Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

They didn’t have far to go. Rockley’s carriage queued up behind a line of others outside a massive home in Mayfair. Lights and music poured from the tall windows, and a column of women in glittering gowns and men in evening clothes marched up the stairs like the world’s most elegant battering ram.

The cab stopped a discreet distance away.

“I’ve been here before,” Dalton said. “Not a lot, but I remember this place.”

“Only the upper echelons are invited to Lord Beckwith’s gatherings,” Eva said. To which Rockley clearly belonged. She sighed. “And his parties usually go on until three in the morning.”

Rockley alit from his carriage and joined the sparkling crowd heading inside. He exchanged nods and greetings with those near him. He was taller than most of the other guests, so following his progress into the mansion proved easy. At last, he went in. Ballard slipped down from the carriage and disappeared through the mews.

“He’ll be going in through the servants’ door in the back,” Dalton noted. “The rule was: stay nearby but out of sight. I got real talented at keeping myself hidden.”

She eyed his broad shoulders skeptically. “As though anyone could overlook you.”

His grin flashed in the darkness. “A man of many gifts, I am. I can show you a few.”

Most assuredly she would not respond to that. Opening the cab door, she said, “Let’s have ourselves a closer look.”

On the street, she made sure to keep close to the shadows, though one or two eyes turned in her direction. If anyone from the soiree were to glance out into the street, they’d hardly notice a woman in a plain day dress and short woolen cape. She might be mistaken for a governess, which suited her fine. Sending a quick glance behind her, she noted with approval that Dalton had a natural instinct for finding shadowed places. Amazing that man of such sizable proportions could hide himself at all, yet he did, and with an unanticipated agility.

They moved silently along the street, skirting around the edges of Lord Beckwith’s property. She slowed in her steps, allowing Dalton to catch up with her.

“Don’t suppose we’d be able to get in through the service entrance,” she whispered.

“This place was always kept tighter than a thief’s purse. Even the bloke at the back door had a list of who could and couldn’t go in, servants included.” He narrowed his eyes, gazing into the darkness. “There’s a house next door—it’s dark now.”

“Sir Harold Wallasey’s home. He and his wife are out of the country on a diplomatic mission—I read it in the paper. Probably left a skeleton staff.”

“See that window there?” He pointed one blunt-tipped finger toward a second-story window. “It’d have a right clear view of the ballroom.”

“Which would presuppose us being inside a private residence, uninvited, in order to utilize it.” At his grin, she demanded, “What?”

“Those fancy words you use.” His gaze heated. “I like ’em.”

Of all the responses to her vocabulary, this was the least expected, especially from him. The frank desire in his eyes stirred embers within her. And all she could say in return was the very articulate “Ah.”

He seemed to enjoy confusing her, for his smile widened. “You Nemesis lot said you’d do anything to see justice done.”

Straightening her spine, she said, “Of course.”

“That include breaking and entering?”

She rummaged through her handbag, which was, admittedly, a bit larger than the average lady’s purse. From its depths she pulled a slim silver case. She opened the case, revealing its velvet-lined interior, and held it up for his perusal. “This is Nemesis’s official policy for housebreaking.”

Dalton gave a low whistle.

Lock picks of every shape and variety were arranged neatly within.

* * *

“No one’s in the kitchen.” Eva peered through the windows. “Can’t even see a light down the hall. Perhaps even the butler and housekeeper are gone. The house seems empty.”

Beside her, Dalton said, “Seems downright rude not to take ’em up on the invitation.”

She stepped lightly to the door. Just to be certain, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. After a final glance around, she bent close to examine the lock.

“This won’t take long,” she murmured.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the view,” he said, leering openly at her backside, “but I’d like to give that lock a go.”

She eyed him dubiously. “The house might be empty, but we can’t linger or make too much noise. Kicking the door down would assuredly call attention.”

He gave her an affronted look. “Thought you trusted my brains.”

“I do—”

“To a point.” He held out one large hand. “Hand them picks over.”

“Do you know how to use them?”

After tugging on the knees of his trousers, he crouched down in front of the lock. “Spent years as a screwsman,” he said quietly. “’Course, none of the places I broke into were half as fine as this one, but locks are like ladies. Fancy or common, they all yield to a man who knows how to use his pick.”

“I think you left an r out of that last word.”

He chuckled. “I never leave anything out.” On no occasion would Dalton suffer a lack of confidence. She handed him the picks.

Eva clasped her elbows and watched as he sorted through the different picks, then began to slowly, carefully manipulate the lock. He frowned in concentration as he worked the picks. She fought the absurd impulse to push back a curl of dark hair that fell across his creased forehead.

The sounds of chatter and a string quartet from next door filled the small courtyard in which she and Dalton stood. Voices from the Beckwiths’ garden also glided over the wall separating the two properties—the melodic rise and fall of genteel conversation, most of it inconsequential. If there was the brokering of power to be done, it usually happened in card rooms and studies, where alliances and factions could be sealed with cigars and brandy.

Hearing a girl’s giggle followed by a man’s lower murmur, she recalled there were other ways of forming alliances.

“There’s a sweetheart,” Dalton said as he pushed open the door.

Together, they entered the darkened kitchen, Dalton quietly shutting the door behind them. A massive enclosed cooking range lurked against one wall, and shelves were lined with copper molds and pans. She gripped his sleeve to catch his attention. Silently, she pointed to the long table that ran the length of the kitchen. A kettle and two cups had been left out.

“Could be they’ve been sitting a while,” he whispered, standing close. His breath fanned warmly over her face.

“Or were used this afternoon.”

Cautiously, they left the kitchen and entered a darkened corridor. They passed closed doors that led presumably to the butler’s pantry and housekeeper’s office, and other storerooms. No lights shone out from beneath the doors, but Eva couldn’t allow herself to breathe easy. They climbed the stairs winding out of the service areas.

They emerged in a cavernous hallway, draped thick in the atmosphere of wealth. Everywhere she looked, she espied priceless artwork, the gleam of gilding and marble, and the labor of scores of servants. From the banisters to the baseboards, everything maintained scrupulous cleanliness. Branching off from the hallway were other spacious rooms, plush with carpets and overstuffed furniture. But the room they sought was on the next floor up. She glanced toward the wide staircase, and he nodded in agreement.

The walls were far too thick to admit any sound of the gala next door, and all she could hear was the ticking of a clock in some distant study. Otherwise, the huge home was utterly still.