitting here like this.”

  “Distract yourself.”

  “I can think of a way or two you could distract me.” He gave her a wicked grin.

  “Goodness,” she said, yawning, “with that kind of poetry, what woman could resist you?”

  “Not many did.” It wasn’t a boast, but the truth. He never lacked for female company.

  She leaned forward, and lamplight filtered in through the glass, touching along the clean line of her cheek and the fullness of her bottom lip. He’d spoken automatically a moment ago. Making bawdy suggestions came naturally when you were from the shabby, low parts of town. Cheap and ready coquetry was thrown out like so much tinsel. It was a way everyone related to one another when life was tough and fast—the common currency of flirtation.

  But he realized something just then. He wanted her. Not simply because he hadn’t had a woman in five years, and she happened to be handy. No, with her gold eyes, fancy words, and mind like a cutthroat’s blade, she set a fire to him, a fire that could only be quenched by discovering the feel and taste of her.

  “Not many women resist you?” Her lips curled into a smile, causing heat to shoot to his cock. “Congratulations, Mr. Dalton. You’ve just found a woman who can.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Eva didn’t know whether her words were for Dalton or herself. A measure of both, she supposed.

  She needed to remind herself that he served one purpose, and one purpose only: finding evidence of Rockley’s embezzlement, and with that, gaining restitution for Miss Jones along with the downfall of the nobleman. These alone were Nemesis’s objectives. She must think of Dalton as simply a means to achieve those objectives. He was no more than a lever or pulley in the construction of Rockley’s ruin, as other men had served Nemesis’s purposes before.

  Yet, as he stared back at her within the dark confines of the hackney, the shadows and lamplight shaped him into a man both menacing and alluring. She didn’t know a man could be both. The flinty contours of his face could soften with a smile, the hard gleam of his eyes could glint with unexpected humor or feeling.

  Impossible to deny the animal allure of his physicality, as well. He inhabited his body with full awareness. She already knew what he looked like without his clothing, and as she returned his gaze, she had an aching awareness of his big, strapping frame, of how flimsy everything seemed in comparison to him.

  Perhaps she ought to have taken Simon’s advice and had him or Marco accompany Dalton today. No—just as she’d told Dalton, she was a trained operative who had been actively recruited by Nemesis. If she had an inconvenient attraction to him, she could master it. She could not let anything cloud her judgment.

  “You go throwing out a challenge like that,” he rumbled, “I have to take it. Don’t forget, love, I broke out of prison. Getting into your bed won’t be as difficult.”

  “Correct,” she said. “It will be more difficult. And it isn’t a challenge, but a statement of fact.”

  “All facts can change.”

  She nearly admired his audacity. Overcoming obstacles, finding the possible in the impossible—these were things that had drawn her to Nemesis in the first place. She never took the path of least resistance, and had to respect anyone who chose the same. But there were exceptions, especi
ally when the resistance he faced was her own will.

  “Something hasn’t changed, though,” he said, his gaze suddenly fixed out the window. “Rockley’s taking up one of the invitations he received.”

  The man himself emerged from his house in evening finery, his shirtfront pristinely white, his black wool evening dress absorbing light.

  She suppressed a groan. Her limbs were stiff and aching from a day spent in a poorly sprung four-wheeler, but it looked as though the night was far from over.

  “Can’t aristocrats spend a quiet evening at home?” she muttered.

  “This lot don’t have work or jobs,” Dalton said. “Not so far as I’ve seen. They got no reason to get up with the sun.”

  “Which is it to be, then?” She peered at Rockley as he gave instructions to his coachman, but he was too far up the block for her to hear what he said. “Dinner with the industrialist? Will he dine with Lord Scargill, instead? Or is it the ball hosted by Lord Beckwith?”

  Dalton grumbled. “This part I never knew. Always a different posh place each night.”

  Her thoughts racing, Eva went over the list of names. She tried to place herself in Rockley’s mind, vile though that location was. He might take up the iron magnate’s offer, but she doubted Rockley wanted to associate with new money or men who made no secret of working for their wealth. Lord Scargill was a lesser nobleman of slim influence. As distinguished as the Carlton Club was, it permitted plutocrats who supported Tory causes as well as noblemen with ancient but trifling bloodlines. Rockley could have had enough interaction with those varieties of men whilst at the club. Yet Lord Beckwith was an earl, and while such titles were losing their importance, his hadn’t diminished.

  “He’ll go to Lord Beckwith’s,” she said.

  Dalton looked skeptical. “You sure?”

  “No. But all we have at this point is instinct, and mine says Beckwith’s soiree. His mansion’s on Curzon Street.”

  That seemed to mollify Dalton. He reached behind and slid open the door that allowed passengers to communicate with the cabman. “Oi, Palmer. We’re on the hunt for the toff again. Curzon Street.”