Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

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.