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.