“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.
“We’ve done surveillance here,” Eva said. “Managed to get the plans to the house, as well, so we know the layout.”
“Plans don’t tell you that he keeps an armed man in the hallway outside his bedroom, and that he’d go through the mews when he’d come home late at night.”
“I don’t see extra guards outside his house now.”
“You wouldn’t. But his men would be on the inside. He didn’t want his posh neighbors to know he paid a bunch of East London toughs to watch his arse.”
She nodded, taking in this information.
“Look there.” He pointed to one of the second-story windows. “That shadow against the glass? That’s the hallway. His bedroom faces the back, where it’s quieter. But I’d stand in that hallway there outside his room as Rockley got dressed for the day. He’s got someone doing the same job.”
“So he’s still at home.” She checked her pocket watch. “Twelve-fifty. Just like you said.”
“And in about five minutes, the coach’ll come around and wait for him by the front door.”
“Unless he’s concerned about your escape and chooses to leave through the mews.”
Jack shook his head. “He’s got his patterns. May be hard to follow him if you don’t know ’em, but he always starts his day the same way. He’ll go about his business as he usually does, to send a message. He won’t let a piece of filth like me disrupt that.”
She looked at him sharply. “Why would you say that?”
“Because to Rockley,” he said, spreading his hands, “there’s nothing more important than appearance.”
“No, I mean, why would you call yourself a piece of filth? Do you really think of yourself that way?”
He blinked. “I don’t think of myself in any way. I just am.”
The idea seemed to flat-out puzzle her. “You’ve got to have some conceptualization of yourself. Some idea of who you believe yourself to be.”
He gave a quick bark of laughter. “Self-reflection—I think that’s the word for it—that’s a luxury for them that don’t have to worry about their next meal, or whether the rain will come through the holes in the roof. There’s only survival. And if you don’t fight to survive”—he shrugged—“you don’t.”
“Not once during those nights listening to the rain did you ever ponder who you were, or what you were meant to be doing? Something beyond survival.”
Shifting on the creaking squabs, he glanced away from the amber knives of her eyes. “I may’ve,” he allowed. There had been dreams, plans. Hopes for a life beyond the crowded, dirty alleys he’d known. His own boxing academy, for one. Like the kind Maclaren had, but instead of just training men, it’d be a place where boys could get off the streets, away from the gin palaces and dicing games. Someplace where they could feel safe and have dreams of their own.
He shook his head, clearing away the cobwebs of old hopes. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s all led me here.”
“But I—” Her words stopped abruptly. She sat up straight, her gaze fixed on something out the window.
Everything within Jack tensed. He knew what she saw. Slowly, he turned his head to look out the window.
A footman held open the front door, and a big, strapping bloke stepped outside. It wasn’t Fowler, Curtis, or even Voss. Probably they’d moved on to other jobs, or died. Men like them—men like Jack—never lived long, despite their size. A hazardous life, one might call it.
This new chap wore a checked suit and a bowler hat. Jack didn’t know him by name, but names signified nothing. Five years ago, Jack had been that man. Like him, he’d looked up and down the street, scanning for any signs of trouble, body primed to fight if danger arose. No mistaking the telltale shape of a gun in the hired man’s coat. Jack had favored an Enfield Mk II, if his fists couldn’t finish the job.
Jack ducked back as the hired man’s gaze swept past the hackney cab.
“That’s Fred Ballard,” Eva said. “His main bodyguard.” She glanced at the carriage. “Rockley’s moving on.”
Turning back to the window, Jack saw Ballard give a quick nod to someone standing in the doorway.
Rockley emerged.
Fire roared through Jack’s veins, and his vision hazed. A fist seemed to close around his throat. He wanted to launch himself from the cab. He could already feel the crunch of bone against his fist as he smashed it into Rockley’s handsome face. He could smell the blood as it coated the spotless front steps, hear the wet gurgle as Rockley struggled to breathe through the ruin of his aristocratic nose and mouth.
“Dalton.”
A woman’s gloved hand closed around his wrist as he grasped the handle to the cab door. He stared down at the female’s hand.
“Dalton,” the woman repeated, her voice an urgent whisper.
He looked up. A woman stared at him intently. She had sherry eyes and wheat-gold hair and he didn’t recognize her. Not at first.
“You can’t go out there,” she said, her words tight. “The moment you do, Rockley’s thug will shoot you down.”
Eva. That’s right. The woman was Eva.
“Might get to him before that.” He spoke through clenched teeth.
“It’s nearly a hundred feet between the cab and Rockley. More than enough time for his thug to fire off several rounds.” Her hand tightened around his wrist. “Don’t take that gamble, Dalton. Don’t throw this entire mission away.”
“Edith—”
“Would want her brother to stay alive,” she finished. “Remember what I said earlier? You have to
think
if you want Rockley to pay. Rushing him in the street has only one result: your death.”
“Goddamn it,” he snarled. Because what she said made sense. Rockley always made sure his bodyguards were good shots. Jack would be a corpse before he made it half the distance.
His hand made of rusted iron, he unwound it from the door handle. Slowly, Eva released him.
“Good,” she said after a pause. “Good.”
“Don’t feel good,” he growled. “Feel like tearing up lampposts.”
Glancing out the window again, Eva said, “He’s getting into his carriage.”
Jack followed her gaze. Rockley was, in fact, stepping into his waiting vehicle, with the footman waiting to close the door behind him. The bodyguard sat beside the coachman, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes constantly moving. Once Rockley had seated himself, the footman closed the door. The coachman snapped the ribbons, and the two matched bays responded, setting off at a trot.
Eva leaned forward and opened the small sliding door mounted at the front of the cab. “Driver, do not lose that carriage. And make sure they don’t see us. There’s a guinea in it for you.”
With that kind of carrot, the driver hurried to follow. The hackney sped after Rockley’s carriage.
Jack gripped the leather straps mounted on both sides of the hackney’s walls, stretched out like a man on the rack. His muscles felt as though they’d burst right out of his clothing, and his heart slammed inside his ribs. Goddamn it, Rockley looked the same, exactly the same as he had five years ago. Everything had changed for Jack. Nothing had changed for Rockley.
Tall and elegant in his perfectly made, stylish clothes, his hair shiny and combed beneath his top hat, sporting an elegant mustache, Rockley was the model of a flawless aristocratic gentleman. Handsome, too, the blighter. Dark hair, blue eyes. The kind of face that women push each other aside to get close to. Hundreds of years of breeding pretty people gave him a face that truly got away with murder.
“You did the right thing,” Eva said.
“Still want to rip his fucking guts out through his mouth,” he gritted.
“I’m sure you do. But we have to keep our sights on our objective. This is my eighth mission for Nemesis, and I’ve learned that success relies upon logical, precise thinking.”
“Logic and precision ain’t my usual way of doing things.”
“And you wound up in prison as a result.”
He cursed under his breath. “Got a point there. But it don’t make me skip with joy.”
“I’m…” She appeared to labor to speak. Her gaze slid away from his. “I’m sorry.”
He stared at her. Grudging as her words had been, they seemed genuine. Maybe this ice palace of a woman wasn’t as cool as she let on.
They rode on in silence, following Rockley through the city. Jack already knew where they were heading. Toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where Rockley’s man of business kept offices. The hackney journeyed from Mayfair’s wide, dignified streets into the bustling heart of London’s legal world. Men wearing sober coats and dour expressions paced up and down the avenues, sheaves of papers bound with red cloth tape tucked under their arms.
“Tell the driver to park on Portugal Street,” Jack said. “We can ditch the cab there and keep an eye on Rockley from a little shop on Portsmouth Street.”
“That way Rockley’s driver and guard won’t see our hackney again and get suspicious. Wise thinking.” She repeated Jack’s instructions to the driver, who did as he was told.
They got down from the hackney. Jack was about to hurry down the street when Eva hissed at him, “Offer me your arm, damn it.”
Right. Even without him wearing a hat, they’d attract less attention if it looked like they were a couple out on errands together.
Feeling strangely clumsy, he held out his arm. She looped her arm with his, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve. He could barely feel the pressure of her fingers upon him, but he sensed them anyway. Heat crept up his neck and spread across his face.
They walked briskly down the street. She matched his stride easily. Just as he’d known, Rockley’s carriage had parked outside the red-brick building that housed the offices of Mr. Mitchell, his lordship’s man of business. The coachman waited with the vehicle.
“Where’s Ballard?” Eva asked.
“Waiting outside Mitchell’s offices.” He held open the door to the crooked little shop perched on Portsmouth Street, and she stepped inside. Neither of them paid attention to the clutter of goods piled up on every available surface. Both he and Eva stared out the shop’s window. It offered them a good view of the front of Mitchell’s building.
“Doesn’t that attract attention?” She peered past the copper pots and china mugs lined up in the shop window. “Not many gentlemen walk around with hired guards.”
“I got a few queer looks, but no one said anything. Rockley’s the heir to some huge title and estate. If he wanted to walk around with a peacock on his shoulder, wasn’t nobody going to tell him he couldn’t.”
“He’s the Duke of Sunderleigh’s son,” she said. “That title goes back to the time of the War of the Roses.”
He frowned, pictured the flower sellers in Covent Garden firing mortars at each other. “An old title, then,” he guessed.
“One of the oldest. I suppose if he had a few odd habits,” she murmured, “they’d just be dismissed as the eccentricities of the elite.”
“Like killing girls.” He fought the bile that climbed his throat.
“Or ruining them, with no one to stop him.” She glanced up at Jack. “But we’ll stop him.”
“There’s no extra security out front,” he said, trying to get a hold of his rage. “If there’s something, some piece of evidence, that Rockley’s trying to protect, it’s not here.”