Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

Eva helped the girls into their coats and bonnets and walked them to the door. “Don’t forget to study your French verb conjugations.”

“We won’t, Miss Warrick,” Mary said with all the sincerity of a politician. And then she and her sister were off, running down the stairs. A maid of all work always waited for them at the tea shop down the street, ready to escort them home after their lessons. Eva had met the maid a handful of times. She was barely older than the girls, which was usually the case with families of small means. Teenage maids were far cheaper than their older counterparts.

“No running,” Eva called after the girls. Their footsteps slowed for a second, then sped right back up again.

She closed the door and turned to face Jack. He stood near the table, examining her tutoring materials. The books looked fragile and strange in his hands, yet he flipped through them, frowning in concentration.

“A teacher, then.” He looked up at her.

“A tutor.”

His smile, rueful as it was, still sent a curl of heat through her. “Got the right amount of high-handedness for the job.”

“I’m purposeful, not high-handed.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “How did you find me?”

He paced through her rooms, making everything strange and small by his presence. She’d never thought of herself as a particularly delicate or overly feminine person, yet having him here made her conscious of the differences between them and how transitory, almost feeble, the objects she’d gathered around herself were. As though he were far too elemental, too primal for such things as her chintz-covered sitting chair or the painted china roses given to her by a grateful student’s parents.

It wasn’t a particularly comfortable sensation. Especially the way he looked around her rooms, at her belongings, as if drawing out hidden truths about her. Today, he’d learned one, no, two: where she lived and what she did to make a living.

Yet she’d read his dossier. She knew far more about him than he about her. Or did. Perhaps now they were even.

“Jack,” she said, drawing his attention. “I never gave you my address.”

“You said you lived in Brompton.” He plucked up a bottle of toilet water from her nightstand and gave it a sniff before setting it down. “And I heard you talking to Simon. You mentioned Sydney Street.”

“And how did you figure out in which building I lived?”

“I asked a costermonger. A short chap with a red beard. Said I was in from the country and was here to surprise my cousin, but I couldn’t remember her address. He was cagey at first, since we don’t look related, but I told ’im about your parents being away doing good works and them asking me to look after you.”

He looked over at her bed, the bed where she slept each night. Or didn’t. Last night, she’d lain awake, weary but keenly aware. She’d closed her eyes, only to see Jack, dangerous as the darkness, as he’d lurked in the shadows of the drawing room. She had actually looked on her abdomen to see if his hand had left an imprint, for she’d felt his touch continually afterward, like a burn.

“You sneaked past Simon and the others. Escaped headquarters.”

His grin widened. “One little flat compared to a whole prison is nothing.” He prowled over to her dresser and opened it, revealing her clothing.

She stalked over and closed the door before he could reach into the dresser and fondle her petticoats. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Obviously you thought it couldn’t wait until I came back to headquarters later.”

From his pocket, he produced two squares of folded paper. He held them out to her. No denying the look of pride on his face as she took the paper.

She scanned it. Lines of pencil scratches covered the paper, lines that could’ve been writing in English or possibly Chinese mathematics. “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

He scowled as he snatched the paper back. Jabbing his finger at the markings, he said, “John Young, Victor Skidby, Matthew Branton, John Gilling. I can read ’em off to you, if you can’t figure my writing.”

She glanced between him and the documents he held. “This is the list of men who visited Rockley.”

“Thirty-four names. Don’t know if it’s all of ’em, but that’s a fair number.” He added, almost bashful, “That method for remembering, the one you told me, it worked.”

Carefully, she took the papers back. It took a bit of squinting, but she began to decipher the scrawl that passed for Jack’s writing. Aside from the nigh illegible quality of his penmanship, the list itself was organized and thorough, grouping names together by the time of year in which they met with Rockley and the quantity of meetings they had with the nobleman.

She couldn’t deny it. “I’m … impressed.”

God protect her, but when a look of pride softened his rough features, her heart tightened. He’d never been praised for thinking his way through a situation.

Self-preservation made her say, far more lightly than she felt, “Perhaps I should start tutoring adults, as well.”

“Like to think that I’m a special case.” His voice deepened, his gaze holding hers, and she recalled with pristine clarity what he’d felt like last night, pressed close behind her as they’d hidden themselves behind the folding screen. The heat and size of him. The response of her own body at his nearness, and its burgeoning hunger to learn more of his touch.

Having him here, in her private space, the only man who’d truly seen both halves of herself—it soothed and troubled her at the same time. To draw someone near, for the first time, brought forth a longing she hadn’t known she possessed. But she feared that desire, too. She needed to keep herself whole, complete.

For all the unexpected connection they shared, Jack was still an unknown. Not fully trustworthy, not truly.

He came here , a voice in her mind insisted, instead of trying to get to Rockley on his own.

Because he realizes it’s too dangerous right now.

She didn’t know what to think, only that she needed him out of her rooms, out of this facet of her life.

“We ought to get back to headquarters,” she said brusquely. “If the others have found you missing, they might call the constabulary. You’re a wanted man, and if you’re taken into custody, or killed in the pursuit, then the mission is over.”

His look shuttered. “Don’t want any coppers searching for me.”

“No, we do not.” She put on her coat and gloves, then pinned her hat into place. She strode to the door, with him following, but hesitated before opening it. Turning back to face him, she said quietly, “Thank you.”

His brow wrinkled. “For what?”

“For not giving me away.” Her gaze slid toward the lesson plans. “You could’ve made things very difficult for me, but you didn’t. I’m…”—she struggled with the word—“grateful. I’m in your debt.”

Opening the door, he said, “Ah, now that’s a mistake, love.” His smile over his shoulder was captivating in its wickedness. “You never know when I’ll want you to make good on that debt. Or what I’ll ask for.”

CHAPTER NINE

Silence met them at Nemesis headquarters. Eva paced through the rooms, calling names, but no one was there.

“Maybe they’ve all taken themselves off to the pub for a pint,” Jack suggested.

A pleasant scenario, but unlikely. Though she doubted they had gone to the authorities. Jack didn’t know it, but alerting the constabulary about him was one of the last things anyone wanted to do. It would turn all of their lives into a thorn-covered bramble, rife with evasions, explanations, and half-truths. As well as the possibility of exposure.