by Zoë Archer
Eva helped the girls into their coats and bonnets and walked them to the door. “Don’t forget to study your French verb conjugations.”
“We won’t, Miss Warrick,” Mary said with all the sincerity of a politician. And then she and her sister were off, running down the stairs. A maid of all work always waited for them at the tea shop down the street, ready to escort them home after their lessons. Eva had met the maid a handful of times. She was barely older than the girls, which was usually the case with families of small means. Teenage maids were far cheaper than their older counterparts.
“No running,” Eva called after the girls. Their footsteps slowed for a second, then sped right back up again.
She closed the door and turned to face Jack. He stood near the table, examining her tutoring materials. The books looked fragile and strange in his hands, yet he flipped through them, frowning in concentration.
“A teacher, then.” He looked up at her.
“A tutor.”
His smile, rueful as it was, still sent a curl of heat through her. “Got the right amount of high-handedness for the job.”
“I’m purposeful, not high-handed.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How did you find me?”
He paced through her rooms, making everything strange and small by his presence. She’d never thought of herself as a particularly delicate or overly feminine person, yet having him here made her conscious of the differences between them and how transitory, almost feeble, the objects she’d gathered around herself were. As though he were far too elemental, too primal for such things as her chintz-covered sitting chair or the painted china roses given to her by a grateful student’s parents.
It wasn’t a particularly comfortable sensation. Especially the way he looked around her rooms, at her belongings, as if drawing out hidden truths about her. Today, he’d learned one, no, two: where she lived and what she did to make a living.
Yet she’d read his dossier. She knew far more about him than he about her. Or did. Perhaps now they were even.
“Jack,” she said, drawing his attention. “I never gave you my address.”
“You said you lived in Brompton.” He plucked up a bottle of toilet water from her nightstand and gave it a sniff before setting it down. “And I heard you talking to Simon. You mentioned Sydney Street.”
“And how did you figure out in which building I lived?”
“I asked a costermonger. A short chap with a red beard. Said I was in from the country and was here to surprise my cousin, but I couldn’t remember her address. He was cagey at first, since we don’t look related, but I told ’im about your parents being away doing good works and them asking me to look after you.”
He looked over at her bed, the bed where she slept each night. Or didn’t. Last night, she’d lain awake, weary but keenly aware. She’d closed her eyes, only to see Jack, dangerous as the darkness, as he’d lurked in the shadows of the drawing room. She had actually looked on her abdomen to see if his hand had left an imprint, for she’d felt his touch continually afterward, like a burn.
“You sneaked past Simon and the others. Escaped headquarters.”
His grin widened. “One little flat compared to a whole prison is nothing.” He prowled over to her dresser and opened it, revealing her clothing.
She stalked over and closed the door before he could reach into the dresser and fondle her petticoats. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Obviously you thought it couldn’t wait until I came back to headquarters later.”
From his pocket, he produced two squares of folded paper. He held them out to her. No denying the look of pride on his face as she took the paper.
She scanned it. Lines of pencil scratches covered the paper, lines that could’ve been writing in English or possibly Chinese mathematics. “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
He scowled as he snatched the paper back. Jabbing his finger at the markings, he said, “John Young, Victor Skidby, Matthew Branton, John Gilling. I can read ’em off to you, if you can’t figure my writing.”
She glanced between him and the documents he held. “This is the list of men who visited Rockley.”
“Thirty-four names. Don’t know if it’s all of ’em, but that’s a fair number.” He added, almost bashful, “That method for remembering, the one you told me, it worked.”
Carefully, she took the papers back. It took a bit of squinting, but she began to decipher the scrawl that passed for Jack’s writing. Aside from the nigh illegible quality of his penmanship, the list itself was organized and thorough, grouping names together by the time of year in which they met with Rockley and the quantity of meetings they had with the nobleman.
She couldn’t deny it. “I’m … impressed.”
God protect her, but when a look of pride softened his rough features, her heart tightened. He’d never been praised for thinking his way through a situation.
Self-preservation made her say, far more lightly than she felt, “Perhaps I should start tutoring adults, as well.”
“Like to think that I’m a special case.” His voice deepened, his gaze holding hers, and she recalled with pristine clarity what he’d felt like last night, pressed close behind her as they’d hidden themselves behind the folding screen. The heat and size of him. The response of her own body at his nearness, and its burgeoning hunger to learn more of his touch.
Having him here, in her private space, the only man who’d truly seen both halves of herself—it soothed and troubled her at the same time. To draw someone near, for the first time, brought forth a longing she hadn’t known she possessed. But she feared that desire, too. She needed to keep herself whole, complete.
For all the unexpected connection they shared, Jack was still an unknown. Not fully trustworthy, not truly.
He came here, a voice in her mind insisted, instead of trying to get to Rockley on his own.
Because he realizes it’s too dangerous right now.
She didn’t know what to think, only that she needed him out of her rooms, out of this facet of her life.
“We ought to get back to headquarters,” she said brusquely. “If the others have found you missing, they might call the constabulary. You’re a wanted man, and if you’re taken into custody, or killed in the pursuit, then the mission is over.”
His look shuttered. “Don’t want any coppers searching for me.”
“No, we do not.” She put on her coat and gloves, then pinned her hat into place. She strode to the door, with him following, but hesitated before opening it. Turning back to face him, she said quietly, “Thank you.”
His brow wrinkled. “For what?”
“For not giving me away.” Her gaze slid toward the lesson plans. “You could’ve made things very difficult for me, but you didn’t. I’m…”—she struggled with the word—“grateful. I’m in your debt.”
Opening the door, he said, “Ah, now that’s a mistake, love.” His smile over his shoulder was captivating in its wickedness. “You never know when I’ll want you to make good on that debt. Or what I’ll ask for.”
CHAPTER NINE
Silence met them at Nemesis headquarters. Eva paced through the rooms, calling names, but no one was there.
“Maybe they’ve all taken themselves off to the pub for a pint,” Jack suggested.
A pleasant scenario, but unlikely. Though she doubted they had gone to the authorities. Jack didn’t know it, but alerting the constabulary about him was one of the last things anyone wanted to do. It would turn all of their lives into a thorn-covered bramble, rife with evasions, explanations, and half-truths. As well as the possibility of exposure.
Just as she was about to head outside to see if any of the operatives were near, the door opened. Simon, Marco, and Harriet entered. The moment they saw Jack, everyone began shouting at once.
“Where the hell have you been?” Simon bellowed.
“We’ve been combing the city, looking for your miserable hide.” Marco’s olive skin darkened with anger.<
br />
Harriet glanced back and forth between Eva and Jack. “Did you know about this?” Her voice was accusatory.
“Can’t keep me chained up like a dog in a yard,” Jack fired back.
“I’d no idea,” said Eva. “Not until he showed up at my door.”
This drove Simon apoplectic. He could barely form words. “At your … how did…” He rounded on Jack. “Goddamn you—you nearly put everything at risk.”
To Eva’s surprise, rather than punching Simon, Jack calmly folded his arms across his chest. Disdain replaced his rage. “It was you who let me escape. And it was you who underestimated my brains.” He studied his nails, the picture of bored derision. “Seems like you ought to be angry with yourselves, not me.”
While Simon blustered and Marco and Harriet gaped, Eva had to bite her lip to hide her smile. Only yesterday, Jack had been convinced he hadn’t any value beyond his bodily strength, and now here he was, finally taking credit for his intelligence.
“There’s no time for wasting on accusations and interrogations,” she said. “Jack’s written up a list of the men who met with Rockley, and we need to cross-reference it with what we know of his business dealings.”
A brief silence fell, fraught with speculative glances. Eva realized that she’d called Jack by his Christian name—a clear indicator that he’d become more than a pawn in their game. After seeing him in her rooms, watching him with the Hallow daughters, she felt he was no longer merely the embodiment of vengeance. More than a fierce masculine force possessing a dark, mysterious allure. He was … a man. Jack.
Troubled by her own complex feelings, she pulled the list from her handbag and set it on the table. “I’ll need you to read it to me,” she said to Jack, “so I may transcribe it and make it a little more legible.”
As the other Nemesis agents calmed themselves, she and Jack worked at copying his list. There were disgruntled rumblings from Simon and Marco, and a few inquisitive glances from Harriet, but Eva and Jack were able to complete their task quickly. Once they had done so, and Lazarus had returned from his own search of the city, the next few hours were occupied with reviewing the names.
Harriet brought out the sizable dossiers that had been compiled on Rockley, including as much of his financial and business connections as possible. The file itself was the product of countless hours of information gathering, not all of it aboveboard. Eva herself had posed as a clerk and sneaked into the record vaults of several corporations in order to obtain vital intelligence about Rockley’s numerous business ventures.
Going back and forth between Jack’s list and combing through the thick dossiers was tedious, slow work. Yet Jack surprised her—and everyone—with his dedication to the process, scanning through piles of documents and making notes. His notes could only be read by himself, but when he spoke them aloud, they made perfect sense.
By the time the sun had begun to set and the lamps inside had been lit, they’d gone through all the names Jack had provided. Every one of them had legitimate and known business connections to Rockley. Except one.
“John Gilling,” Eva said. “What do we know of him?”
“A barrister and a minor figure in the social world,” Simon answered, ticking off points on his fingers. “Shares chambers near the Inner Temple. The third son of an old landowning family.”
“Shares chambers?” Marco rubbed at his neatly trimmed goatee. “Then his practice isn’t exactly flourishing.”
“For a man his age,” Simon confirmed, “he ought to be farther along in his career. He’s a regular during the Season, but always looks a bit shabbier, a bit more threadbare, than most.”
“Sounds like the type of bloke who’d want a little something extra in his pockets,” Jack said.
Eva studied the papers in front of her. “We’ve checked all the other names, and Gilling seems the most likely candidate. Gilling’s in need of funds, and that would work to Rockley’s advantage. But Gilling’s position would give him access to other contractors’ bids—that’s why Rockley would approach him in the first place. Gilling’s got to be the key. He’s surely Rockley’s partner in the government contract. But we need to be certain.”
“How?” asked Lazarus, gnawing on the stem of his battered briar pipe. Harriet shot him an annoyed look, which only made him gnaw with more gusto.
“Bluff,” Jack said. “Then see how much he reveals.”
“The best way to do that is to catch him off guard.” Eva tapped her chin as she ran through the sundry scenarios that would best work to Nemesis’s advantage. Abruptly, she looked at Simon. “You were able to find out which social events Rockley was invited to. Can you do the same for Gilling? I’ll need to know if he’ll be attending any balls within the next few days, and be certain that Rockley won’t be attending the same events.”
“Of course,” he answered immediately. “What are you planning?”
Eva stood and stretched. She didn’t miss the way Jack’s gaze lingered on her, or the answering heat within her body.
“Last night, Jack and I watched an elegant soiree from the outside. But now it’s time for us to get a closer look. You and I,” she continued, directing her words to Jack with a grin, “are going to a ball.”
* * *
Jack stared at himself in the mirror, not certain if he liked what he saw. The fabric was covered with chalk marks and looked like something a chap might wear when performing at the music hall. Didn’t look much like a fancy suit of clothes at all. He shifted, and bit back an oath as pins dug into him.
“Careful, sir.” The tailor kneeling at his feet spoke without looking up from adjusting the hem of Jack’s trousers. “It’s best if you stay still until we’re done fitting you.”
“Don’t like staying still,” Jack muttered. To distract himself, he took stock of the small tailor’s shop in which he now stood, his gaze moving restlessly over bolts of fabric, dress mannequins, and half-completed suits. The shop smelled of wool and tea, and pale sunlight crept past the crowded front window to pool on the floor. The whirr of a sewing machine droned through the shop as another tailor made what would be some gent’s coat.
“You’ve got no choice.” Simon, bored, leaned against a counter. “The ball Gilling’s attending is tonight, and if we want your evening clothes done in time, you’d better cooperate.”
Likely, the toff had grown up having suits especially made for him, and had perfected the art of standing motionless while some tailor stuck a measuring tape right against his tackle.
Not Jack. He’d gone with Rockley to his tailor on Old Burlington Street. That place was a palace compared to this cramped little shop, all carved wood, thick carpet, and armies of tailors bowing and smiling. Once a month, Rockley would go to be fitted for new clothes, with Jack standing guard, as usual. Tailors had swarmed over Rockley, measuring, cutting, murmuring toadying nonsense, and he’d just stood there like a god accepting worship as if it were his due.
Now it was Jack’s turn to be turned this way and that, and grunted at as if he were cattle being considered for purchase and slaughter.
“Are you certain you can get his suit ready in time, Mr. Olney?” Simon asked the tailor. “We need it by no later than eight tonight.”
“It won’t be easy,” Olney answered, frowning at Jack’s trousers. “But I’ll get it done. Nemesis helped me out when those men were demanding protection money, and I owe you all a debt of thanks. Mind,” he added, giving Jack an up-and-down look, “this chap’s terrifically big. Getting evening clothes to fit him properly will be a challenge.”
Jack was about to tell Olney that the British prison system had made him this terrifically big, but decided that the fewer people who knew about his time at Dunmoor, the better. At least the tailor didn’t ask too many questions.
“There’s no better tailor in North London,” Simon replied. At least the smile he gave Olney looked genuine.
The tailor reddened from the praise. “Too kind, Mr. Addison-Shawe.” He cleare
d his throat. “I’ll just … get back to it, shall I?”
Simon waved his hand, the kind of gesture rich folk seemed born knowing how to do. Olney immediately returned to his work.
Or tried to. “Sir,” he said to Jack with a strained smile, “I can’t measure your legs properly if you hold that stance.”
Jack bristled. “This is how I always stand.” His legs were braced wide, and he balanced on the balls of his feet.
“You’re standing like a boxer.” Simon pushed away from the counter and paced around the shop. “Bring your legs closer together. Closer,” he snapped when Jack shifted slightly.
“I feel like a sodding fool,” Jack growled. Once again, he was out of his element, an ignorant outsider—and the one person he felt slightly comfortable with was all the way on the other side of town. “This whole scheme’s ridiculous.”
The haughty look on Simon’s face slowly changed, becoming almost kind. “I remember the first time I was fitted. Couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Everyone was very cross, shouting at me not to move, telling me how to stand. My father was … displeased.” Simon’s mouth twisted. “He expected better from an Addison-Shawe.”
Jack stared at Simon for a moment. He hadn’t been expecting that. Especially not from Simon.
Frustration dimmed. “So, I stand like this?” Jack asked, changing his stance.
Simon considered his posture, then nodded. “That will suffice.” He returned to the counter and carelessly flipped through a magazine.
For a while, the only sounds in the shop came from the scattered traffic outside and the hum of the sewing machine inside. Olney continued to pin and mark what would eventually become Jack’s evening clothes.
He’d never owned a special suit for going out at night before.
“If this party we’re going to tonight is so flash,” Jack said, “does that mean Eva’s got to wear some fancy gown?”
“I suppose,” Simon answered from behind his magazine.
Jack recalled the women at the ball from the other night, in their frothy gowns, delicate as frosted cakes, and tried to picture Eva in something similar. But she seemed too hard-boiled for things like lace fans and silk flowers. He smiled to himself, imagining her striding into a ballroom, bold as brass, with a pistol tucked into her velvet sash. Maybe she’d make it a pearl-gripped pistol, for formal occasions.