Sweet Revenge

To Zack, for his unwavering strength and love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank my unbelievably awesome editor, Holly Blanck, who loves the world of Nemesis, Unlimited, as much as I do. Thanks also to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for her continued kickassery. I’d also like to thank Danielle Fiorella for giving me such a gorgeous, pitch-perfect cover, and Elizabeth Wildman for her excellent copy. And last, but most assuredly not least, I want to thank the women of The Loop That Shall Not Be Named, because, in addition to being incredibly smart, funny, and filthy, they have been a source of sanity and fellowship in times when I have desperately needed both.

CHAPTER ONE

Yorkshire, England, 1886

Most prison escapes took months, sometimes years, of planning. Jack Dalton had one day.

He stood in the rock-breaking yard of Dunmoor Prison, hammer in hand, waiting for the warder to secure a shackle around his ankle, chaining him to the other convicts. Unrelenting afternoon sun beat down on him and the two dozen men. Squinting, Jack stared up at the sky.

Bloody perfect. The only sodding day it’s clear on the moors, and it’s the day I have to break out of this shithole.

It didn’t matter if ten thousand suns shone in the sky. He had to get out today.

Lynch, the warder, moved from convict to convict, fastening iron bands around each man’s ankle, and the band attached to a chain that stretched between the prisoners, who stood in two parallel rows. The chain rattled whenever someone moved. A scar encircled Jack’s ankle, a thick ridge of skin he had developed after five years of hard labor. The first few months had been rough. The shackle had dug into his requisition striped worsted stockings, gouging into the flesh beneath until he’d bled. The wound had gone putrid, a fever had burned through him, and he had almost lost not just the leg but his life. Yet Jack was a tough bastard. Always had been. Hatred kept a bloke tough. He lived, kept the leg, and got stronger.

Today he would need all of his strength. Impatience stung like hornets beneath his skin. Lynch was almost done with the first row of convicts. In another minute, the warder would start moving down Jack’s line, and then the window of opportunity would slam shut. Already, Jack’s gaze moved through the yard, looking toward the thirty-foot-high wall that kept the convicts of Dunmoor from the miles of rolling country, and the freedom that lay beyond.

“D.3.7., eyes straight ahead!”

Jack’s gaze snapped back to a blank stare, retreating behind the false front of apathy. No one had called him by his name in over five years. Sometimes he forgot he had a name, just a letter and a number. Once, he’d been Diamond Dalton—not because he favored diamonds. Hell, he had never owned a single diamond, and had seen a real one only a handful of times. No, they called him Diamond because he’d been formed by crushing pressure into the hardest thing to walk the streets of London.

Only Edith had called him Jack. Sometimes, when she was feeling nostalgic for their childhood, she had called him Jackie.

“Jackie,” she had whispered, reaching up to him with a blood-spattered hand. “Jackie, take me home.” And then she had died.

Even after all this time, the memory scoured Jack. The burn of rage pulsed through him. He knew it better than his own heartbeat. It was more important than the beat of his heart, for anger remained the only thing that kept him alive. Anger, and the need for vengeance. He would have his revenge soon.

Lynch reached Jack’s row. It had to be now.

“Oi,” Jack whispered to the convict standing next to him. “Stokes!”

The thick-jawed man flicked his gaze toward Jack, then straight ahead. “Shut it, idiot!” The punishment for talking could be the lash, or if the governor was feeling particularly brutal, time in the dark cell, deprived of light and all human interaction. Sometimes for weeks. Men went mad in the dark cell. God knows Jack almost did.

He didn’t fear punishment now. The only thing that scared him was not making his escape in time.

“You hear Mullens is getting out next week?”

“So what? I ain’t gettin’ out for eight months.”

Jack’s sentence had been much longer, thanks to the manipulation of the justice system. If he didn’t try this breakout, he would be stuck in Dunmoor for thirty-seven more years. Making him seventy-three years old by the time he tottered out the front gate—if he survived that long.

He would likely die today. So long as he took care of his business beforehand, he didn’t much care about dying afterward. It wasn’t as though his life merited clinging to.

“I heard…” Jack glanced quickly at Mullens, who stood in the row in front of them, and then at Lynch, moving closer. “When he gets out, he’s going straight to your mollisher.”

Stokes frowned at the mention of his woman. “Lizzie? But he ain’t even met her.”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe he heard you talking about her so nice, he had to see for himself. Said he’d give it to her right good. And she’d want it, too, not having a man around all this time.” He clapped his mouth shut as Lynch approached.

The warder glowered at Jack. “Better not be talking, D.3.7. The governor got a new flogging pillory, and he’s keen to try it.” Lynch’s eyes gleamed with eagerness.

“No, sir.”

“What’s that?” Lynch leaned closer. “Sounded like talking.”

Jack shook his head, hating the bastard. Some of the warders were decent enough, just trying to do a job for rubbish pay, but other screws, like Lynch, enjoyed their power and spent their time thinking up new ways to bully and harass the prisoners. Lynch particularly liked making up perceived infractions.

With a smirk, Lynch bent down and secured the shackle around Jack’s ankle. Damn it. He’d been hoping to goad Stokes enough before the shackle was clapped on, but Lynch had put an end to that plan.

It took everything Jack had not to smash his sledgehammer down onto Lynch’s head, knocking off the warder’s blue shako hat and spilling his brains all over the rock-breaking yard.

Stay fixed on your goal, Dalton. Killing Lynch might be satisfying, but it also meant he’d be taken down by the other warders, locked in the dark cell for months, and then dragged out only to be hanged.

So he let Lynch finish fastening the shackle and move on, keeping the bastard warder’s brains inside his skull.

“Next week,” Jack hissed at Stokes. “Mullens goes for Lizzie.”

Stokes wasn’t known for having a long fuse. He exploded like a burning arsenal at the smallest hint of provocation.

“I’ll beat your damned face in,” Stokes snarled. The convict broke rank, lunging for Mullens. Everyone in the row stumbled forward, pulled by the connecting chain.

Startled, Mullens barely had time to turn around before Stokes tackled him. Convicts fell, shouting out in anger and confusion. Others cheered Stokes on as he rained punches down on Mullens. More yelling filled the yard as warders came running. Chaos filled the enclosure, a blur of the dark blue warders’ uniforms and the pale, coarse uniforms of the convicts. Fists were thrown. Some of the warders had clubs, beating down the prisoners whether they fought or no. Jack grunted when he caught the back of a club across his shoulder, but he didn’t fall.

Bedlam, everywhere.

Now.

Hefting his hammer, Jack brought it down hard onto the chain binding him to the other convicts. The thick links shuddered, but stayed intact. He slammed the hammer down again, and again. The vibrations carried all the way up into his leg, jarring him until his teeth rattled. The weight of the hammer felt like nothing. He’d been swinging it for five years. When he had been tried and convicted of attempted murder, he’d already been strong. Now, years of hard labor had transformed him, and the heavy hammer felt like a bird’s hollow bone.

He kept on pounding until, at last, the chain broke.

He ran from the yard. Sounds of fighting and confusion echoed behind him. No one noticed him amid the chaos.

His thoughts spun out of control, his heart racing like a locomotive, but he forced himself to be cold, logical. In his mind, he pictured the layout of the prison. Six main buildings radiated out like spokes, with narrow walls leading straight out from three of those buildings toward the huge double walls that encircled the whole prison. He’d never be able to climb the outer wall, not without a ladder, and those were in short supply in the clink. Instead of heading straight to the wall, Jack ran toward one of the smaller, two-story buildings that served as a dormitory for the unmarried warders who lived on prison grounds.

Pressing himself back against a low outbuilding, Jack watched as warders streamed out of the dormitory, all of them speeding toward the yard. Too focused on the riot, none of them saw him.

Once he felt certain the warder house had cleared, he sprinted to it. He tried the door. Locked. Jack swung his hammer again. It pounded against the lock, splintering the edge of the door. Finally, the door flew open.

Jack quickly took in the rows of tables covered with the remains of half-finished tea, the potbellied stove in the corner, photographic prints of the queen and the royal family. Nothing here would help him. He ran the stairs two at a time, the wooden steps shaking beneath his heavy boots.

Upstairs, beds formed two orderly lines. Unlike the convicts, who had to roll their straw mattresses up every morning for inspection, these beds were all made, tight as a parson’s arse. Jack wondered what it would be like to sleep on actual horsehair, or even feathers. He couldn’t remember if he ever had. What would it matter? His next sleep would be his last.

He ran between the rows of beds, until he reached the window at the far end of the room. Setting the hammer down, he pushed the window open. Unfortunately, he needed both hands for this next stage, so the hammer had to stay behind. Having a weapon was added insurance, but his fists could inflict plenty of damage. He planned on using them later, beating Lord Rockley into pulp, and then wrapping his fingers around the murderer’s throat until his breathing stopped.

Jack smiled grimly to himself. He couldn’t wait.

Climbing from the window, Jack hauled himself out, grabbed hold of the roof’s edge and pulled himself up onto the roof.

Jack crouched down. From his vantage, he could see the continued commotion in the yard, convicts and warders brawling. He turned his gaze from the riot to the rest of the prison. Never had he seen it from so far up. The windows in the cells were tiny notches set high in the wall, and the only way to look out of them would be to stand on a bucket or a stool. But that was a punishable offense, so he seldom tried it.

He didn’t care about the prison anymore. All that mattered was the rolling heath that surrounded the prison, stretching out for miles. That’s what he had to reach. The next stage of his escape.

Still crouched low, Jack moved along the roof, until he positioned himself directly above a brick wall that stood about fifteen feet high. This wall ran straight toward the circular stone walls that surrounded the prison, the last obstacles between him and freedom.

He leaped down onto the brick wall. It was narrow, and he struggled for balance. He felt himself start to slip. Boots dug in for stability, he righted himself, then ran lightly along the top, heading toward the first stone wall. The two walls were the same height, and they intersected. He continued on the brick wall toward the final border at the edge of the prison, looming ahead. Below him was the barren outer yard. No one ever walked among the patches of dead earth and dying weeds. It served as a space for attempted escapees to be caught before they reached the outside world. Sometimes, Jack had heard gunfire, and the shouts of guards. Sometimes, but not often. Few tried to escape, and even fewer made it.

“But I will,” he muttered to himself.

It looked like he would, too. So far, no one had noticed him, too busy beating down the riot in the stone yard.

Jack sprinted the last stretch of the brick wall. The outer wall rose up taller than the one on which he ran, looming high and daunting. He shoved past uneasiness and kept on running, gaining momentum. Though his heavy boots wanted to drag him down, he leaped, scrabbling for a hold on the outer wall. His fingers clutched at the top edge, hands burning as they took the full brunt of his substantial weight.

As he hung there, someone at a distance shouted. “Oi! Escaping prisoner!”

Fuck. Jack did not waste time seeing which warder had spotted him. He pulled, hauling himself up.

“Stop immediately,” the warder yelled, “or I’ll be forced to shoot!”

Ignoring him, Jack continued to draw himself higher, muscles clenching with effort.

A whine, and then chips of granite exploded around him. Jack cursed. The warder had fired on him. Then did so again.

Jack didn’t want to attempt crossing the moors leaking blood. He would lose precious energy, and he needed it to end Rockley’s miserable life.

With a burst of strength, he heaved himself up, then over. Still dangling by his fingers, the ground spun thirty feet below. Here was another hazard. If he landed wrong, he’d break a leg, maybe his back. He couldn’t hesitate, though. The screws and governor would be alerted to his escape, and he didn’t have much time before they massed in pursuit.

Jack drew a breath, forcing himself to relax, then let go.

The ground rushed up to meet him, and he bent his knees in preparation for the landing. He hit the earth boots first, keeping on the balls of his feet. The impact jarred through him, and he quickly tucked his head against his chest and rolled.

Rocks dug into him as he tumbled. He fought to keep his wind and his stability. Finally, he slowed, and straightened to stand.

He staggered for a moment, balance thrown by the impact and roll. As the world settled from its mad spin, he saw the stretches of scrub-covered moor, the merciless blue sky. No walls, save for the ones behind him.

“Freedom,” he said roughly.

But it wasn’t true freedom. He had a responsibility to carry out, an obligation driving him to run toward certain death in pursuit of vengeance.

Voices rose up from the other side of the wall, warders assembling to go after him. He’d come down far from the main gate, though, and it would take the screws a few minutes to reach him.

With his head still reeling, he took off at a run, determined to lose himself in the moors.

* * *

Jack threw himself down beneath a thicket of gorse. Thorns scraped his face and tore his uniform, but his attention remained pinned on the sounds of shouting men and baying dogs. His lungs burned and his legs ached. For hours he’d been running across the heath, always staying just a few steps ahead of his pursuers. Mud spattered his clothes and face, blisters burned on his feet inside his heavy boots, and he felt himself more hunted animal than man.

But he was getting close. So close.

He waited, panting, listening.

“Seen him?”

“Think he went this way.”

“We got to round him up soon. Night’s falling.”

“I got some tracks over here! And here’s his jacket.”

Jack held his breath. The screws’ voices faded, and he allowed himself a small exhale. The dummy trail seemed to be working, but he wouldn’t chance a dash until he was well sure the warders were gone.

He wanted to run, feeling time slip away like a slackening noose. His prey was near, and the predator in him wanted nothing more than to make the kill. But he had to be smart.

His mouth quirked in a bitter smile. No one had ever hired him for his brains. Don’t think, Diamond, Fowler used to say. You’re a big, mean bastard. You’re what keeps the riffraff from getting to his lordship.

Fowler might be there tonight. Him, and Curtis. Maybe Voss. But Jack couldn’t count on their friendship. Rockley paid them to do a job, and friendship didn’t buy pints. So when Jack came for Rockley, he’d have to take the others out. Suited him just fine.

Jack’s conscience was a mean thing, no bigger than a pebble. He’d mow down any obstacle to get what he was after, even men he once considered friends. His conscience had room for only two regrets: the first, that he hadn’t protected Edith. And the second, that he’d failed the first time he had tried to kill Rockley.

This time, he’d get the job done.

He listened to the fading voices of the warders as twilight fell in heavy waves. His throat burned with thirst, his lips were cracked. He almost longed for the weak, piss-flavored beer they doled out at mealtimes in the prison.

The warders’ chatter finally stopped. His false trail wouldn’t distract them for long, though. Time to get moving again.

He scrambled out from beneath the gorse and studied the sky to get his bearings. The village of Cambrey was situated some four miles to the northeast of Dunmoor Prison, and that’s where he would find the Queen’s Consort Inn. The same inn where Rockley now stayed.

Keeping low to the ground, Jack ran.

It had been damned lucky, if a man like Jack could ever consider himself lucky. Only that very morning, he’d finished cleaning his cell. Usually, prisoners waited outside their cells during inspection, but as he was stepping out into the corridor, the inspecting warder had stopped him.

“Nice bit of news, eh, D.3.7.?”

Knowing he could not speak, Jack had only looked at the warder.

“That toff you tried to kill, Rockwell, Rockburn? Heard he’s out at Cambrey, lodging at the inn. Guess he’s here to hunt. Can’t think of another reason why some la-di-da gent would come out to Satan’s arsehole.” The warder had laughed. “Ain’t that a pretty business?”

No time to be surprised by the news. He’d had to act on the opportunity given to him. Jack had spent the hours between inspection and afternoon work fixing a plan for escape. Having Rockley so close, when he spent most of his time in London, had been chance, or fate, or, as the chaplain said, providence. And Jack wouldn’t waste this rare opportunity.

Night fell in a thick black shroud. But distant lights served as his direction. He stumbled on, keeping that glimmering in his sight. It had to be the village of Cambrey. The final step of his journey to hell.

He kept well away from the rutted road leading into town, even though he spotted only one cart jouncing down the lane.

As he jogged nearer, the shapes of the village buildings turned solid and defined. Merchant shops, a church, a few houses lining the high street. The only building that snagged his attention, though, was the inn. It stood at one end of the high street, a two-story structure with a yard and a stable. Light poured from the windows, pushing back the darkness, and the sounds of a piano and cheerful talk tumbled out. Beyond the tuneless, cheerless hymns they sang in chapel, he hadn’t heard music since before his imprisonment. He wanted to soak it in, the sounds of normal life. Music, gossip, and petty grievances that might result in sore feelings but not death.

It seemed everything in Jack’s life resulted in death. Including his own.

Crouching behind a low stone wall, he assessed the inn. Lights shone in the second story. Some of the rooms looked small, cramped. Rockley wouldn’t stay in any of those.

The room at the end, though, looked promising. It appeared larger than the other rooms, with a canopied bed and its own fireplace. The finest accommodations the inn had to offer. Rockley had always flaunted his wealth and rank, and it made sense that if he stayed at this inn, he’d take the best room in the place.

Jack’s gut clenched when a man’s silhouette appeared at the window. With the light behind him, it was impossible to make out details of the man’s face, but he definitely had the size and form of Rockley. Tall, wide shoulders of a sportsman, and upright, proud posture that screamed out privilege and noble blood. The kind that literally got away with murder.

Hatred darkened Jack’s vision, and he choked on bile. He spat on the ground.

Rockley moved away from the window, but he didn’t appear to leave the room. Perfect.

Prowling through the shadows, Jack closed the distance to the inn, until he stood at the base of the inn’s wall. Rockley likely had men in the taproom, if not outside his door. Jack had been one of those men once. He knew where they would be, and that they’d use fists and pistols to keep anyone from getting to his lordship.

Wiping his damp hands on his thighs, he stared up at the second story. Exhausted and thirsty, dizziness swamped him. So bloody close.

He shook his head, forcing it to clear, then began to climb. He grappled for hold into the masonry’s gaps, pushing his fingers into the worn mortar. Biting back curses, he climbed higher, trying to go as quietly as possible. If he got caught now, with Rockley only twenty feet away, he’d lose his sodding mind.

Nearer, nearer. The window to Rockley’s room drew closer. And as it did, Jack’s pulse hammered violently, rage growing with each handhold, each inch higher.

Finally, his fingers closed around the windowsill. Thank the devil the night was a mild one, and Rockley had left the window open. No shattering glass to alert the men stationed in the corridor or downstairs. With a final heave, Jack pulled himself up and through the window, and then he stood in the room.

He’d almost reached his goal, and now he was ready to kill. But he froze before taking a single step.

He faced the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Trim and tall, blond hair, sherry-brown eyes. Angular jaw and unsmiling mouth. Clothing smart but not fancy. And she pointed a revolver at his head.

* * *

Evangeline Warrick stared at the man at the other end of her Webley .450. Though calling him a man seemed inapt. The term brute had been coined to describe such a … male.

Dark eyes, wild as an animal’s, burned into her. He took a step toward her.

“Hands, Mr. Dalton.” Eva was careful to keep her voice steady, calm. “Let me see them.”

“Easy, love.” He spoke as though calming a startled horse. “Not here to hurt you.” He took another step closer.

Eva cocked her gun, her aim holding. “Put up your hands, Mr. Dalton. And do not take another step.”

His hands came up, and dear God, were they big. Just like the rest of him.

“I just want Rockley,” he said. His accent was rough, his voice deep.

“You aren’t going to get him.”

Dalton raised a brow. Or she thought he did. In truth, grime coated the convict so thoroughly, she could barely make out the details of his face. Mostly, she saw those eyes, keen and hard. She had seen the gazes of desperate men before, men driven to the very edge, but none of them sent a thrill of caution down her spine the way Jack Dalton’s eyes did.

“Now he’s using women as bullies?” His mouth curled into a sneer. “Gun or no, you’d be wise to be careful around Rockley. Better yet, put a bullet in his brain, not mine.”

“That isn’t how we work,” she answered.

“We?”

“We,” answered Simon, stepping from the shadows in the corner. Marco came forward, as well. Neither of them had their weapons out, though they were both armed. They knew she could handle herself with a gun, and trusted her to keep Dalton reasonably controlled. She knew precisely where to shoot a man to incapacitate him.

Dalton snarled, his gaze darting back and forth between Simon and Marco. Then back to her. “Where’s Rockley?”

“Not here,” she replied.

“Tell me where he is.” Menace poured from Dalton in waves, and Eva wondered if she truly was going to use her revolver. She didn’t want to. Shooting a man could be loud and messy, and complicate things unnecessarily.

“In London, I presume.”

“I was told—”

“That Lord Rockley was staying here,” Marco supplied. “It’s what is known as baiting the trap.”

Dalton moved far more quickly than his size would suggest, and too quickly for even an experienced shot like Eva to fire. One moment, he stood near the window, hands upraised. The next, he had Marco on the floor, one hand around Marco’s throat. Marco fought against him, but Dalton’s sheer size and brawn rendered Marco’s training almost useless.

Simon got himself behind Dalton and looped his arm around Dalton’s neck. He grasped his wrist to capture Dalton in a headlock.

Stepping close, Eva placed the muzzle of her Webley against Dalton’s temple, making sure that, if she had to fire, she wouldn’t hit her colleagues.

“If you want your chance at vengeance,” she said, low and quick, “release Marco immediately.”

Slowly, Dalton’s hand uncurled from around Marco’s throat. The only sound in the room came from Marco, dragging air back into his lungs and coughing. Simon kept his arm tight around Dalton’s neck, slightly loosening the pressure so the convict would not asphyxiate.

“Go sit on the bed, Mr. Dalton,” Eva commanded. “And I ought to warn you, this gun of mine has been complaining for weeks that it hasn’t had a drop of blood. Do not give me a reason to satisfy its thirst.”

Dalton stared at her from the corner of his eye. This close, she could see that his eyes were the color of darkest coffee, verging on black. A feral intelligence shone in his gaze, like a wolf learning the ways of man in order to stalk and kill human prey.

He had enough astuteness to recognize that he had to comply. He nodded tightly.

Simon released his hold on Dalton and stepped away. With that peculiar savage grace of his, Dalton rose up. Marco scrambled to his feet, rubbing at his throat and scowling.

Eva edged back, not wanting to be within striking distance of Dalton. And his size made her distinctly uncomfortable. She was not a small woman, nor especially delicate, but she knew with absolute clarity that Dalton could snap her into matchsticks.

He sent her a glare, then walked toward the bed. As lightly as he moved, his boots still shook the floorboards. She had heard that the boots of prisoners were especially heavy, weighing as much as fourteen pounds, as if trying to pin them to the ground. Yet the sheer muscle mass of Dalton seemed to rattle the whole inn. Did the governors of prisons realize that hard labor turned rough men into weapons? Dalton’s arms appeared to be as thick and tough as coiled rope.

Approaching the canopied bed, he eyed it warily.

“Sit,” she ordered.

Teeth gritted, he did so. Strange—he looked almost uncomfortable. Eva had sat upon the bed earlier and felt its plush softness. One could have a very good sleep there. Or a very pleasant night with the right company.

Realization struck her. For the past five years, Dalton knew only his crude bed in Dunmoor Prison. At best, that meant a straw mattress on an iron-slatted frame, with coarse woolen blankets for warmth. Such luxury as this feather mattress and the fine-combed cotton bedclothes must feel alien to him, or worse, a taste of comfort he had not experienced in a long time—if ever.

She shook her head. Dalton was a means to an end. Likely he would crush the life out of her without a moment’s hesitation. She could not afford to feel sympathy for him, or endow him with a sentiment he probably didn’t feel.

In his filthy and torn prison uniform, radiating animal energy, he presented a strange picture as he sat upon the rosewood bed, lacy fabric hanging from the canopy. Everything looked impossibly fragile in comparison.

“Talk,” Dalton growled. “Tell me who you lot are, and how you know my name.”

She almost smiled at this. The gun was in her hands, and yet he had the boldness to issue a command.

“We know all about you,” she replied.

“There’s a file at headquarters,” added Simon. He held his fingers an inch apart. “This thick.”

Eva had studied the file thoroughly, including the photograph from Dalton’s admission into prison. Sometimes, prisoners fought against having their pictures taken, since it meant having their face on record. More than a few photographs showed prisoners contorting their faces to disguise their features, or being held down by force. Not Dalton.

He had stared at the camera boldly, defiantly. Take a good look, his expression seemed to challenge. The countenance of a man who had nothing left to lose.

But he did have something to lose. Eva and her colleagues counted on it.

“Headquarters.” Suspicion sharpened Dalton’s gaze. “You’re coppers?”

“Strictly a private organization,” she said. “We operate entirely outside of official channels. No one in the CID or government knows we exist.”

“Which is precisely how we want it,” Marco added.

“Mercenaries,” Dalton surmised.

Eva smiled a little at that. “Of a sort.”

“So, Rockley hired you to lure me out of Dunmoor.” He snorted. “Couldn’t kill me behind bars, so he finds a way to kill me on the other side of the wall.”

“We do not work for Rockley,” she insisted, voice tight. The very idea that they would work with someone like the baron filled her with a toxic sickness.

“Then who do you work for?”

“A girl. You wouldn’t know her.” She kept her gun pointed at him. He would be waiting for her to drop her guard, but that was not going to happen. “About a month ago, this young woman, whom I’ll call Miss Jones, was mostly wickedly seduced and abandoned. Her reputation was destroyed. Now she and her parents seek restitution, which we will help obtain.”

“Some gentry mort falls for a line, winds up on her back, and I’m supposed to care?”

“The ruin of any woman isn’t to be taken lightly.” Simon spoke through gritted teeth. “And she isn’t gentry. Just a merchant’s daughter.”

“Little difference.” Dalton shrugged. “Girl gets charmed into opening her legs, winds up with a bastard child or nothing at all. And the gent goes about his merry business. Not saying it’s right, but it’s an old story.”

“This time,” said Eva, “the story will have a different ending.”

“Cheers if you can make the cove pay.” Cynicism dripped from Dalton’s voice. “But what happened to the girl ain’t my business.”

“It will be,” she answered.

He crossed his arms over his chest, and the coarse fabric of his shirt pulled against his muscles. Both Marco and Simon were exceptionally fit men—their work demanded it. But Dalton possessed an animal strength, brutal and uncivilized. Simon, Marco, and her other male colleagues were trained warriors. Dalton was a beast.

“Love,” he rumbled, “I’ve got the screws hot on my tail. They’ll be here in an hour—”

“Less,” Marco said.

Dalton shot Marco a glare before returning his gaze to Eva. His words had been terse and impatient, but the way he stared at her made her think he hadn’t seen a woman in a very long time.

“So either speak plain or shoot me,” he continued, “’coz I don’t plan on lingering.”

She drew a breath. “The man who seduced Miss Jones is Lord Rockley.”

Dalton’s arms uncrossed as if readying for battle. His smirk fell away, replaced by cold, brutal hatred. Even knowing the details of Dalton’s history, she had not fully anticipated seeing such naked enmity, devoid of all pity. A shiver struggled to work its way through her body, but she ruthlessly suppressed it. Dalton was the sort of man to exploit any weakness. She could show none.

“We’re going to make Rockley pay.” She made certain to keep her voice level, as though the slightest hint of emotion would tip Dalton into crazed fury. “And you, Mr. Dalton, are going to help us. If you do not agree to do so, we’ll keep you here until the warders arrive. Escaping from prison is a serious crime. One that will see you well punished.” She stared coolly at him. “Time is running out, Mr. Dalton. A decision has to be made.”

For a moment, he did not move, did not speak. Then, “Who the hell are you people?”

She spoke before Marco or Simon could answer. “Nemesis, Unlimited.”

CHAPTER TWO

Stay and dance at the whim of this passel of bedlamites, or knock them all out and take his chances on the moors, with the screws closing in. Jack didn’t like either choice. Still, it had been so long since he’d had any choice at all, even deciding between two bad options was a luxury.

“Don’t plod over your decision,” the woman said, cold as a knife between the ribs. “We’ll need enough time to get out before the warders arrive.”

Jack stared at her. Such a pretty piece, but full of poison. He’d known women like her, except they didn’t have a gentry mort’s fine words and manners to disguise their ruthlessness.

She stared back in challenge. Maybe it was on account of him not seeing a woman besides the prison laundresses for the past five years. Maybe he was a sick bastard who’d gotten even sicker during his incarceration. But something about the way this woman looked and spoke, with her unyielding spine and amber eyes, stirred him up.

For fuck’s sake, she’s got a gun on me.

“They’re here.” This from the blond toff, standing at the window. Voices from outside drifted up, the shouts of the warders as they roused the villagers.

“The critical moment is upon us, Mr. Dalton,” the woman said. “Make your choice.”

He stood, and noted with some satisfaction that the woman took a step back, putting more distance between them. “You’ve got a plan for getting out of this place?”

She tipped her chin up. “We always have plans.”

“Then we go.”

The two men and the woman shared a glance, a silent exchange that made Jack edgy. At least none of them looked nervous at the idea of getting away from the warders. When people were panicked, they made bad decisions.

Jack wasn’t panicked, just determined.

The woman tucked her gun into a reticule as calmly as if she were stashing away a tin of comfits. “Do everything they tell you to,” she said to him.

“If you wanted a dog,” he answered, “you should’ve gone to the wharf.”

“And if you want to stay out of prison, you’ll do what you’re told.” She opened the door and walked out, her stride direct and purposeful. The warders’ voices barked on the ground floor. Jack recognized the sound of Warder Lynch. Likely the bastard was eager to do Jack some violence.

The dark-haired gent shut and locked the door behind the woman, muting the sounds from below.

“Where’s she going?” Jack demanded.

“Eva is buying us time,” the darker man replied. “Which we’re losing by hazing about up here.”

Jack wondered if buying time meant that the woman—Eva—might use that revolver of hers on the warders. Trading bullets with the screws would be dangerous and messy, and she’d already proven that while she was dangerous, she wasn’t messy. No, she was a tidy morsel, from the top of her pinned curls to the hem of her dress, with a lot of mettle in between.

“How are we looking out there, Simon?” the dark-haired man asked the blond.

“Damn warders are a bunch of low-pay amateurs,” Simon muttered. “They’ve got no one patrolling the perimeter.”

“Let’s be grateful for a badly trained workforce.” The dark man reached for Jack, but pulled his hand away when Jack reared back.

He didn’t want anyone touching him. Nobody did before he went to prison, and he hated it when the screws shoved him around on his way to chapel or to the rock yards. They wouldn’t touch him ever again.

Turning from the darker gent, he saw the blond one, Simon, straddling the open window.

“Going to assume you can climb down as well as up,” he said, then disappeared as he eased out the window. Jack had to admit that the toff moved as slick as any second-story man leaving a burglary.

“That’s Simon, incidentally. I’m Marco.”

“I don’t give a buggering damn.”

“You ought, since we’re all that’s keeping your neck from being stretched.” After shouldering a pack, Marco waved him toward the window. “Now climb.”

Jack bit back a mouthful of curses. For now, he had to play the puppet. When the time came, however, he’d cut the damn strings, and maybe some throats, too.

After giving Marco a glare, Jack moved quickly to the window and climbed out. Cold air bit through his damp, thin uniform and the moors stretched out dark and empty beneath a sky just as barren. This time of year, he wouldn’t last the night on the heath. Without shelter, he’d be nothing but frozen meat by morning.

These damned Nemesis people better have something lined up, or we’ll all be freezing our arses off.

He balanced himself on the worn brick, then clambered down the wall. Glancing up, he saw Marco watching him from the window. Likely making sure he didn’t cut and run.

Once the ground was near enough, he jumped the rest of the way down, landing in a crouch. Simon waited nearby, his gaze never resting, body poised for movement. The bloke looked like a toff, but he didn’t carry himself like one. More like a soldier, or a thief.

Jack, too, kept his every sense alert, tense as piano wire. The screws were just inside—he could hear them questioning men in the taproom of the inn. Just hearing the scrape of Lynch’s voice sent hot fury through Jack’s muscles.

“I ain’t going back,” he muttered.

“You won’t.” Simon’s words were clipped. “So long as you keep to the terms of our arrangement.”

Before Jack could ask just what the hell that arrangement might be, Marco dropped down from the window, quiet as a serpent.

Whoever these people were, they had impressive skills. But it wasn’t the two men Jack thought of. He could hear Eva inside, the low, clear notes of her voice plucking along the back of his neck.

“Time to run,” Marco said. He nodded toward the west, a long stretch of open moorland that led to nothing. Nothing that Jack could see, at any rate.

“You can’t just leave her in there.” He wasn’t about to carve Eva’s name into his arm, but it didn’t feel right abandoning her to the warders. There had to be at least eight screws in there. She was only one woman. Bad odds.

“Eva can take care of herself,” Simon answered.

Jack looked back and forth between the two men. They held fast to the shadows, but he could see enough of their faces to read complete confidence there. Confidence in Eva.

He shrugged. She wasn’t his woman. Never would be. If these blokes thought nothing of leaving her with a pack of edgy warders, he wouldn’t stop them.

“My legs itch,” he said. “Only thing that cures ’em is a run.”

Simon nodded once and darted off. With Marco right on his heels, Jack followed, plunging into the darkness. It felt good to move again, despite his exhaustion. Too long inside prison walls had given him a permanent hunger for action, the need to feel his lungs and muscles burn from use.

Yet as he sped into the night, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of Eva, all alone, facing down a gang of warders on the hunt.

Hope she’s as strong and clever as these blokes seem to think. She has to be.

* * *

Eva made her way down the stairs, careful to keep her pace brisk but unhurried. She was just a guest drawn from her room by the fuss downstairs. Her time constraints were narrow, needing to give the others a decent head start, but not so much that she’d have trouble catching up with them.

Her hand glided along the wooden rail worn smooth by generations of guests walking up and down these same stairs. The wood felt as solid as Dalton looked. He had the immovable will of an ancient oak, too. She could only hope he was following Simon and Marco’s orders, and hadn’t tried something stupid or obstinate, such as attempting to escape.

She reached the ground floor and, following the sounds of commotion, headed toward the taproom. Fixing a curious but vacant expression on her face, she entered the large room. A group of warders were gathered there, their dark blue uniforms incongruous in the cheerful taproom. She recognized the hard eyes of professional guards, almost as dangerous as the clubs most of them carried.

Two of the warders were armed with shotguns, and the men in the taproom eyed the weapons nervously. These were firearms meant for hunting men, not grouse.

One of the armed warders stood close to the innkeeper. He twisted his hands in his apron as the warder interrogated him.

“He was heading in this direction. Got two eyewitnesses who spotted him making toward this inn.”

“I’ve been down here in the taproom the last hour, and I haven’t seen anyone.”

The warder turned toward the other guards. “We split up and search the place. Inside and out.”

She stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking it. “My goodness, what a to-do!” Inwardly, she shuddered at her breathy, vapid tone, but being part of Nemesis meant she had to do many things she found unpleasant. Including playacting the part of a featherbrained woman.

“What is all this ruckus about?” She stared with wide eyes at the warders. The guards removed their caps, deference at odds with the brutal bludgeons they carried.

The one guard who had been grilling the innkeeper spoke. “Are you a guest at this inn, ma’am?”

“I am, Mr.…” She glanced at the patch on his jacket. “Lynch. Goodness, you gentlemen look like soldiers in your ensembles. I wasn’t aware there were any troops stationed nearby.”

“We’re warders, ma’am, from Dunmoor Prison. A very dangerous convict escaped today, but don’t worry, we’ll get him back. Alive or dead.” He spoke this last word with particular enjoyment, as though looking forward to the prospect of killing Dalton.

“Convict?” Her hand came up to flutter at her throat. “You mean, a criminal is on the loose this very moment? But how very dreadful! Like something out of the penny papers.”

The group of warders tried to edge past her, but she impeded them with a light sidestep.

“Have you seen any suspicious characters?” Lynch asked. “The man we’re looking for is a big bast—uh, a big man. Dark hair, dark eyes. Answers to Dalton, but he might be using an alias.”

“I have been alone in my room all evening and saw nothing. Surely if such a large villain had passed this way, I would have noticed something. And anyway, I thought this part of the country was supposed to be safe. Convicts escaping from prison! Never would I have dreamed up such a lurid tale.”

As she spoke, she moved from side to side, as if thoughts of a fugitive made her restless and frightened. It also had the effect of preventing the warders from leaving the building or getting upstairs. She made certain her accent held the polished notes of a woman of quality, and for once she was grateful for the rigid code of social mores that kept the warders respectfully trapped. They wouldn’t push a lady aside.

Apparently, though, even this code could reach its breaking point. One of the warders looked back at Lynch, unable to hide his frustration. “Sir?”

Lynch came closer. “Ma’am, if you’d step to the side—”

“Come to think of it,” she said, “I may have seen someone. I was standing at my window, thinking about how very dark it is here compared to London. Not a streetlight to be seen. Even when the fog rolls in, you know, it’s so terrifically bright. Why, without my heavy curtains, I might never get a wink of sleep.”

“You say you saw something,” Lynch said through gritted teeth. “Ma’am,” he added.

“Oh, yes. I was standing at my window, and I saw a figure outside. Exceptionally big, as you say.” She remembered how Dalton had loomed over her, and how he made even the simple act of breathing seem dangerous. “I thought perhaps it was a farmer, out milking his cows or some such rustic endeavor. But cows aren’t milked at night, are they?”

Lynch’s patience continued to fray. “Did you get a good look at him?”

“As I said, it is exceptionally dark out here, but, thinking on it now, he might have caught a little light from the inn. And I remember clearly now how strange I thought his clothing. All covered with these peculiar arrow markings. I assumed it was some eccentric local dress.”

Snapping even more alert, Lynch said, “That’s our man. Where was he heading?”

“Somewhere over there.” She waved her hand toward the east, precisely the direction opposite from which she knew Simon, Marco, and Dalton to be heading.

The warders did not waste further time. With murmured apologies, they stepped around her and exited the inn. Lynch remained long enough to mutter, “Obliged, ma’am.”

She decided against using more ridiculous chatter to detain him longer. Any further delays, and he’d grow suspicious. With a nod, she let him pass. Hopefully, she’d bought the others enough time to make decent progress toward their rendezvous point.

“This is exceedingly distressing,” she announced to the men in the taproom.

The innkeeper came forward, wreathed in a strained smile. “I can assure you, madam, that such occurrences are quite rare, and that the warders will have that blackguard caught very soon.”

“Just the same, I believe I’ll retire to my room for the rest of the evening. And I will be sure to lock the door.”

“Excellent plan, madam.”

With a sniff, she left the taproom and made sure that her footsteps on the stairs could be heard. Once at the top of the stairs, she waited a moment to see if anyone followed or left the taproom. Everyone remained within, discussing the shocking turn of events.

Silently, she crept back downstairs, then turned quickly into a hallway not visible from the taproom. There had to be a back or side door she might use. The option remained of returning to her room and going out the window, but likely Marco had locked the door. Picking the lock would be the work of less than a minute, yet she didn’t relish the prospect of climbing down whilst wearing skirts. They had an unfortunate tendency to tangle in her legs.

Moving noiselessly through the hallway, she tried a door which proved to be a linen closet, and then came upon the kitchen. Peering inside, she found the room empty of everything but pots, pans, a sink with running water, and a huge iron stove. A basket waited by the back door.

She was outside in a moment, and shut the door behind her. Slipping through a rather barren kitchen garden, she reached a low fence and swung over it, then took a moment to get her bearings. She stood in a narrow lane that ran alongside the inn, and just on the other side of the lane stretched the moorland into which Simon, Marco, and Dalton should have fled. They’d wait for her, but not forever. Right now, Dalton was their most important resource, and they’d get him to safety as soon as possible. Simon and Marco trusted her to take care of herself if they became separated.

If she could avoid sleeping in a frigid barn, she’d do so. And she wanted to be in London for the planning of their operation against Rockley.

Quickly, she crossed the lane and headed into the sweep of moor rolling beyond. The voices of the warders came far too close for her liking, but she judged them to be on the other side of the inn, following her false lead.

She set up a brisk trot as she moved farther into the darkness. It would be a clean getaway.

A warder’s boots crunched on the rocky ground. Hell. She had to keep going.

“Oi, ma’am, you oughtn’t go out there!”

Without turning around, she gave him a little wave and kept going.

“Ma’am! You’d best come back now! Ma’am!”

Suddenly, there was Dalton, right in her path. He seemed a myth conjured from the darkness, an Iron Age warrior pulled forward in time.

“You should’ve stayed with the others,” she hissed.

“And you were taking too long.” He gripped her wrist, and, despite their circumstances, the feel of his rough hand against her skin made her pulse stutter.

The warder let out a shout. “I see ’im! It’s Dalton!” He blew the whistle that hung around his neck.

With her free hand, she gathered up her skirts. “Run,” she said.

They ran.

* * *

Jack had more important things to think about besides Eva’s fine-boned wrist beneath his palm. The screws were coming, including Lynch, chasing after them, their whistles and shouts stabbing the quiet. He’d be lucky if all they did was capture him and drag him back to Dunmoor.

As he and Eva ran across the moor, he kept his mind and body focused on speed. But he couldn’t shake his awareness of touching her. The strength in her came as an eye-opener, and not a surprise. He ought to know that if a woman looked comfortable holding a revolver, she probably didn’t have fragile doll limbs.

Those legs of hers had a hell of a lot of speed, too. Despite her skirts, she kept pace with him, running like she was born to it.

A shotgun blast tore through the air. He pulled them both into a crouch.

“Keep going.” Her words were tight but steady. “They won’t fire directly if I’m with you.”

Made sense. Likely they thought her his hostage, not the woman who blackmailed him into collaboration.

He and Eva kept running. The shapes of Marco and Simon emerged ahead.

“The hell, Dalton?” That was Simon. Jack was beginning to know the toff’s smooth, fancy-bred voice even in the dark.

“Sounded like a screw was going after her. Don’t know about you nobs, but I don’t leave nobody behind. How long would it take them to figure out where we were headed once they had her?” It had been a rule drilled into him by Catton, taught to him when he was no bigger than a keg. His years as a housebreaker were behind him, but the lessons remained gouged into his brain.

“Your help wasn’t necessary,” she said.

“I’m choking on your gratitude.”

The four of them sped on, the warders in full pursuit. Another shotgun blast was fired into the air. It wouldn’t be long before Lynch got tired of warning shots and took direct aim.

“Wherever the hell we’re going,” he panted, “it better not be far.”

“Don’t look,” said Marco.

“What?”

Eva snapped, “Cover your eyes.”

He was about to ask why, when Marco suddenly turned and pulled something from the pack slung across his shoulders. Marco lobbed the object toward the warders, turning away as he did so.

There was a small concussion, followed by a huge flash of light. The screws fell back, and then Jack had no idea what followed because he couldn’t see a damn thing.

“What was that?”

“Phosphorous and a quick-burning accelerant,” Marco answered.

Meaningless words. “You sodding blinded me.”

“Told you to cover your eyes.” There was no sympathy in Eva’s voice. “It’s short-term, anyway. Lasts long enough for us to temporarily hold back the warders.” Now it was her hand around his wrist, pulling him forward. He could only stumble on in her wake as she led him. What lay ahead, he didn’t know. All he could do was trust her—and he trusted no one. Especially not a woman with strong hands, clever eyes, and a revolver in her reticule.

* * *

Though the warders had retreated, Eva couldn’t be easy. Not until they were safe at headquarters. The guards weren’t the only threat. Blinded and angry as a bull, Dalton stumbled behind her. She suspected the only reason he wasn’t swearing like a fishmonger was to make sure the warders could not follow the sound of his voice. No doubt he thought any number of vile things, however. She could practically hear him cursing her, Simon, and Marco. Yet he let her lead him.

Only to save himself. Without her guidance, he’d stumble around the moors and right into the hands of the pursuing warders. If given the opportunity, Dalton would break their necks.

It was like leading a lit cask of gunpowder. The only thing to wonder was when he’d explode.

Finally, the outline of a carriage appeared on the crest of a hill. Dalton slowed, his muscles tensing.

“I hear horses,” he said, low.

“Our means of escape.” She and the others approached slowly.

“Come any nearer and I’ll use my whip to give you a shave!” The driver lifted his arm.

“It’s us, Walters,” answered Simon.

“Oh, Mr. Addison-Shawe! Nearly stopped my heart, you did.” He peered down at them. “Get your man?”

“We did.”

“Hop in, then.”

Marco climbed into the carriage, and she started to do the same, tugging Dalton behind her. But he easily broke her hold on him, pulling away. He must have gotten his sight back, because he glared at the carriage and the driver.

“I’m not getting in there until you tell me who this bloke is and where you’re taking me.”

“I’m a friend, I am. Nemesis did me a good turn,” Walters said before she could answer. “Got me my farm back when the law wouldn’t help. If they need me, I’m theirs.”

Dalton raised his brows at this, but still did not get into the carriage.

Casting a concerned glance over her shoulder, she strained for signs of the pursuing warders. “We don’t have time for your suspicions.”

“A lady who travels with a gun in her pocketbook, a man who carries exploding bombs, and a toff who acts like a crack thief. Trustworthy lot.”

She exhaled, frustrated. “Walters is taking us to the nearest train station. We’ll catch the express to London, where we’re headquartered.”

“And then?” he demanded.

“And then we’ll talk.”

He snorted at that. But whatever his reservations, the prospect of waiting around for the warders seemed less appealing. Muttering, he stepped into the carriage, and it tilted until he found his seat. Good God, was the man made entirely of muscle?

She turned to Simon. “My doubts still stand,” she whispered.

“He’s a brute and a criminal,” Simon answered low, “but he’s our best weapon against Rockley. The plan moves forward.”

There was nothing she could do. Not standing out on the moors in the middle of the night, with a gang of armed warders hunting them. She checked the contents of her reticule—money, Webley, keys, handkerchief, chloroform. She hoped they wouldn’t need to use the chloroform on Dalton. Carrying him would be like lifting a mountain.

Satisfied that everything was in place, she climbed into the carriage, seating herself opposite Dalton. He stared at her, eyes gleaming like jet, as Simon took his seat next to her.

Marco rapped on the roof, and the carriage was in motion. Before long, they sped through the moors, rocking over the rolling heath.

“He’s got no lights out there,” Dalton rumbled. “Going to crash us for certain.”

She turned her attention away from the windows. “Walters knows this countryside better than a man knows—”

“His wife’s arse,” he supplied.

“The back of his hand.” Her mouth curled. “Really, Mr. Dalton, my threshold for being shocked is extremely high. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I’d like to try.”

If her cheeks felt warm, it was only because she had been running across the moors. Certainly not from the husky rasp of his voice in the small confines of the carriage, or the erotic challenge of his words.

Simon cleared his throat. He grabbed a cloth-wrapped bundle next to him and tossed it to Dalton. The convict nimbly caught the package.

“A change of clothes.” Simon eyed Dalton’s filthy prison uniform. “Charming as those garments are, they’re not suitable for traveling on a public train.”

“They’re not suitable for a dog to wear, neither.”

“That’s a considerable amount of hatred for an inanimate object,” she noted.

Staring down at his knee-length breeches, Dalton made a sound of disgust. “Never want to see this bloody crow’s foot again. One of the first things they do when you get to prison is take away your clothing and give you a uniform. You don’t think you’ll care, until you see hundreds of men dressed just like you. No one’s got a name, just a number. And this sodding mark, all over your clothes. It’s like you’re nobody.”

Stunned into silence, she could only nod. Up to this point, Dalton hadn’t spoken at such length. More than the extent of his speech, however, she was shocked by how powerfully he’d been affected by the dehumanizing conditions within the prison. Easier for her to believe that he was an unfeeling beast, driven only by an animal need for revenge. The bleakness in his voice belied this.

“Then you’ll find the garments we’ve provided more to your liking.” Her words were flippant, her thoughts anything but.

“Pull over,” he said.

“Carriage sick?” asked Marco.

“I’m supposed to change, ain’t I? So pull over and I’ll change.”

But Simon shook his head. “We’ll lose time if we stop. You’ll have to do it in the carriage.”

Dalton shot her a glance.

“The bodies of men are no mystery to me, Mr. Dalton,” she said. “I won’t fall unconscious at the sight of yours.”

“I’d wager not much would make you faint.”

“She can pull a bullet out of a man without the bat of an eyelash,” Marco said cheerfully. “Took one out of my thigh, calm as a lake. And I’ve got a pretty little scar for a souvenir.”

Dalton chuckled, and the unexpected sound tumbled over her skin like rough velvet. “The bullyboys of the East End would find you damn useful.”

“Sadly for them,” she replied, “I already have employment. Perhaps it’s your delicate sensibilities that are disturbed, Mr. Dalton, by the thought of undressing in my presence.”

A corner of his mouth turned up. “Never dare me, love.”

She most assuredly didn’t like him calling her love, but she merely folded her arms over her chest and waited.

Dalton sent glances toward Simon and Marco. “If she becomes lust crazed by the sight of me in the altogether…”

Simon snorted. “We’ll protect your honor should she assault you.”

Dalton grinned, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “Don’t.”

“Oh, get on with it!” She cursed the short temper that allowed her to be so easily baited.

He shrugged his wide shoulders. Then grabbed the hem of his smocklike shirt and pulled it over his head.

Forcibly, she kept her lips pressed together, refusing to make even a single sound of shock or amazement. But, good Lord. The man was … astonishing. Every muscle in his arms and on his torso was sharply defined, as though the primal essence of masculinity had been pared to its elemental state. Oh, she’d seen many bare-chested men, including Simon and Marco, but they were lean where Dalton was broad, men shaped by training, whereas hard labor had formed Dalton into unfettered strength.

Not a dram of extra flesh. He seemed forged from iron, like a brutal but effective weapon.

Against the shrill warnings of her better judgment, her gaze moved across the breadth of his chest, noting the dark hair dusting his pectorals and trailing down in a line along his ridged abdomen. And lower.

“Careful, love.” His deep voice dragged her attention back up to his face. “You’ll set the carriage to blazing.”

She forced herself to turn to Marco. “Hand me your pack.”

He did so, and she rifled through it until she found what she sought. Pulling out a canteen, she gave it an experimental shake. It sloshed, revealing that it was full. Little surprise, as all Nemesis operatives kept themselves in a continual state of preparedness. “Water?” she asked.

“Grappa’s in the flask,” he answered.

She would definitely want that. Later. Right now, water suited her needs.

Tossing the canteen and a handkerchief from her reticule to Dalton, she said, “Doesn’t matter how you’re dressed if your face is filthy.” Since neither she nor Marco and Simon were disguised as laborers, Dalton’s grimy appearance would certainly attract attention on the train.

The little scrap of fabric looked like an elf’s frippery in Dalton’s large hand, its snowy white cotton contrasting with his brown hands. He eyed it warily.

“It’s just a handkerchief,” she said impatiently.

“Don’t have a lot of experience handling women’s dainties.” He held it out, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. “If I use this, it’ll be ruined.”

She shrugged. “I have dozens more.” Then she started as Dalton sniffed the handkerchief.

“Smells like lemons and … some kind of flower.”

“Verbena.” She felt strangely uncomfortable, as if he had discovered a closely guarded secret. But there was nothing secret about the type of perfumed soap she preferred, purchased from a shop just down the street from her lodgings.

“Pretty,” he rumbled, and that strange sensation intensified. “But I don’t want to smell like a lady.”

“For God’s sake.” Simon clenched his hands. “Better you reek of perfume than peat and bog.”

Muttering something about blokes who smell like flowers, Dalton unscrewed the cap on the canteen and wet the handkerchief. He scrubbed at his face, stripping off layers of grime. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin. Even behind his ears and along his neck. The motion brought the muscles of his arms into high relief as they flexed and released.

Finally, he was done. He gazed at the handkerchief. It was, indeed, ruined, streaked with so much dirt that a laundress would weep in despair. “Guess I’ll keep this.”

“Burning it would be a better option.” Yet her offhand words belied her keen interest. For the first time tonight, she looked upon the face of Jack Dalton.

She had seen his photograph in the file. It had been taken before he’d been incarcerated, before prison regulations had demanded he shave his generous mustache. She had thought that he might be passably attractive, if one was attracted to hard-eyed ruffians. Now he was clean-shaven. Though shadows filled the carriage, enough light remained that she had a good sense of his face.

He wasn’t handsome, not in Simon’s aristocratic fashion, nor did he possess the Continental charm of Marco’s half-Italian lineage. In fact, of the three men, both Marco and Simon would be considered better looking. Yet Dalton had a rough, raw masculinity, his jaw square, his mouth wide. He had a pugilist’s nose, slightly crooked with a distinct bump on the bridge. A scar bisected his right eyebrow, and there was another just over his top lip, on the left. The face of a man who had lived hard, who expected little and was often not surprised when little was given.

Assuredly, she had seen more handsome men, but none of them were as striking as Dalton. Not a one had his compelling, dark gaze. A gaze that was fixed directly on her.

She lifted her chin. It was ridiculous to pretend she wasn’t staring.

“An improvement,” she said. “No one will give you a second look at the train station.” That was a lie. Gazes would be drawn to him, for he possessed a shadowed magnetism. It would be deuced difficult to hide him anywhere—another point against him. She would bring that up once they reached headquarters.

He tucked the handkerchief into his discarded shirt, then bent to untie his boots. The movement brought him very close to her, so close that if she leaned forward a few inches, she could put her hands on his shoulders, her lips on the back of his head.

Heat radiated from him, pressing close around her. She caught a trace of her own soap’s fragrance on him, as if they had been in a tight embrace and the scent of her skin had transferred to him.

He looked up through his spiky lashes, and their gazes tangled. For a long, breathless moment, they simply stared at one another, suspended, ensnared.

“Hurry up, Dalton.” Simon’s voice was clipped. “We’ll be at the station soon.”

His words severed the threads binding her and Dalton. A wry smile curled at the corner of Dalton’s mouth, and he finished unlacing his boots. His striped wool stockings followed, revealing calves dusted with more dark hair. The sight of his large bare feet was primal, her own not unsubstantial feet appearing tiny beside his.

After a quick gaze in her direction, he moved to the fastening of his knee-length breeches.

She didn’t want to watch his fingers undoing the buttons, but the sight riveted her. The deftness with which his large hands moved came as a surprise. He tilted his hips to gain enough room to remove his breeches. She forced her gaze back up the length of his chest, fighting to maintain a disinterested expression. Only a few minutes earlier, she’d claimed to be hard to shock. Now she had to prove it.

Though the carriage creaked and jounced noisily across the moors, she was acutely aware of the sound of fabric sliding down Dalton’s hips, then lower. She kept her focus trained on the hollow of his throat, but her mind filled in the details, coaxing her to envision his thighs, roped and hewn. And—there was no helping it—she imagined his cock, nestled in thick dark hair.

Don’t look. For the love of your pride, do not look.

His voice rumbled out of the darkness. “Doesn’t cost anything to have yourself a peek, love.”

“Dalton!” Marco snapped. “Treat Miss Warrick with respect, or I’ll polish your teeth with a bullet.”

She waved a hand. “It’s a small matter if Mr. Dalton encourages me to contemplate his shortcomings.” Then, deliberately, she let her gaze fall to his groin. “My jacket must be extremely warm, for I had no idea the night was so cold. That is the explanation, isn’t it, Mr. Dalton?”

He made a sound midway between indignation and amusement.

Satisfied with his response, she moved her gaze to his face. He might be able to see the heat staining her cheeks, yet there was nothing she could do about her body’s unwanted response. Truly, she had seen men in all states of dress and undress, knew exactly how their bodies looked, and even how they felt. There was no mystery to the male physique. So why was she so affected by the sight of a naked Jack Dalton?

It was purely logical. After all, they had met only hours earlier. He was a stranger, and a dangerous one, at that. No wonder her pulse accelerated when she looked at his penis, the most intimate part of a man’s body.

Despite her belittling claim, she finally had the answer to the question about men with large feet and large hands. They were … proportional.

Consider the spirit of scientific inquiry fulfilled, she thought with an inward smile.

“If you’re quite finished attempting to incite Miss Warrick to a lust-crazed frenzy,” drawled Simon, “get dressed.”

Fortunately, Dalton didn’t complain about Simon’s command. He clearly saw the value of arriving at the train station clothed rather than nude. After undoing the bundle, he removed a shirt, trousers, waistcoat, jacket, and boots.

“None of this is going to fit,” he said. “Not even the boots.”

“We went off your vital statistics from your file,” Marco answered.

“That was before I did five years of hard labor. Gotten bigger since then. My feet spread, too.”

“Stopping at the high street shops is impossible,” she said. “So you’ll have to squeeze into what we’ve got.”

He shrugged, and went about the awkward task of dressing in a moving carriage shared with three other people. She would never admit to anyone her small, internal sigh of relief when he dragged on the trousers. The waist fit him well enough, with actual room to spare, but his thighs strained against the material. He could barely pull his arms through the shirtsleeves. The shirt actually tore a little on the shoulder seams, and he grimaced.

“The waistcoat and jacket will hide that,” she said, brisk.

Except he couldn’t button the waistcoat, and the jacket was taut across his shoulders, its cuffs inches above his wrists.

Marco tried to fasten the collar to Dalton’s shirt. “It’s like dressing a lion as Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

“You’re sodding choking me,” Dalton rasped.

Frustrated, Marco flung the collar to the ground. “Unless we have a spare wheel rim, nothing’s going to work.”

“Just tie the neck cloth around him.” She waved the long piece of silk foulard at Marco, but Dalton snatched it from her hand.

“Can tie my own damned neck cloth.” And he did, though Simon rolled his eyes at the inelegant knot. “There,” Dalton said with a growl. “Now I look like the bloody Prince of Wales.”

“If His Royal Highness were ten inches taller, three stone heavier, and had spent his formative years in a bull-baiting ring,” she said, “you would be his perfect likeness.”

Dalton opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the carriage slowed. “Train station,” Walters called down.

Everyone within the carriage stilled. Their gazes met in silent acknowledgment. Even Dalton understood. They had completed only the first stage of their plan, and the danger was far from over.

CHAPTER THREE

Jack waited inside the carriage as the others got out and made a quick survey of the train station. The screws might be here, lurking just inside so he could tumble right into their trap. He doubted they’d be able to reach the station so quickly, especially on foot, but he couldn’t shake his fear that they were here. He couldn’t let himself get this far only to be dragged back to Dunmoor. With this brief taste of freedom, only one path remained for him: kill Rockley.

His fists clenched in anticipation. He’d run, he’d hide, he’d do whatever he must for as long as necessary. If Rockley met death at his hands, it would all be worth it.

First, he needed to put as much distance as possible between himself and Dunmoor. Then … he’d figure the rest out. He would have to lose these Nemesis people. Or take advantage of them and their wickedly clever schemes until they were no longer useful.

Eva appeared in the door of the carriage. With the lights from the station behind her, he could only see her outline and the shadowy suggestion of her face. She might have been any slim woman. Except he knew her shape now, her scent. The way her breath sped when something stirred her up.

His cock gave an interested throb.

Don’t be a sodding idiot. Got the screws on my tail and a gang of lunatics holding the reins. And she’s one of the lunatics.

“We’re clear,” she said.

He moved forward to get out, and she edged quickly back. Keeping more distance between them.

Stepping down onto the gravel outside the station, he squinted toward the lights. Simon stood at the ticket booth, and Marco struck a casual pose nearby, looking for all the world as if he didn’t have an escaped convict’s uniform and boots in his pack. A few other people milled about the platform—some working blokes, a gent in a banker’s suit and with an air of respectability, a woman with two small children—but no sign of the warders or even the local constabulary.

“Stay close to me,” Eva said under her breath. “And try to look inconspicuous, though”—she eyed him—“that’s a rather tall order.”

“I look like an organ grinder’s monkey,” he muttered, fighting the urge to tug on his tight clothes. His boots pinched, too, but the Nemesis gang had been clever in bringing him a change of shoes. The soles of prison-issued boots bore the crow’s foot mark, too. Anyone with half a brain in their head would see his footprints in the dust.

“Trust me, Mr. Dalton, no one would ever confuse you with a playful little monkey. Perhaps one of those terrifying gorillas at the zoo. The ones that beat their chests and roar.”

He held up the back of his hands. “Got less hair.”

“Not in certain places, you don’t.”

Heat settled low in his groin. “Going to put that in my file, too?”

“I’ll save that for my own personal records.”

God, she was a saucy one! And damn him if it didn’t make his mouth water.

She moved toward the driver of the carriage. “What do we owe you, Mr. Walters?”

“The bill’s been settled, miss. You got me my farm back. A little jaunt through the heath ain’t nothing.” The older man glanced at Jack. “Mind you, stay sharp around this ’un. Got a bad look about ’im.”

Jack had heard far worse about himself on a daily basis. He just stared right back at Walters until the driver looked away.

“I promise to be as sharp as a razor,” she answered.

“As if you could be anything less.” Walters chuckled, then, with a tip of his hat and snap of the ribbons, the carriage drove away.

Jack eyed the brightly lit station, the urge to break and run screaming through his body. A film of sweat clung to his back.

“It’s safe.” Eva’s soft murmur startled him. Even more startling was her hand on his sleeve, almost gentlelike.

“Looks so damn normal. I haven’t been around normal in five years.” It was an ordinary country train station, with a waiting room and ticket booth and a single, open-air platform. A farmer nodded in sleep as he sat on a crate, his arms folded over his chest, and a big orange tabby groomed himself near the porters’ stove.

“The inn didn’t seem to bother you.”

He shrugged, the movement cut short by the snug coat. “Had other things on my mind.”

“Like killing Rockley.” She tipped her head toward the station, where Simon and Marco waited. “You’ll get your chance at him soon enough. But we have to get to London first.”

“Right. Yeah.” He exhaled, the sound jagged, then nodded.

When she took her hand from his sleeve, he felt oddly sorry, and they both headed for the station. Marco and Simon watched him, wary as cats, as he approached. Though his boots squeezed his feet, they were a damn sight lighter than those millstones he’d had to wear. He might even float away. Except one of these Nemesis lunatics might shoot him out of the sky. He wouldn’t ask what their plans for him were. Not here, where anyone might be listening.

“Next train to London is coming in twenty minutes.” Simon consulted his pocket watch. A nice bit of gold, that. Could fetch a pretty sum at one of the shops.

Simon caught Jack’s assessing look and glowered. As if he didn’t know what it was to be hungry and see every ring and bauble as a meal. Jack had been hungry. He was born hungry. Exactly what Rockley preyed upon, exploited. A man who wanted to eat was a man easily controlled.

But even a starving man reaches a breaking point.

Jack stared at Simon, then turned away to watch the train tracks. No one in their group spoke, except a low exchange every few minutes among the other three. They didn’t try to make him talk. He didn’t know whether it was to protect him or just because they hadn’t a desire to hear his voice. Either way, he didn’t care. Nobody ever said he was witty like the music hall patter boys. Nobody wanted him for conversation.

To keep from looking around and acting suspicious, he made himself count the slats between the train tracks. There weren’t many visible beyond the gas lamps of the station, so he did it over and over. All the while he thought he felt dozens of eyes on him, thought he heard the warders charging near, thought a hundred things—none of them peaceful.

Eva drifted closer to him. Like the two men, she was calm, giving not a hint of anxiety. In fact, she looked slightly bored, just as a woman might when waiting for a train to take her out of the quiet of the countryside. She didn’t speak, but gave him a small nod. The damnedest thing—that tiny crumb of assurance actually made him feel a little bit better. This, from the woman who’d stuck a gun in his face.

Maybe my time in Dunmoor drove me mad. It’s happened to other men.

Much as he tried to mirror the calm of his three cohorts, he nearly jumped out of his tight boots when a train whistle pierced the air. The train itself sounded awful loud as it chugged into the station. Five years since he’d heard a steam engine or the squeal of the brakes.

The stationmaster stepped out onto the platform. “Ten-fifteen to London, with stops in Doncaster, Grantham, and Peterborough!”

Jack didn’t allow himself to breathe any easier, not when he followed the other three onto the train, not when they seated themselves in a first-class compartment. Jack sat next to Marco, with Eva and Simon taking the facing seats. Only when the train pulled from the station did he exhale. But the screws could still telegraph ahead to other stations, and he’d be met by a mob of the local coppers.

A few minutes passed, silent except for the rhythmic clacking of the train. It didn’t seem as though anyone planned on joining him and the others in their compartment.

“The lot of you, spill.” He fixed his gaze on each of them in turn: blond toff Simon; swarthy, cunning Marco; and her. “You’ve got some scheme for me, and I want to know what it is.”

All of them traded looks, turning his simmer to a full boil.

He jerked his head toward Simon. “You bloody tell me, or I’ll beat that one’s face to a stain on the upholstery.”

“That assumes you’d be able to beat me to a stain,” drawled Simon.

Jack grinned, eager for blood. “Oh, I can. These hands have broken rocks. Your skull is a lot softer than granite.”

“Only one way to find out.”

“The bell has been rung, gentlemen,” Eva snapped. “The round is over, so back to your corners.”

“May as well let him in on the plan.” Marco glanced back and forth between his comrades. “Sooner or later he’s got to know.”

“I ain’t a damn halfwit,” Jack snarled. “I’m sitting right here, so you talk to me, lad, or don’t talk at all.” Prison had glutted him on being talked of like a thing, not a man.

Finally, Eva spoke. “Remember that girl we mentioned, the one who had been ruined by Rockley?” At his tense nod, she continued. “Her father’s just a merchant. He doesn’t have any power, any pull. When he made his complaint to Rockley, demanding either marriage or some kind of restitution, Rockley ignored him.”

“And the courts weren’t helpful, I’m guessing,” Jack said.

“You said it yourself, a girl gets seduced and the man responsible walks away with no harm. Especially if the man in question happens to be a powerful aristocrat like Lord Rockley.” She spat his name as if clearing poison from her mouth. “You know that better than anyone.”

“Aye,” he said bitterly.

“The titled and wealthy hold all the power,” said Marco, “and their wrongdoings often go unpunished. For many, justice is hard to come by, if not completely out of reach. The downtrodden and voiceless need redress, but they’ve nowhere to get it.”

He’d seen that plenty in the streets of London. So many times. Hell, that’s why he’d been thrown into prison.

Eva’s eyes were hard. “That is where Nemesis gets involved.”

He frowned. “Doing what?”

“We’re in the business of vengeance.” Simon smiled, cold as frost.

“Justice,” said Eva, “by any means necessary.”

“Nemesis was formed four years ago,” Simon explained. “Back then, it was just me, Marco, and a man you’ll meet later called Lazarus. We didn’t have a name, or a plan. Only a common purpose—to correct the imbalances in our society. Marco used to work for the government, and both Lazarus and I were soldiers. But we realized that there was something rotten at the heart of the country we fought for.”

“You mean, the rich got all the power,” Jack said, “and everyone else twists in the wind.”

Marco nodded. “Exactly. The three of us met by chance in a tavern. It was the day that William Vale was hanged for killing the landlord who’d been squeezing him for more and more rent, until Vale’s family was thrown out into the streets in the dead of winter. His wife and infant son took sick and died. But there was no one Vale could complain to, no way to seek justice. Except to get it for himself.”

Being in prison at the time, Jack hadn’t heard of the case, but the particulars didn’t surprise him. The world was full of stories just like Vale’s.

“Wasn’t right that an honest man had to lose his family, and his life, because of someone else’s greed,” Simon continued. “That’s what Marco, Lazarus, and I found ourselves railing against in that tavern. We didn’t know each other then, but we all swore that we’d try to make a difference. No matter what it took.”

Jack knew liars, cheats, swindlers. They all thought themselves expert at bending the truth, spinning yarns so finely that even the cleverest bloke got himself tangled up and hanged. Not once did they fool him. Jack wasn’t clever, but he’d been born with an instinct that let him spot a lie.

He didn’t know how or why he had that sense, only that it had saved his arse dozens of times, including when Catton had told him to just go down that alley. The contact would meet him there, and the goods would change hands. Catton had said all this smooth as treacle, no different than when he’d told Jack about other swaps. But Jack had known, and when the knife came out, intending to slit his belly open, he’d been ready. Had a good scar from that fight, but he lived. And Catton wound up dead at the hands of one of his crew years later.

So he knew when someone wasn’t being on the level, or veering from the facts. And this Nemesis crew was telling the truth.

He didn’t like it one damn bit.

“You want me to kill Rockley,” he said.

Eva looked angry. “Assassinations and murder are not part of our ethos. That’s one way we keep below the government’s notice.”

“Don’t worry, love, I’m right eager to kill him.”

“We don’t do that,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Painting yourself with a noble brush.” He snorted. “But you plant false information to make a man break out of prison, hold a gun on him, and threaten him if he doesn’t do what you say. Regular heroes, you are.”

Not a one of them looked particularly shamefaced by their actions.

“Justice by any means necessary,” repeated Simon.

Jack leaned forward. “If you don’t want Rockley dead, then you got the wrong man to break out of prison. There’s a file on me at your headquarters. You know why I want to kill him.”

“It’s alleged that he killed your sister, Edith,” Simon noted.

Surging to his feet, Jack snarled, “The fucking bastard murdered her! No alleged about it.”

Eva rose, and so did the other men. Stepping close, she planted her hand on the center of his chest. “Keep your voice down and watch your damn language,” she hissed. She sent a meaningful glance toward the door of the compartment, where a chalk-faced conductor peered inside.

“Problem, miss?”

With a smile that any actress would’ve been proud to claim, she shook her head. “My cousin … he forgets sometimes that he isn’t fighting Boers anymore.” She smoothed her hand down his chest as if tidying his wrinkled shirt, patting and stroking him.

His mind fogged.

“Apologize, Henry.”

The fog broke apart, leaving him aware of exactly where he was and why he had to play along. “Sorry,” he gritted.

The conductor sniffed. “Mind, this is a respectable train. Vulgarity is not tolerated, even from veterans.”

“We shall do our utmost to preserve the decorum of this conveyance.” By God, she could make herself sound sweet and meek! Jack hardly recognized her, until she turned her gaze back to him, and there was nothing sweet or meek about her. Just determined.

As he stood toe-to-toe with her, she looked so much smaller than him, yet he’d be a fool to underestimate this woman. He might have more bodily strength, but she was clever as hell and more resolute than a prizefighter. Dangerous qualities on their own. Together, they were lethal.

Wrap all that in a lovely package like Eva, and a man had to watch where he stepped, or else he’d go plunging to his death.

Quickly, the conductor entered, took their tickets, and scurried off.

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think you can control yourself?”

“No,” he said.

Her lips quirked, and he realized with a start she was holding back a real smile. “Well, you’re honest. There’s some credit in that.” She nodded toward his seat. “Sit, Mr. Dalton.”

“Ask.”

“I will not—”

“Five years I had men telling me where to go, what to do, how to think. Nobody asked me anything. Just ordered. But I ain’t in prison anymore. So if you want me to do something, you better ask.”

She must have seen that he meant every word, because at last she said, “Please, Mr. Dalton. Please sit.”

“You first.” He flashed his teeth. “They say it’s rude to sit before a lady.”

She made a very unladylike sound at that, but she did take her seat. With cagey glances, the two men did the same. Finally, Jack also sat down. They all stared at one another as if holding lit sticks of dynamite.

“You lot say you’re seeking vengeance for the, what did you call it? Downtrodden and voiceless.” His words felt like acid. “Where were you five years ago when Edith lay dying? She needed you then.”

“As we said, Nemesis didn’t exist five years ago,” said Marco.

“But if it had,” Simon added, “we would have done everything we could to help her.”

Jack sneered. “That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever heard. Easy to make promises when they don’t have to be kept.”

Spreading her hands, Eva said, “Unfortunately, your sister is dead. Nothing you or I can do can change that. But what we can change is whether Rockley will ever harm another woman. When Miss Jones’s father came to us, we did some investigating into Rockley’s history. He’s done this kind of thing before—hurt women. Your sister, Miss Jones, and others. Yet his rank and power make him virtually untouchable.”

“He can’t hurt anyone if he’s dead.”

“That isn’t an option,” she said.

“Cut off his cock, then.”

Both Marco and Simon winced.

“Tempting as that prospect might be,” she murmured, “there are other ways we can harm Rockley, and get a measure of retribution for his latest victim. And that, Mr. Dalton, is where you come into play.”

* * *

Dalton was all calculation as he stared at her. She had familiarized herself with his file, knew the general details of his life. But for a former street rat turned boxer turned bodyguard, he possessed far more intellect than she had expected. That made him all the more treacherous. Underestimating someone was a short journey to catastrophe.

Bitter experience had taught her this valuable lesson. She had the scars to prove it.

“Lay it out for me,” Dalton said.

“Rockley will pay for what he’s done. To Edith, to Miss Jones. The dozen other women he’s hurt. Do you know how he seduced Miss Jones? He saw her behind the counter at one of her father’s shops. Wooed her. Made promises of marriage, promises that he’d help promote her father’s business to his genteel friends.”

“He didn’t make good on those promises,” Dalton surmised.

“As soon as she slept with him, he abandoned her. All her letters went unanswered. Her calls were turned away. And she realized she’d ruined not just herself, but if word ever got out about what happened between her and Rockley, her father’s business would suffer. Such is the nature of our moral world.” She drew a breath. “So, you see, we will bring Rockley down, make sure he is utterly ruined. But it must be done from the inside. Chip away at his foundations until he collapses.”

“And you plan on doing that, how?”

Marco planted his hands on his knees. “We find out everything we can about Rockley. His associations, his movements. He’s too well guarded for us to get close enough to learn more, but we do know that, on top of some suspicious connections, he’s involved with illegal enterprises. Somewhere in all that is the key to taking Rockley down.”

“That is why we need you.” Eva kept her attention entirely on Dalton, watching the minute shifting expressions that crossed his face. No, he was far from stupid. There was a fatal, gleaming intelligence beneath the abundance of muscle, and she feared it as much as it drew her in.

He made a sound that was part growl, part laugh. “Him and me weren’t chums. We didn’t unload the secrets of our hearts over pints of bitter. All I did was watch Rockley’s back when he’d go jaunting about town.”

“Exactly.” Warming to the subject, Simon leaned forward. “You’ve got intimate knowledge of Rockley’s habits, his movements and vulnerabilities. Information available nowhere else.”

“He’s got plenty of other blokes working for him.”

“But you are the only man who has ever left his employ and lived.” Eva had researched the subject exhaustively. From the beginning, she’d been leery of using Dalton. Nemesis was only as strong as its people, and reading his file had convinced her that he was too vicious, too undisciplined, his connection to Rockley too personal to handle the mission.

She was still wary of him, but not quite for the same reasons.

“So I’m going to be the one who draws up the map.” He drew an X in the air. “Ten paces then dig here for the treasure.”

“The treasure in this case being Rockley’s weaknesses.”

He considered this, looking out the window at the dark countryside speeding past. She had to give Dalton credit. He played this game close, revealing almost nothing. She was well trained in the art of deciphering people. Being experienced with deception, she could see its painted surfaces everywhere. Whatever Dalton thought, he kept those thoughts deliberately obscured.

“Supposing I don’t help you,” he said at last, turning back to face her. “Supposing I tell the lot of you to go bugger yourselves and I find Rockley and kill him.”

“You wouldn’t get that far,” Marco said, “before we stopped you.”

Dalton smirked. “Think you could?”

“Consider everything we’ve done tonight,” she said. “What we’re capable of.”

His nostrils widened, his lips compressing. Yes, he understood exactly how Nemesis operated. They had him well and truly trapped. And he didn’t like it.

She couldn’t blame him. Her own life had followed a course of her own choosing for that very reason. Freedom was a rare delicacy for most women. Sacrifices had to be made in order for her to taste that delicacy. She never regretted those sacrifices, for the end result was infinitely better.

Dalton had been imprisoned, and now Nemesis had him caught once more. No one would care for the circumstances, and a man such as him would chafe like a wild bull beneath the yoke.

“Say all this works, say we do bring Rockley down, I’d better get something in return.”

“You’re in no position to make threats, Dalton,” Simon clipped.

Hostility snapped between the two men like a whip.

Though she seldom played the role of peacemaker, she had to diffuse the tension before Simon and Dalton began to throw punches. “You might get a chance to start over.” She added quietly, “And justice for Edith.”

Dalton became as mute and still as a mountain. As forbidding as one, too. How would they ever control him? He had broken himself out of prison for the chance to kill Rockley, a feat few could achieve. The irony almost made her laugh. By proving he was exactly the man Nemesis needed, he had also proven he would not easily submit.

The train began to slow, and the conductor walked past, calling the name of the stop.

As the station slid into view, she and the others eyed the platform, searching for waiting police. The only people standing on the platform were a few weary travelers and an old woman with a battered pram. Instead of a baby, however, the pram held paper-wrapped bundles. Pies. Passengers stepped out of the stopped train to buy pies from her, tearing into them before they even got back onto the train. Not everyone could afford the dining car, and it was likely closed at this hour.

Eva pulled a handful of coins from her reticule and handed them to Simon. “I think we could all use something to eat.” She nodded toward the old woman.

He stood, but not before grumbling and giving her a sour look. Marco chuckled as Simon hopped off the train.

Dalton drummed his fingers on his knee, his gaze vigilant.

When Simon returned, he carried an armful of pies, all but throwing them into everyone’s laps. “Hope everyone likes mutton. If you don’t, too bloody bad.”

“What excellent service,” said Marco.

“And so courteous,” she added.

Still scowling, Simon unwrapped his meal and took a bite. “Sod off,” he said deliberately through his food. He accompanied this charming request with a spray of crumbs.

After the stationmaster made a final announcement, the train pulled from the station.

Marco dug into his food, and she pulled open the paper to break off pieces of savory pastry. As she nibbled, her gaze kept straying to Dalton. The pie looked like a fairy cake in his large hands, and he stared at it.

Longing gleamed in his eyes.

Prison diets didn’t include mutton pies. At best, a convict could hope for a few ounces of boiled meat thrice a week, maybe a bit of cheese. The rest of their food was gruel, tough bread, and potatoes. With a diet so austere, a mutton pie would look like a dish straight from the queen’s own table.

So why wasn’t he eating it?

His gaze kept darting to Marco and Simon. Not precisely as if he were afraid they’d take his food, but distinctly uncomfortable with their presence. Oddly, he didn’t look at her. Just the other men.

She sifted through her memory for some clue as to why Dalton couldn’t allow himself to eat, no matter how much he wanted to.

And then she understood why.

Slowly, she slid her foot across the floor, then nudged Marco’s boot. He frowned at her. In response, she flicked her gaze toward Dalton, back to Marco, then to the door of the compartment.

He raised a brow. Are you sure?

She nodded.

With a shrug, he stood. Herein lay one of the many benefits of working closely with the same people for several years. Words were often unnecessary.

Marco gave Simon a speaking glance. Another silent exchange, this time between the two men. Dalton watched it all, but said nothing. At last, Simon relented, and also got to his feet. He followed Marco out of the compartment, but not without sending Eva a look weighted with significance.

Poor Simon. He’d been brought up to think women were delicate, fragile creatures that had to be sheltered and protected like so much china bric-a-brac. Decades later, with ample evidence to the contrary, he still struggled.

Simon and Marco drifted down the passageway, carrying their dinners. They had left the door to the compartment open.

Dalton stared at her. “How’d you know?”

“I read reports about prisons. Before we—”

“Baited me to break out.”

That was the truth, and she didn’t feel the smallest twinge of embarrassment. “If Nemesis planned on employing you, we needed to get a sense of where you’d been, how you’ve been living.” She glanced down at the wrapped pie. “Convicts eat alone in their cells.”

Five years had passed since he had eaten in anyone’s presence. It would take more than a few hours to break him of the habit.

“I can’t leave you here alone, though,” she said. He could try to escape.

He shook his head. “It’s different with a woman.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I should hope so.”

Slowly, as if uncovering a forgotten treasure, he unwrapped the pie. His fingers stilled. Without looking up, he muttered, “Thanks.”

A single word, reluctantly given. Yet her heart contracted sharply. She tried to push away sentiment, for she had a job to do, and she’d do it well. She always did. His simple, unadorned gratitude touched her, though.

Working with Dalton was going to be far more challenging than she’d planned.

He moved to take a bite, but his gaze flicked back to her. She noticeably looked away, staring out the window. Yet the darkness outside and brightly lit interior made the window a mirror, and she watched him eat his first meal outside of prison.

With the first bite, his eyes closed. A groan echoed in his chest. A sound of deep, sensuous rapture.

Unexpected heat uncurled in her belly, settling between her legs. If she wasn’t watching him eat, she would have believed him in the throes of sexual ecstasy. The window’s surface reflected Simon’s concerned face as he peered into the compartment from the open door—and no wonder. Likely both he and Marco thought Dalton had her pinned beneath him, making up for five years of enforced celibacy.

But no, Dalton merely ate. Simon disappeared to allow him privacy, and Eva almost joined him. Yet she couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, her pulse a thick beat through her body.

She expected him to devour his food in a few quick gulps. Instead, he took his time with it, breaking off pieces of pastry as if to feel its texture, and licking his fingers slowly. Impossible for her to watch his tongue and lips without thinking of them on her.

Damn him, why couldn’t he behave only as a beast? Why did he have to reveal unforeseen depth of feeling and sensuality? How was she to deal with him, when he refused to conform to her fixed beliefs?

Despite his slow consuming of his meal, it was only one mutton pie, and he finished it with obvious reluctance. Before he could lick the paper, she said, “Have the rest of mine.”

He gazed at her, offended. “I’ll not grab food out of a woman’s hands.”

“The woman in question isn’t very hungry, and her food would go to waste otherwise.”

Though he had to still be ravenous, he didn’t move to take the offered pastry.

“Don’t be a prideful ass.” She held her food out to him. “Considering how we’ve got you over a barrel, this can be some compensation.”

“A pie doesn’t make up for you lot blackmailing me.”

“It’s a start.”

He continued to stare at her until, finally, he took the food. Their fingers brushed as he did so. They had touched before, yet each new contact seemed to create new pathways of sensation, expanding farther and farther through her body.

She pulled back, her hands folding in her lap, and she fixedly stared out the window. This time, she did not watch him eat, but tried to pick out details from the night-swathed landscape rolling past the window.

“The canteen is still in Marco’s pack.” Were they close to Grantham yet? She hoped they were. Everything would become secure and orderly once they returned to headquarters.

She couldn’t stop herself from watching him drink. A few droplets of water ran down his chin and along his throat to disappear beneath the knotted neck cloth.

He replaced the canteen, but found the flask. His eyes met hers in the glass. The flash of his grin made heat move through her all over again—brutal thugs didn’t grin like scoundrels, full of wicked intent. This one did.

He took a pull from the flask and gave an expressive shudder. “Even on Rockley’s penny, I never had liquor like this.”

“Marco enjoys fine spirits.”

“Here’s to Marco, then.” He raised the flask before taking another drink. Then he capped the flask and returned it to the pack. She had expected him to down the whole thing.

“Without offering a drink to the lady?” She gazed at him severely.

His eyebrows rose. “Didn’t think ladies liked spirits.”

“This lady does.” She held out a hand.

He passed her the flask, and watched with naked fascination as she uncapped it and took a good, long swallow. She couldn’t remember appreciating a drink more. The grappa burned like redemption.

“I’ll be sure to remember Marco in my evening prayers.” He purchased grappa regularly from an importer, claiming that his Italian blood couldn’t tolerate coarse English whiskey. Ridiculous, particularly since she had witnessed him drain more than a few glasses of whiskey at the end of an especially difficult assignment.

After taking one more sip, she gave the flask back to Dalton.

At that moment, Marco and Simon returned to the compartment, closing the door behind them. Spotting his flask in Dalton’s hand, Marco scowled and snatched it away. It seemed to be a measure of Dalton’s improved humor that he didn’t plant his fist in Marco’s face.

“How does this Nemesis operation work?” he asked. “You run adverts in the paper: ‘Downtrodden? Want justice? Nemesis, Unlimited has all your vengeance needs. Find us at the corner of Dean Street and Fetter Lane.’”

Marco rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. We started finding clients just by keeping our ears to the ground, using our sundry connections to find out when someone was being wronged. After our first few cases, word spread. Former clients bring us new cases, and we still use our connections to find those in need of help. No advertising necessary.”

“Ever turn anyone down?”

“All the time,” Eva said. “Some people think Nemesis is their own personal bully squad. They want us to collect debts or throw acid in a rival’s face. But we work to obtain justice for those who have been truly wronged, we don’t deal out thuggery. Yet there’s always legitimate work for us, and we usually take on several cases at once.”

“Can’t imagine that these clients of yours pay handsomely.”

“We take small remuneration for our services,” she said, “but Nemesis is funded out of our own pockets.”

Dalton snorted. “Bad business model.”

“It’s not about the money.” Simon’s lip curled. “It never has been.”

Dalton looked patently skeptical. “Tell me what happens when we get to London.”

“We review options, devise strategies.” Simon neatly flicked back the tails of his coat as he took his seat. “Plan our course of attack.”

“Based on information that I give you. And then?”

“And then … Nemesis will do its job.”

“After that?” Dalton demanded.

“We can’t think beyond our immediate goals,” she said. “Otherwise, we lose focus.”

Dalton’s mouth curled. “No need for you lot to worry about the future. You don’t have the warders biting at your heels.”

“Earlier this evening,” she noted, “you seemed willing to die to get vengeance on Rockley. A few weeks of uncertainty is nothing by comparison.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “This is why I don’t like mixing with clever people. They twist you around so much you don’t know your nose from your arsehole.”

“What an enchanting image.”

Silence pressed down in the compartment. They all seemed to run out of words, as though a tap had been opened and everything worth saying drained away.

She burned with impatience to reach headquarters so they might begin the next stage of their plan. The others must have felt the same way, all of them restive, legs crossing and uncrossing, knuckles cracking, fingers drumming on kneecaps or any available surface—the dozens of small yet irritating ways men channeled their pent-up energy.

Dalton seemed torn between restlessness and exhaustion. With his arms still folded over his chest, he kept glancing around as if anticipating an ambush. But then his eyes drooped shut. An instant later, he snapped them open, fighting sleep. Yet escaping from prison and a long chase across the moors had taken their toll. No matter how he struggled, sleep dragged on him.

At last, he could fight no more. His head tipped back, leaning against the seat. Dreams began at once, his dark eyelashes quivering. What did he dream of? Murdering Rockley, most likely. Or maybe he dreamt of his sister. The file contained only the most basic information: Dalton and his sister had different fathers, and their mother had died some time shortly after Edith’s birth. They had grown up in East London. At an unknown point, Edith had become a prostitute, Dalton a thief and then a bare-knuckle boxer in underground fights before finally being hired as a bodyguard by Rockley. Whether the siblings were close wasn’t covered in the report. Edith meant enough to her brother to warrant attempted murder.

Or maybe Dalton dreamt of someone else. A sweetheart, perhaps. He hadn’t said anything about a woman waiting for him, but that possibility couldn’t be ruled out. A man like Dalton wouldn’t want for female company. He’d be irresistible to any woman with a taste for danger. Almost every woman craved a dangerous man.

Not me. I’ve enough of it in my work. Don’t need it in my lovers.

Yet she watched him sleep, watched the softening of his face, and how, when he wasn’t scowling or cursing, his mouth verged on sybaritic.

A sharp jab in her side pulled her attention away from Dalton. Simon frowned at her.

“Be on your guard,” he whispered, throwing a significant glance toward Dalton.

“I’m always careful,” she whispered back.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

She made a hand gesture learned on the London docks. Yet the warning was a good one. If this mission failed, everyone in Nemesis would wind up either in prison or dead. The stakes were far too high to rely on something as fallible and easily fooled as the human heart.

CHAPTER FOUR

He didn’t trust anyone, least of all her. Jack watched Eva’s face as the train slowed, looking for any hint of what she might be thinking. She kept her expression so damn cool, though. She could be planning his murder or an afternoon tea. Either was a possibility. Her gaze stayed on the windows as the platform at King’s Cross Station slid into view. She and the two blokes kept themselves alert, wary. Jack did the same.

The bits of sleep he’d had on the ride had revived him. He no longer felt like his eyes were full of sand. So he stopped looking at Eva and stared out the window, too. Despite the lateness of the hour, people milled on the platform, waiting for the train. No gang of coppers there to arrest him. He stayed cagey. The police could be lying in wait. If they thought he’d go down without a fight, they’d soon learn their mistake.

“Keep yourself easy.” Eva reached across the compartment and laid her hand atop his, startling him. Her fingers tried to pry his fist open. They couldn’t. “Act like an escaped convict, and that’s precisely what everyone will see.”

“Think I don’t know that?” he growled back. But he relaxed his hands. He felt a stab of disappointment when she took her hand away and smoothed it down the front of her skirts, as if to wipe away the feel of his skin.

The train stopped with a hiss. Marco, Simon, and Eva stood. Drawing a breath, Jack stood, as well. Simon moved out into the passageway and opened the door. He glanced up and down the platform, illuminated by hundreds of gaslights.

“We’re clear.” Simon placed his hand on his pocket and stared at Jack. “Make a break for it, and I’ll unload my gun into your back.”

“Keep threatening me,” Jack answered, “and I’ll feed you your goddamn gun through your arse.”

Scowling, Eva stepped between them. “The both of you, enough chest-beating. Our cab’s waiting.” She shouldered past Simon and stepped out onto the platform. Jack followed, giving Simon a glare and an extra shove with his arm as he moved past the blond toff. Jack had to give the bloke some credit, though. He didn’t move an inch when Jack shoved him, and Jack hadn’t been gentle. Strong, that one. Couldn’t trust a man like that.

The clock in the station declared it to be half past two in the morning. Only a few dozen people moved around the platform instead of the usual mobs waiting for trains to take them north. He’d been to King’s Cross a dozen times, maybe more. Even so, he hadn’t been in a huge train station in years. Unease gnawed on the back of his neck. The very size of the place made him edgy, with its massive vaulted ceiling. His too tight suit already made him feel squeezed. This made it worse, his heart pounding as if trying to force its way out of his chest.

“Let’s go.” Eva led the way down the platform, with Simon and Marco staying close at Jack’s heels.

He could do it. Now. Break away from these Nemesis madmen and track Rockley down on his own. There were dozens of places in the station he could lose himself if he ran fast. Behind the colonnades. Across the tracks and into the goods or coal depot.

“I wouldn’t.” Eva spoke over her shoulder. “Simon’s a crack shot. He’s got a shelf of trophies from Eton.”

“Harrow,” said Simon.

She waved a slim hand. “Those distinctions only matter to you. Either way, Dalton, you better not risk it.”

“Don’t like being threatened,” he growled.

She turned and faced him so abruptly, he nearly collided with her. “Don’t give us a reason to threaten you.” A man in a wrinkled tweed suit gave them a curious look, so she pasted a bright smile on her face. “Come, Cousin Henry, Mama has made up a room for you and I’d wager she’s keeping herself awake for your arrival.”

The man in the tweed suit moved on.

“She better have a drink waiting for me,” Jack said. He surely needed one.

“One of her famous cordials, no doubt.” She tipped her head toward the arches that led to the booking office and the exit. “Do hurry along, cousin. We don’t want to be discourteous to Mama.”

He thought of a dozen rude things to say, but didn’t want to attract any more attention. It seemed the smarter course of action to just follow along with these Nemesis lunatics and consider a plan of escape as he went.

The four of them walked quickly through the station, passing the ticket office, and then out onto the street. Several cabs lined up on St. Pancras Road, the heads of both drivers and horses drooping as they dozed. Only one driver looked awake, and he waved at them as they emerged from the station. Another one of their “friends,” Jack assumed. The others hastened toward the waiting cab.

“Come on, Dalton,” Eva said when Jack remained on the curb.

“Give me a bloody minute.” He drew in a deep lungful of air. It was heavy with the scents of coal smoke, horse dung, mud. Not a trace of rock dust or bitter Yorkshire wind. Thank God.

He was back. Back in London. He never thought to be here again.

“Now, Dalton,” Eva said, yet her voice was far gentler than her words.

He didn’t want to stand out here, waiting for some copper to stroll by on patrol, so he got into the cab with the others. As soon as the door closed, they were off, clattering away from King’s Cross Station.

London. London. The name beat through him like another pulse as he stared out the cab window and the passing streets. He’d been born here, and his earliest memories involved him running barefoot and filthy through the city’s knotted streets. A wretched, glittering trollop of a city. Christ, how he loved it. Missed it. As the cab drove into the night, he kept his starved gaze on the city, past churches and squares and grimy streets. Though most of London’s citizens were tucked in their beds, the lanes quiet and still, there were still others out on their particular nighttime business, scuttling like roaches beneath the street lamps.

Eva and the two men spoke to one another in low voices, but Jack barely heard them. Somewhere out there was Rockley. Somewhere in London that son of a bitch drank and fucked, little knowing that his miserable life was soon to end.

The cab turned into a narrow lane lined with darkened shops. The lane itself looked empty, and the lodgings above the shops had their shutters and curtains drawn. Once the hired carriage stopped, Marco hopped out, with Simon following. Eva remained in the carriage as Jack peered curiously through the cab’s open door.

Of all the places he thought Nemesis would take him, he wasn’t figuring on Clerkenwell, a place more suited to shabby paper shufflers and Italian immigrants than secret organizations bent on vengeance.

“Expecting a fortified palace, perhaps?” Eva’s voice was arch in the dark confines of the carriage.

“Some gun towers, at the least.”

“Not very discreet, gun towers.” She waved toward the carriage door. “Let’s not stand on custom, Mr. Dalton. After you.”

He clambered from the cab, frowning when he saw Marco standing at the door to a chemist’s shop. “Got a case of clap, gov?”

Marco scowled, but Jack heard Eva’s soft snort of laughter behind him as she got out of the carriage. Marco unlocked the door to the chemist’s.

Following everyone inside, Jack decided not to voice his questions. He’d just wait to see how everything played out. Keep his eyes and ears sharp. That was always the best way to learn something. Talk too much, ask too many questions, and people start to get suspicious. The Nemesis crew was already chary enough. No need to give them further fuel.

The shop itself was silent and still. Bottles lined up like informants along built-in shelves, with premade tonics keeping company beside faded advertisements touting a return to health and vigor. A brass scale sat ready to dole out judgment from atop a glass-topped counter. The faint acrid smell of chemicals hung in the air.

Stepping behind the counter, Eva ran her fingers beneath its overhang. She appeared to grasp something, and pulled. There was a quiet unlatching sound. One of the built-in cabinets swung open, revealing a steep wooden staircase heading upward.

Jack raised his brows. Nemesis liked to keep its tracks hidden.

He had little option other than to follow Eva as she headed up the stairs. She didn’t bother turning on the gas lamp, but walked up through the darkness in perfect comfort—as though she spent every night skulking about in the shadows. Not an unreasonable assumption.

She kept glancing behind her, as if making sure he was still there.

The narrow stairwell pressed in on all sides, the stairs creaking beneath him. Compared to her light tread, he felt huge and ungainly. Even Marco and Simon trailing after him seemed to have cats’ feet as they all ascended the stairs.

It had been decades since he’d been a housebreaker. He’d lost his touch for subtlety and surprise. That wasn’t how he’d earned his bread. As a brawler and then a bodyguard, his job had been to make sure everyone had seen and heard him coming. Maybe that’s why his attempt to kill Rockley had gone so spectacularly badly. He should have fallen back on old habits, gone for a carefully planned and secret attack. Instead, he’d just barged right into Rockley’s place and wrapped his hands around the bastard’s neck. One of the other bodyguards on duty had come up behind Jack and knocked him out. By the time Jack had woken up, he’d been lying on the floor of a Black Maria, his hands in manacles, on his way to the station.

That’s what lack of finesse had gotten him—imprisonment, without even the benefit of getting revenge.

Another door stood at the top of the stairwell. Eva knocked—three short taps, a pause, and then another tap. Locks clicked as they were unbolted. The door opened.

A dark-haired woman stood on the other side of the door. Gas lamps burned behind her, throwing her into shadow.

“Everything went as planned?” the woman asked Eva. “No difficulties?”

Eva said, “You sound almost sorry, Harriet.”

“Always looking for an excuse to practice my surgical skills.” She gazed past Eva to Jack. “That him, then?”

“Silly us,” said Simon, “we brought back the wrong convict.”

Harriet clicked her tongue, then stepped back, allowing them inside.

As Jack crossed the threshold, he took in the details of the room. Maybe he had been expecting something a little … grander. Not this ordinary parlor, with a plain round table in the middle, surrounded by battered bentwood chairs. Two upholstered chairs were shoved against the walls, which were covered with striped wallpaper that peeled up along the seams. A framed print of the Lincoln’s Inn Gate House hung on the wall.

Beyond the parlor, Jack could just make out a kitchen with a closed range stove and another set of stairs that presumably led to more rooms.

“The hell is this place?” Jack demanded.

“Nemesis’s headquarters.” Eva set her reticule down on the table. As she did, Simon and Marco set their gear down, as well. They all seemed to exhale, their faces looking tight and drawn in the artificial light.

“Looks like a clerk’s lodgings. A badly paid clerk.”

“We save our funds for things of importance,” Simon said, curt. He shut the door and did up the numerous locks, including sliding a thick bolt into place. “Explosives. Train tickets for escaped convicts.”

“Tea for returning operatives.” This was spoken by a man with a salt-and-pepper beard, coming into the parlor with a tray holding several chipped china cups and a teapot covered in painted flowers. He glanced at Jack inquisitively, but only put the tray on the table. He poured out four cups, added cubes of sugar and milk from a small pitcher, then handed them around, even giving one to Jack.

“Cheers,” Jack said, guarded. The cup was tiny in his hand, but he held it up and sniffed at the tea.

Eva, holding his gaze, sipped at her tea. “There’s a disappointing lack of opium in it.”

He waited until she and everyone else looked away, then took a drink, his first real cup of tea in half a decade. Maybe gentry folk drank better brews than this, but he wouldn’t know the difference. As it was, the tea was strong and wonderful. Barely, he resisted the impulse to close his eyes and groan in delight. Jaysus, but he missed this.

“I’m Lazarus,” the older man said. He might have been on the far side of fifty, and not especially tall, but he looked fit and he carried himself like a man who once had earned his coin through Her Majesty’s Army. Which confirmed what the others had told Jack on the train. Lazarus tilted his head toward the woman who’d opened the door. “You already met Harridan Badly.”

“It’s Harriet, you ass,” she snapped. “Harriet Bradley.” Now that Jack could see her better, he realized that Harriet wasn’t young, either, somewhere in her middle forties, but still slim and handsome. Her skin was the color of tea with cream, her features were slightly African, her hair thickly textured. A woman of mixed blood.

Dislike and something else crackled between her and Lazarus as they glared at each other across the parlor.

“Desmond and Riza are out in the field right now,” Eva said. “And now you’ve met everyone in Nemesis.”

“Good to sodding meet you.” Jack threw back the last of his tea, not caring that it burned his mouth, and slammed his cup down on the table. It broke apart, bits of cheap porcelain scattering over the wood. “I’m leaving. Got a murderer to kill.” He swung back toward the door.

Marco and Simon were on him in an instant, gripping his arms, struggling to restrain him.

He snarled out a laugh. “You think you can hold me?”

“Either you stay here and do what we say,” Marco said through gritted teeth, “or we hand you to the authorities.”

Anger boiled through Jack. “I broke out of Dunmoor but wound up in another prison.” He shook Marco off. The dark man stumbled against one of the upholstered chairs, then righted himself quickly, agile as a liar.

Before Jack could shove Simon, Eva stepped in front of him. “By now, Rockley’s been informed that you’ve escaped,” she said. “Security around him is going to be impenetrable. You wouldn’t be able to get to him, even if we let you go.” She took a step closer. “All you would be doing is running straight toward your own death. Without even the satisfaction of vengeance. If that’s what you want”—she moved aside and undid all the locks on the door, even the bolt—“then go.”

His gaze moved back and forth between her and the door. Was she speaking the truth? Jack had escaped from prison that very day, and the prison wouldn’t want to make public the fact that one of their convicts had gotten free. And Dunmoor was hundreds of miles from London. At most, there might be a notice in the York papers. No one in London would know.

But … Rockley had always kept his claws out for any bit of information relevant to himself. He lined the pockets of bureaucrats and informants all over the country. Official word wouldn’t get out about Jack’s escape, but doubtless one of the warders—if not the prison governor himself—had been kept on retainer. Jack had tried to kill Rockley and survived. Without question Rockley would have kept an eye on him. A telegraph had surely been sent, informing that piece of garbage that Jack was at large. Rockley’s edginess had probably gotten even worse since Jack had tried to murder him. Which meant he would have doubled or even tripled his usual number of bodyguards. Jack had once been one of those bodyguards. They were rough, mean men, just like him. And just like him, they’d stop at nothing to keep anyone and everyone from getting to Rockley.

Eva was right. If Jack so much as belched in Rockley’s direction, he’d be taken down. There’d be no justice for Edith. Only her brother’s cold, rotting body lying in the street.

He swore, using the filthiest words he knew.

“Curb your language,” Simon hissed.

“I’ll say whatever I bloody want. Get off me.” Jack rammed his elbow into Simon’s flat stomach. The toff only grunted softly, but didn’t let go.

She peered at Jack. “Mr. Dalton appears to have grasped some logic. He won’t be leaving us. Will you, Mr. Dalton?”

He glowered at her. “I’ll stay. For now.”

“How gracious.” She nodded when Simon finally let go of Jack’s arm, though the blond gent looked sour to do so. Quickly, she fastened all the locks. The bolt made a solid thunk as it slid into place. They didn’t mess about, these Nemesis folks, not when it came to watching their arses. “Consider this place your refuge from a hostile world.”

Jack paced around the parlor, noting with a dark satisfaction that everything in the room rattled when he walked, the crockery and bits of bric-a-brac clattering like bones. “’Cept you lot are just as hostile as a gang of cutthroats.”

“There are certain throats that need to be cut,” she answered, turning back to him. “Metaphorically. And you are going to be the blade that cuts Rockley’s.”

“Metaphorically,” he said snidely, “on account that you don’t work that way.”

“Nemesis doesn’t murder,” Lazarus said. “Not in cold blood.”

“That’s so damn pretty I should tattoo it on my chest,” Jack fired back.

Lazarus paced over to him. The older man shoved up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing a burly tanned forearm dusted with silvery hair. But there was ink there, too, faded and smoky. Hard to tell what the pictures had been when they were fresh decades ago, but they looked like they once had been knives. Seven of them in neat succession running up Lazarus’s forearm.

“These are for the men who died at Lucknow,” Lazarus snarled. “My friends. And I killed God knows how many rebels during those sieges. Got me a Victoria Cross for my efforts, but it didn’t matter. There’s too much blood that gets spilled, oceans of it, and I’ve been the one spilling it. But we’ve all left that behind.” He looked pointedly at each of the Nemesis crew in turn, including Harriet and Eva.

“No one’s got my respect more than soldiers,” Jack said. “They go to war knowing they’re going to kill. They know they could die, too. But Edith never thought she’d take a knife to the belly. Rockley’s knife. You’ve seen how long it takes to die from a hole in your gut, Lazarus. She had plenty of time to feel pain and be afraid.”

His words burned like acid as he spoke, and his mind choked with pictures of Edith as she lay in a growing pool of her blood on the floor of the brothel, and him unable to do a damn thing to help.

“So don’t tell me what you did and what I have to do are the same thing,” he rumbled. “’Cause they ain’t.”

Silence fell, heavy as a corpse.

“Once a man dies, his suffering is over,” Eva said quietly from the other side of the parlor. “But ruination can last a lifetime.”

He stared at her, barely aware of the others in the shabby little room. “Just picture it: the only family you got in the whole world, stretched out at your feet, dying too slow to be merciful but too fast to get a doctor. Picture that”—he pointed a finger at her—“and then tell me you’d be satisfied with ruination.”

Her cheeks whitened, and she pressed her lips into a thin line. Finally, she spoke. “We aren’t murderers. And as long as we need you, you aren’t a murderer, either.” Before he could shoot back a response, she held up her hand. “One thing we all are is exhausted. Time for us to get some rest, and then we resume our discussion in the morning.”

“I want Rockley dead, and you lot say I can’t kill him,” Jack said. “Soon as I get my chance, I’m going to end his goddamn life. End of discussion.” He stepped close to her, deliberately trying to intimidate her. Yet drawing near her, he found himself oddly intrigued by the soft strands of golden hair that had come loose from their pins and teased over the back of her neck. What would those little wisps feel like against his fingers? And why did he have the need to know?

She crossed her arms over her chest, but the movement was more combative than self-protecting. He almost admired her refusal to back down. Except she wasn’t backing down from him; that, he didn’t like one bit.

“The conversation’s far from over,” she said. “And I’m not going to say another damn word about it until I get some sleep.”

But her words had a strange kind of power to them, for as soon as she said that word sleep, he felt as though his bones were made of lead. The snooze he’d caught on the train had fueled him for a small while. He’d burned through that fuel, however, and his whole body ached with weariness. Pain crept behind his eyes. His jaw throbbed with the force it took to keep from yawning wide as a crocodile.

Even if he headed outside, he wouldn’t make it far before keeling over. Damn prison life getting him used to regular sleep. When he’d been on the streets, he could go days with nothing more than a quick doze leaning up against a wall.

“Going to put me up at Claridge’s?”

Marco grunted. “Delusional. Come on, then.” He walked through the kitchen and up the stairs.

Seeing that he was supposed to follow, and given that he’d tip over from exhaustion at any moment, Jack decided to go along. He climbed the stairs, hearing Eva’s lighter step behind him. At the top of the stairs was a cramped hallway, a threadbare hooked carpet partially covering the scuffed floorboards. Two doors faced each other. Marco opened the door on the right.

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.

“It’s not Dalton’s size or strength that has me concerned,” said Simon.

“A little credit, if you please.” Eva fixed him with a wry look. “I’m hardly the sort to be led astray by a suggestive remark or carnal glance.”

“No, you aren’t.”

At least there was no recrimination in Simon’s tone. Once, years ago, he’d intimated that he would like to take their relationship beyond the professional. She’d immediately quashed that idea. There had been some wounded feelings right after her refusal, but Simon’s speedy recovery had proven to her that, at most, he’d been mildly curious. Not enthralled. Not even enamored. She hadn’t been hurt by his quick rallying. If anything, it proved what she already knew—she was better off on her own, free of entanglements.

“Just … be wary around Dalton,” Simon pressed. “He’s got a way of looking at you.”

Her heart gave a strange, small leap. “The man’s been in prison for five years. He’d look at a toothless crone the same way.”

This time it was Simon who was wry. “Believe it or not, but even in the depths of a man’s lust, he knows the difference between a beldam and a beauty.”

“How encouraging.”

Simon continued, “Dalton assuredly knows what he sees when he looks at you.”

The woman who’s got his baubles in her hand. Or is it more than that?

It didn’t matter. She was a dedicated operative. Dalton might be different from what she had anticipated, but she had a responsibility to Nemesis’s client and the greater good. He was simply another cog in the larger machine, a machine she was determined to run with the same capable skill she’d shown throughout her years with Nemesis.

The cab rolled to a stop outside the door to her lodgings. It was a perfectly respectable building in a perfectly respectable neighborhood; so respectable, in fact, that no one was awake to note that she wasn’t married to the man riding with her in the hansom. After bidding Simon good night, Eva climbed the front steps, then let herself in.

She walked up the two flights of stairs leading to her rooms. The ground floor was where her landlady, Mrs. Petworth, lived, along with Mrs. Petworth’s daughter. Miss Axford resided on the next story, a soft-spoken girl who worked at a stationer’s shop, as well as the Ratley cousins, both women employed as transcribing clerks at the same firm.

Reaching the door of her rooms, Eva saw light filtering out from beneath the door of the woman who lived across from her. Miss Siles was a writer, and kept appalling hours as she struggled to become the next George Eliot. As Eva fitted her key into the lock of her door, she heard the creak of the floor in Miss Siles’s rooms. Pacing. Again. She paced far more than she actually wrote. Thankfully, she was also much too absorbed in her creative process to notice that the woman who lived across the hall was coming home at three-thirty in the morning. Hardly the hours a respectable tutor kept.

Mrs. Petworth often reminded Eva that she rented only to decent women of good repute.

A smile touched Eva’s lips as she wondered what Dalton might think of that policy. He’d likely have something to say about her reputation, and it wouldn’t be good.

She stepped inside her rooms and shut the door behind her, then turned the lamp on low. Soft light filled the snug but comfortable space, illuminating the table at which she conducted her lessons, the armchair by the fireplace and the books gathered around the chair’s feet, and the painted folding screen which concealed her bed. Watercolors painted by her students hung upon the walls. What they lacked in skill they made up for in enthusiasm.

She gave a quick but thorough scan of the chambers, checking for indications that anyone had been there. Everything was just as she’d left it earlier. Not even the single hair she’d left on her bed had been disturbed. Searches almost always began with the bed.

She tried to picture Dalton in her rooms. He’d seem as out of place as an ironclad in a duck pond.

Papers and lesson plans were scattered upon her table, and as she gathered them up, she considered then rejected the idea of making herself a cup of tea. Far too late for that. What she really needed was to take her own advice to Dalton and get some sleep. It had been a phenomenally long day. She’d been awake for over twenty-one hours. At the least, she didn’t have any students scheduled for tomorrow. Checking her calendar, she noted that her next appointment was for the day following next. The Hallow children. Both girls were making decent progress with their French, but they couldn’t retain historical dates for love or money.

Mr. Hallow didn’t care if his daughters knew the date of the Treaty of Windsor. He only wanted them to speak French passably, to paint with a fair degree of skill, and to have enough general knowledge to successfully converse at the dinner table. In short, he wanted them to be like the daughters of the aristocracy, even though Mr. Hallow was a grocer who owned two shops. Like most everyone in London, he had aspirations. For himself. For his children.

Eva stacked her papers up into neat piles. She needed to keep everything tidy. Her students all came to her rooms for their lessons. Her clients didn’t have enough money to have governesses, nor to send their daughters away to school. Eva was there to give the girls a bit of polish—and, unbeknownst to their parents, some actual useful skills, such as mathematics, geography, and history.

None of her students nor their parents knew the truth about Eva. Even Eva’s own parents believed she was just a tutor, and nothing more.

As a gentleman, Simon had no need of work, per se, but he managed his investments and estates with none of his aristocratic friends or colleagues aware of his other work. Marco continued to serve as a consultant to the government in matters of foreign policy. Lazarus had a military pension, but would take occasional construction jobs. And no one at the accountancy firm where Harriet clerked had the vaguest inkling that she did anything other than sort through financial records.

Eva rather liked having dual selves. A secret belonging only to a select few. And while Simon, Marco, and the others knew she taught, none of them had ever been inside her rooms, nor seen her at work. The only person who knew everything about the two Evas was Eva herself.

Satisfied everything was in order, she checked the locks on her door one last time, then began to undress. Undoing the hooks running along the front of her bodice was a relief. She did the same with her corset cover and corset. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since she’d dressed in the predawn darkness, preparing for her journey out to Yorkshire. Now her clothes felt limp and stale.

What must it be like to have a maid, dressing and undressing you? All of her garments fastened in the front. Wealth was never a possibility when tutoring the children of shopkeepers. She might have made more as a governess, or teaching at a day or boarding school—but that meant her time wouldn’t be her own, time she needed for Nemesis.

It wasn’t about the money. It never was.

Girls like the Hallow daughters were precisely the sort that Lord Rockley preyed upon. Without the benefit of wealth or status, Miss Jones had nowhere to turn. Neither would the Hallow girls. As Dalton had said, it was an old story. Rich man, vulnerable girl. But Eva was determined that no female would ever suffer again because of Rockley.

Standing in her chemise and drawers, she shivered. The fire hadn’t been lit. A lingering chill seeped through the windows that faced the street, and weariness robbed her of heat.

This wasn’t a kind world to women. It never would be. She couldn’t simply accept it, however.

She stripped out of her chemise and drawers and put her clothing away into the somewhat battered oak wardrobe, then donned her nightgown. There were finer nightgowns, to be sure, confections of silk and lace, but no one ever saw Eva in her nightclothes. The little blue ribbons trimming the neckline and cuffs were for herself alone.

She recalled the flash of heat in Dalton’s eyes, and Simon’s words about how Dalton looked at her. How might he look at her as she stood by her bed in her simple nightgown? Would his gaze go shadowed with desire? And why should that image make her own heart beat faster?

Broken hearts and dashed promises littered the Nemesis case files like so many carcasses in the morgue. Even Miss Jones had been led astray by promises that would never come to pass. What was love but another means of calamity? She’d not allow herself that kind of weakness.

Besides, she needed to protect her work within Nemesis. Which severely limited her options. And she wouldn’t make the mistake of becoming romantically involved with any of her colleagues.

Which meant nights alone. No one to truly confide in. A deliberately solitary existence.

It’s worth it. She needed to believe that.

She extinguished the light and climbed into bed. Nearly a whole day without sleep. Yet her thoughts wouldn’t quiet, circling her on their raven wings and cawing.

They’d find some way to ruin Rockley. It hadn’t become clear yet, but everyone within Nemesis possessed the same tenacity. All that was left was to discover the how of it.

Dalton was the key. From the beginning, when the initial plan had been hatched, she’d protested his involvement. A thug, a brute. More a liability than an asset. But she’d been wrong. He was far more than muscles controlled by a rudimentary brain. He had thoughts of his own, needs, emotions.

What troubled her the most, what chased her down dream-lit corridors as she finally succumbed to sleep, was the interest and hunger that gleamed in his dark eyes when he looked at her. More troubling was the answering awareness she felt within herself.

* * *

Eva heard the shouting through the ceiling of the chemist’s shop. The few customers kept glancing up from their examination of tonics, worried frowns pinching their brows.

“How long?” she asked Mr. Byrne.

“Started up ’bout an hour ago,” the chemist answered. Like the customers, Mr. Byrne looked uneasy from the sounds. “As soon as Mr. Addison-Shawe and Mr. Spencer gone up. Don’t recognize who ’tis they’re yelling with, though.”

“Someone new.” Bottles rattled as heavy footsteps thumped overhead. “He won’t be staying.”

“Hope not.” The chemist looked balefully at the door as his would-be patrons hurried out, the bell jingling behind them in cheery counterpoint to the angry male voices from above.

Mr. Byrne was quite aware of Nemesis’s activities. As someone who’d grown up in reduced circumstances and had seen firsthand the lack of parity between rich and poor, he approved of their work. Which was fortunate, because as their landlord, he kept their rent accommodatingly low.

Eva unlatched the secret door and stepped into the stairwell leading up to the Nemesis rooms. Mr. Byrne shut the door behind her. As she walked up the stairs, the voices grew louder, crashing together like battleships. With her hand on the doorknob, she took a deep breath. The day had hardly begun, and it already promised to be an upward climb.

Entering the parlor, she removed her hat, coat, and gloves and found Simon and Dalton standing nearly chest to chest, their faces dark with anger. No one noticed her. Marco struggled in vain to separate the two men, trying to shove them apart. Lazarus and Harriet stood off to the side, bemused. Amazement struck her all over again, seeing Dalton’s massiveness, how he seemed to fill the room with not merely his size but his presence. Simon—lean, strong Simon—looked like a sapling beside a giant oak.

“How many times do I got to tell you?” Dalton snarled. “I don’t know a sodding thing about Rockley’s business, so stop bloody asking me.”

“Are you deliberately being obtuse?” Simon fired back. “The more you fight us, the tougher it’s going to be and the longer it’s going to take.”

“And I don’t give a damn. I just want Rockley.”

“This is how we’re going to bring him down. If you’d just—”

“Here I thought we specialized in covert missions,” Eva said dryly.

Both men turned the force of their glares on her. Had she not been experienced in dealing with large, angry men, she might have been afraid. As it was, she simply folded her arms over her chest and stared back at them coolly.

They spoke over each other.

“This oaf was—”

“Been trying to tell Lord Cuntshire here that I—”

She ignored them, walking past the two shouting men and into the kitchen. There, she calmly made herself a cup of tea. From one of the cupboards, she produced a bottle of whisky, and added a generous dash of it to her brew. As she did this, the yelling in the parlor died away. She glanced up from attending to her drink and found both Simon and Dalton staring at her from the doorway to the kitchen.

She took a sip of her tea, enjoying its heat and burn. “Quite done?”

“You were right,” Simon clipped. “Using Dalton is a mistake. He can’t help us at all.”

The glower on Dalton’s face deepened as he looked at her. “You thought bringing me on was a mistake?”

“I thought so, yes,” she answered mildly, then took another sip. “Opinions can change, however.”

Dalton stalked into the parlor, and, after sending Simon a warning glance, Eva followed. Marco, Lazarus, and Harriet all sat warily at the table.

“Got it right the first time,” Dalton said, pacing around the room. “If you want someone beaten to a stain on the carpet, I’m your man. Otherwise, you’d have been better off leaving me to rot in Dunmoor.”

“Let’s agree to disagree on that matter. Right now, we need to go over the points of what we do know about Rockley’s disreputable activities and formulate a strategy from there. Please sit.” She waved toward one of the upholstered chairs.

He shook his head. “Feels like I’d explode like dynamite if I sat still too long.”

She understood. He’d been confined for years, and now he had freedom—or a small measure of it—with the one man he wanted dead traipsing around London. No wonder restless energy poured from Dalton. It seeped into her own body, until she felt ablaze as a theater marquee. But she needed her poise and equanimity. She couldn’t let him rouse her, and she couldn’t cede power.

So she stood near the fireplace and took measured sips of her tea, watching him pace. “This is what we know: among his other business ventures, Rockley has a government contract for the manufacture of cartridges. The contract has been making him a considerable amount of money, but not merely from the sale of the cartridges. That much is public knowledge.” She set her teacup down on the mantel, and made certain she had Dalton’s attention. When he halted in his pacing, she continued. “Yet what isn’t public knowledge is that he’s been embezzling.”

Dalton frowned. “Skimming the profits?”

“He’s billing the army for the full cost of the cartridges,” said Marco, “but Rockley’s using third-rate materials for their manufacture, which means he has to be pocketing the difference.”

“Cheap alloys instead of copper for the jackets,” Eva explained. “Even worse for the primers.”

Lurking moodily at the door leading to the kitchen, Simon growled. “This is how we found out about the embezzling in the first place. I still have contacts in the army, and they’ve told me that the cartridges being made by Rockley are inferior in quality, certainly not worth the money being paid for them. He’s got to be pocketing the difference. “He turned his gaze toward the window, a frown deep between his brows. “It’s possible that Rockley’s shoddy cartridges helped bring about the fall of Khartoum. Old army friends told me about what happened there. A damn massacre, and not just because Gladstone dragged his heels sending the relief force.”

Dalton muttered a curse. Even cut off from the world as he’d been, he must have heard about the death of General Gordon and his troops at the hands of the Mahdists in the Sudan. The event had become a national rallying point, with the public crying for retribution.

“Could be that bad cartridges had nothing to do with Khartoum,” Dalton said.

“Had those men been given working, reliable bullets,” Simon answered, fury edging his voice, “they could’ve held out longer, those two days until Beresford and his gunboats arrived.”

Dalton said, “If you’ve got Rockley pinned with this government contract business, then it’s all settled. You can deliver him to the government on a tray, all nice like.”

“There’s the rub,” Eva said. “Nemesis has been stonewalled. All our attempts to go further in our investigation reach dead ends. Rockley’s put up too many impediments.” She gazed at him, full of meaning.

“You lot think I can tell you anything about it?” Dalton’s laugh wasn’t particularly agreeable. “Come put your hands around my arm, right here.” He pointed to his bicep.

“Why?” Marco demanded.

But Eva had already crossed the parlor and stood beside Dalton. She did so warily, still not trusting him not to lash out. Unlike Marco and Simon, Dalton was in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled back to reveal thick forearms. Someone had obtained a slightly better-fitting set of clothing for him, for it looked as though he was not about to burst out of his garments with the next breath. Yet he still strained against the fabric of his shirt, shoulders pulling the woven cotton tight. It would take some exceptional tailoring to contain him.

As though something as quotidian as a suit could contain Jack Dalton.

He held out his arm, and, having already decided to oblige him, Eva cautiously attempted to encircle his bicep with her hands. An impossible task. She would have needed at least one more hand to fully surround his upper arm. Heat radiated up from his skin, and he felt hard and solid as forged steel.

I’ll never underestimate him, she thought.

Their gazes met.

“That there is all Rockley ever wanted from me,” Dalton said, his voice a low rumble. “I didn’t keep a ledger of his money dealings. We didn’t gab over cigars and brandy about the stock market. The bastard barely ever talked to me. He kept me around for one reason, and you’ve got your hands around it.”

Eva released her grip on him, though the feel of his hard flesh seemed branded into her palms and along her fingers. She stepped away quickly.

“There are men with more information about Rockley’s business transactions,” she said. “Every last one of them is either in his pocket or dead. You are the only man who’s been that close to him.”

“The only one who’s left his employ,” added Lazarus, “and still draws breath.”

“He tried, though,” Dalton noted. “Wanted me hanged instead of imprisoned.”

“Because he knew you could be a threat to him.”

Yet Dalton shook his head. “Bloodthirsty and proud, that’s all. It’d be an insult to him if the bloke who tried to murder him wasn’t killed somehow.”

“It was more than pride and a hunger for blood that motivated Rockley. He wanted to bury you and the information you possessed.” She stared up at him. “Just think. Think about what you know of Rockley. The answer’s in there somewhere.”

Dalton growled in frustration. “Even if I knew something, which I don’t, I’m no good at this thinking business. Never done it before.”

“That’s patently untrue.” She put her hands on her hips. “Nemesis planted the story that Rockley was near Dunmoor, but you thought your way out of that prison. None of us told you how to escape. That was all your doing. And you came up with a plan in less than a day. Sounds suspiciously like thinking to me.” More quietly, she said, “It’s in you, Dalton. Have more faith in yourself.”

For several moments, he was silent as he studied her face. Looking for the truth of her words. Uncertainty lurked just beneath his gaze—this close, she saw that there was a faint corona of gold around his pupils, a gleam of brightness within the shadows. It stunned her, that this primal force of a man could have any reason to doubt himself. That he viewed himself merely as a mindless thug. Yet that must have been what he’d been told his whole life. What could that be like? To be told you have only one value, and that value was definitely not your ability to think?

It had been that way for women in Britain. Only lately had these ideas begun to change.

But not for Dalton. Low, so low that his voice was more of a bass rumble than words, he said, “No one’s ever thought of me as anything more than hired muscle. No one, except you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Only because you want something from me.”

“My purpose is entirely mercenary.” She wouldn’t insult him with anything less than candor. “But that doesn’t negate what I said. It only strengthens it.”

Again, silence from him. Then he said in a low, gruff voice, “Thanks.”

She didn’t want to be moved. She didn’t want to feel anything at all for him. Intentions, however, have a way of dissolving just when they are needed the most, leaving us exposed. Her carefully cultivated resolve flaked away, the very smallest piece of it, uncovering a tiny, undefended bit of heart. A simultaneously cold and warm sensation.

Because of him. This convict.

She turned away. For want of something to do, to erase the feel of him beneath her hand and collect the loosened pleats of her composure, she picked up her tea. It had gone cold, but she drank down the remains of it anyway, swallowing past the whiskey burn.

A mirror hung over the mantel, and she stared at the reflected room, everything and everyone within it reversed. Simon and Harriet gazed at Eva with looks of concern, and Dalton kept his attention on some distant point outside the window. She realized that she hadn’t seen him in full daylight before. Without the night’s shadows, he looked only slightly less sinister, but just as forbidding.

“We need,” she began, then cleared her throat, “we need to detail Rockley’s habits, how he spends his days. It should help us find areas that can be investigated and exploited further.”

He frowned. “You haven’t already tailed him?”

“Tried to.”

A not particularly nice smile curled Dalton’s mouth. “Got away from you, did he? Thought you lot were supposed to be good at this kind of skullduggery.”

“We are,” Marco answered hotly. “But Rockley’s a slippery one. We can’t keep a bead on him when he goes out.”

“His coachmen get training,” Dalton said. “Never take the same route twice, never go straight to a destination. In case anyone—like you folk—tries to follow him.”

“This is precisely why you’ll come into play, Dalton.” Harriet stood and pulled out several pieces of paper, as well as ink and a pen, from a side table. She held them out to him. “Write down everything you know about Rockley’s daily schedule.”

He stared at the paper and writing implements.

“Ah,” said Harriet, lowering her hands. “You can’t.”

Dalton’s look was thunderous. “’Course I can read and write. We had ragged schools in Bethnal Green.”

“Then…” Harriet waved the paper and pen at Dalton.

Still, he didn’t take the writing materials. He might be literate, yet Eva suspected he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the process of writing. Likely his education stopped at an early age. Time spent in the schoolroom meant less time earning money. Even very small children could weave baskets or put matches in boxes.

As the awkward moment stretched on, she stepped forward and took the pen and paper. Making herself brusque and businesslike, she sat at the table. “It’s always faster if someone else serves as amanuensis. Besides, most men have appalling handwriting.”

Without looking at him, she arranged the paper, opened the bottle of ink and dipped the pen nib in. Finally, she glanced up, and caught his brief look of gratitude. It couldn’t be easy, admitting to a room of strangers that you didn’t possess a skill everyone else had.

“Right, then,” she continued, “we’ll need Rockley’s full schedule. Starting with the time he wakes up. Every hour needs to be accounted for.”

Using his heel, Lazarus pushed out a chair for Dalton. Dalton eyed the seat warily. Gingerly, he lowered himself into it, filling the small chair, and it creaked beneath his weight. He looked as comfortable as if it had been upholstered with broken glass.

“Um … yeah … let’s see.” He shifted and the chair gave another squeak of protest. “Rockley … uh … wakes up … wakes up at … uh…” He dragged his hands through his hair, tugged at his unbuttoned collar, and readjusted his position in the chair.

He looked more uneasy than her students when she surprised them with a quiz.

“Come on, Dalton,” Marco said impatiently. “You’ve been thinking about killing Rockley for five years, and you worked for him for seven. Don’t tell us you don’t remember the blighter’s schedule.”

“I remember it fine,” Dalton snarled. He looked both furious and embarrassed. “It’s just that … this sitting around and thinking business don’t come naturally to me.”

“You’re more physical than intellectual,” said Harriet.

He seized on this word. “Physical. That’s me. Don’t spend much time pondering mysteries.”

“Simon,” Eva said, “can we find something, ah, physical for Mr. Dalton to do?”

Half expecting Simon to object or say something snide, she was surprised when he left the parlor and climbed the stairs to the next story. Sounds of him moving around upstairs thumped through the parlor.

“It can help to give the body something to do while the mind works,” Eva explained to a curious Dalton.

“A distraction,” he said.

“But it can assist in channeling thoughts rather than divert them.” She’d actually used the technique a time or two on some of her more energetic students, giving them a jumping rope as they recited their French conjugations. Her downstairs neighbors never appreciated the method, however.

She hadn’t brought her jumping rope with her today, and it would look like a tiny piece of string in Dalton’s hands. Hopefully, Simon would come up with a good solution.

A minute later, he appeared in the parlor, holding what appeared to be a pillowcase stuffed with rags. In his other hand, he carried a hammer and nails. Simon gathered the open edge of the pillowcase together, then held it to the top of the door frame leading to the kitchen. He then hammered the pillowcase to the door frame.

Standing back to admire his handiwork, he said, “A makeshift punching bag. Not precisely what you’d find at the West London Boxing Club, but it should suffice.” He turned to Dalton. “Using those hamfists of yours ought to provide enough distraction.”

“That it might.” Dalton rose up quickly from his chair and examined the improvised punching bag. “All I have to do is picture your pretty face and my punches won’t go wide.”

Lazarus and Marco snorted, and Harriet concealed her laugh behind a discreetly cupped hand.

“Let’s begin.” Eva wanted to make certain that a spontaneous round of pugilism didn’t break out between Simon and Dalton. She waved toward the punching bag. “Go ahead, Mr. Dalton.”

An eager fire in his gaze, Dalton positioned himself in front of the punching bag. Raised his big fists. Struck the bag. Again. And again.

A grin spread across his face.

She didn’t know what stunned her more. The brutal, deft skill he had with throwing punches, his body perfectly tuned, his movements precise as a surgeon’s. Or the real smile he wore, warming the hard angles of his face with genuine pleasure. A strange duality that he inhabited simultaneously. And one that caused flutters of interest low in her belly.

For God’s sake, you’re not a tigress searching out the biggest, fiercest male. It was too primitive. Too primal.

Yet she couldn’t look away as Dalton rained blows down upon the punching bag. He fell into a natural cadence, moving himself this way and that in small, exact increments. He had a good sense of rhythm. Made a woman think of other kinds of activities that required rhythm.

She rolled her eyes at herself. One would think she was a girl just discovering men for the first time. She was a woman grown, a woman who’d had her share of lovers and was no neophyte where men were concerned. She needed her focus.

Yet she caught Harriet’s eye, and both women exchanged knowing glances. Eva had the absurd urge to giggle. She never giggled.

“Decent technique, Dalton.” Simon’s words sounded begrudging.

“Trained at Potato Maclaren’s,” Dalton answered without breaking pace. “And on the streets. Won thirty-three bare-knuckle fights before I signed on to guard Rockley.”

His file said as much. Yet it was entirely different to see a man in action than simply reading about it.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said to Dalton. Her pen was poised above the paper.

He spoke without hesitation. “Rockley’s up every morning by eleven-thirty. Takes coffee at home. He’s particular about his dress, so it takes him a while to pick his clothes for the day. Out the door by one. Goes to his man of business’s offices in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“We know that much,” Marco said. “But after that, we lose him.”

“Ain’t always the same with him from day to day,” Dalton answered. “If he’s with Mitchell, his man of business, for fifteen minutes, then it’s a regular day and he goes to the Carlton Club.”

“Not the Reform Club.” Lazarus scoffed. “Figures.”

Eva’s pen didn’t stop, the nib scratching across the paper as she transcribed everything Dalton listed.

Ignoring Lazarus, Dalton continued. “But if he’s only with Mitchell for ten minutes, then the news is very good, and he’ll wind up at Rotten Row to watch the pretty ladies in their carriages or taking a turn on horseback. If he chats with a fine-looking piece, he’ll go to luncheon afterward. If he doesn’t meet any pretty girls, he goes to the gymnasium. A private one near Pall Mall.”

“And this is his standard routine?”

Dalton sneered at the punching bag. “He don’t even know he does it. Probably thinks he’s being—what’s the word?—spontaneous. But working seven years for Rockley taught me things about him he don’t even know about himself.”

As Dalton continued to throw punches, Eva studied him. Did he even know how perceptive he was? He seemed so quick to dismiss himself as nothing more than muscle.

“Then he usually goes home to bathe,” Dalton continued, unaware of her speculation. “His nights aren’t always the same. Dinners, the theater. One of them fancy balls during the Season.” He cast Eva a quick glance. “Brothels.”

As if the mention of that word could send Eva into a fit of hysterics. She wrote it in neat letters. “One brothel in particular, or did he frequent several?”

He paused only slightly, realizing he wasn’t going to shock her, then said, “He had about four he liked especially. Mrs. Arram’s House of Leisure. The Golden Lily. The Songbird. And Madame Bernadine’s Parlor.”

“Excellent.” She wrote the names next to the word brothels. “And that constituted the whole of his day?”

“Far as I can remember.”

Eva sat back and studied what she had written. The other Nemesis operatives gathered around her, reading over her shoulders. It looked like a tree, with points branching off certain locations, leading to more possibilities as to where Rockley would spend his time. Between Rockley’s drivers deliberately using obfuscation in their routes and the seemingly random decisions the nobleman made throughout his day, it was no wonder Nemesis hadn’t been able to track him.

Dalton, meanwhile, continued to shower the punching bag with hits.

“Maybe the man of business is the link,” Marco offered. “The evidence could be with him.”

“Too readily accessible,” said Harriet. “If I was looking for proof of Rockley’s dubious business dealings, that would be the first place I’d try. He’d know that, too.”

“The Carlton Club?” suggested Lazarus.

“Possibly,” Eva said. “Yet it’s such a fortress of conservative politics, I wonder if he’d dare keep evidence of his treason there.”

“Damn it.” Simon growled in frustration, and the other Nemesis operatives looked equally frustrated. “We’re not making any progress.”

Eva glanced back and forth between the diagram of Rockley’s activities and Dalton, her mind furiously working. She understood then what had to be done. It would be dangerous, for many reasons. But she never shied away from danger, not when it came to seeing justice done.

“Rockley needs to be followed again,” she said, pushing back from the table. “But this time, by Mr. Dalton.” She planted her hands on her hips. “With me accompanying him, of course.”

CHAPTER SIX

Jack stopped punching the bag and watched Nemesis split apart.

“Absolutely not,” the blond toff said.

“Don’t be irrational.” Eva looked calm as she faced Simon. “We’ve hit a wall here. The best way to learn more about Rockley is through more fieldwork.”

“She’s got a point,” Jack said. Riling the nob was part of his motivation, but he did see the logic of what Eva said. “I know that bastard’s patterns. If any of it changes, if he goes anyplace different, then something’s up.”

“Makes sense,” said Marco. “Dalton’s our asset. He can help us keep a tail this time.”

“Then I’ll go,” Simon insisted. “Or Lazarus.”

Eva raised her brows, looking like a queen staring down at a dirt-smeared upstart. “You seem to doubt my ability to do my job, Simon.”

“Not a bit,” he blustered. “But, it’s just that … you’re a woman—”

“That comes as a tremendous surprise.” She tugged on her gloves, still cool as the moon.

Jack couldn’t stop his grin. Oh, he enjoyed this. Watching her set the toff down with just a few words and icy looks.

“Dalton’s stronger than you,” Simon complained. “While you two are following Rockley, Dalton could decide he’s had enough. Overpower you and flee.”

“He could overpower any of us, even you. If Mr. Dalton truly wanted to run, he could do so at any moment, regardless of who’s accompanying him. Besides,” she continued, looking into the mirror as she pinned on her hat, “two men following someone appear more suspicious than a man and a woman out for a stroll through this fine city of ours. Who’d ever suspect an ingénue such as I could be capable of any mischief?” She turned and batted her amber eyes at Simon.

Jack knew she was doing it as a lark, but the sight of her fluttering her lashes and giving herself an innocent look sent a twist of hot need right through him. Maybe it was because he knew she wasn’t any such thing as innocent, but whatever the reason, he spun around and busied himself with finding his new jacket so he wouldn’t face the temptation she offered.

She tugged on her coat, then pulled a watch from the pocket. “It’s nearly quarter past twelve, which doesn’t give us much time to get to Rockley’s home before he sets out for the day.”

“Wait.” Simon grabbed a sheet of paper, then scrawled something on it. He shoved the paper toward Eva, looking as happy as if he’d eaten boiled rat. “My society contacts confirmed that these are the gatherings Rockley’s been invited to tonight. He could go to all of them or none.”

She looked over the list, then folded it neatly and tucked it into her handbag. “Are you ready, Mr. Dalton?”

“I’m ready.”

He’d put on his coat and done up the buttons of his collar. He knotted a simple tie around his neck, conscious of her gaze on his hands. With her watching him, his fingers felt thick and clumsy.

These clothes were a bit better than the doll’s rags they’d stuffed him in yesterday, but he still wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t the clothing that made him feel squeezed. Punching on that jury-rigged bag had helped burn off a small bit of his restless energy, but not enough. Not nearly enough. He wouldn’t feel at all easy until Rockley was dead.

And he couldn’t feel calm in Eva’s presence. As soon as he’d clapped eyes on her today, he’d been on edge, nerves strung tight. It didn’t make sense. He knew plenty of women. They didn’t ruffle him. Usually, all he had to do was give a female a look or crook his finger, and they’d come running. And if they didn’t want him, it didn’t matter. There were always more women.

The only reason he could figure was that he hadn’t really been around a woman since before he got sent up to Dunmoor.

That wasn’t true. Before Eva had shown up earlier, he’d been around this woman Harriet. She might be a few years older than Jack, but she was handsome and had a good figure. He didn’t even blink when Harriet was around.

But Eva had him tied up. He was all knots.

And now he was going to be alone with her.

“Don’t you have a hat?” She looked critically at the top of his head.

Most decent gentlemen didn’t go out of doors without a hat. He’d favored a smart bowler before he’d gone to prison. A swell topper for a gent without too many airs.

“Everything I’m wearing now was given to me by you lot.”

“We’ll have to find you something suitable. No use making you look even more like a ruffian.” She sent another disapproving look at his uncovered head.

He resisted the urge to smooth his hands over his hair. He’d wet it down earlier, but he’d been due for a haircut from the prison barber, and his dark curls resisted efforts to be tamed.

She stepped to the front door. Simon looked as though he wanted to raise more objections, but a cutting glance from Eva made the nob shut his trap. That wasn’t the kind of look someone just knew how to give, not without experience in giving it. What was that other life Eva had mentioned, the one she needed to protect? It was a mystery he wanted to solve.

“Coming, Mr. Dalton?”

Jack’s heart beat hard within his chest. He was about to go outside, truly outside, into the London streets. Him and Eva, on their own. Two days ago, the most excitement Jack had in his day was whether or not he’d find a maggot in his ration of meat. Now he was back in London. Stalking the man he wanted dead. With a beautiful, thorny woman at his side.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said.

* * *

The pounding of his heart didn’t ease once he and Eva stepped outside of the chemist’s shop. Nor when they got into a hackney cab and headed off toward Mayfair. It only got worse, his heart like a drum hit by a mallet. He saw all the familiar sights of London, all its parks and churches, squares and omnibuses and carts and people. In the daylight, the city was just as filthy and splendid as ever. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to drink it all in or tear everything down.

Daylight hours meant that Eva couldn’t be seen riding in a hansom, so they’d hailed a four-wheeler. The growler was bigger than a hansom, and had a musty smell and threadbare squabs, but it still felt too small and didn’t offer much room, especially for a man Jack’s size. It seemed even smaller than the carriage they’d ridden in during his escape from Dunmoor. Now he’d shift and bump against Eva, reminding him of her presence. As though he ever forgot her. She spent much of the ride to Mayfair watching him with that too canny gaze of hers. It fair set his already tight nerves closer to snapping.

“Waiting for me to either make a run for it or tear your clothes off?” he rumbled.

“I know a number of ways to disable a man,” she answered, “so I’m prepared for either eventuality.”

“Don’t that set my heart at ease.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

He lapsed into a moody silence, staring out the dirt-streaked windows as they traveled west. The streets got wider, the people walking down them more posh. Coachmen drove pretty broughams and elegant landaus, the passengers radiating self-importance like overdressed suns. He’d never seen a landau until he started working for Rockley. He hadn’t known such luxury existed.

Mayfair was exactly the same place of spotless marble and shining glass, broad streets that made a body feel insignificant, and servants walking their mistresses’ tiny dogs. Nothing had changed. Which he supposed was the point. Street trash like Jack and Edith Dalton were blown about, consigned to rubbish heaps and forgotten. These here were gentry folk with ancestors going back to the time of … he didn’t know about any long-ago kings, but doubtless Rockley’s family had been employed hundreds of years past as the Royal Arse Wipers, and they were damned proud of it, too.

What was it Rockley said to him once? He’d been dressing in his evening clothes, or rather, his valet had been dressing him. Rockley had stared at himself in the mirror the way a hawk might admire its own feathers, and drawled, “There’s nothing more permanent than blood, Dalton.”

“Whatever you say, m’lord,” Jack had answered.

The bastard had been referring to ancestry and heredity, but he could have been talking about the other kind of blood. The kind that flowed in his veins, the kind that spilled out of Edith, stained the floorboards, stained his memories. That was permanent, too.

Jack’s gaze kept flicking toward Eva. She said they were going to follow Rockley, but what if she had something else planned? She’d already said that taking him to the coppers was out, but maybe she had some other scheme in mind. He needed to stay vigilant around her.

The cab came to a stop on Grosvenor Street. A few footmen minding the front doors sent baleful glances toward the hackney, but no one chased them off.

“That’s it.” Jack nodded out the window to a house in the middle of the block. “Rockley’s place.”

Eva leaned forward to gaze out the window, as well. Her fresh, light scent took away some of the mustiness of the cab, and he breathed it in. Still, it wasn’t enough to quiet the clamor within him. Because he was sitting in a hackney halfway down the block from the home of his sister’s murderer.

There were fancy terms for the columns and little projected roof that stood outside Rockley’s front door, but Jack didn’t know them. The door itself had been polished so much it was a black mirror, reflecting the swept front steps and street. Two potted trees stood on either side of the door. Tall windows set in the stately brick faced the street, the curtains inside pulled back to let in Mayfair sunlight. The first time Jack had seen the place, he’d been struck dumb. People truly lived like this? And yet they also were crammed ten to a room in Bethnal Green? How could it be possible? But it was.