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.