Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

“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.