Zoë Archer - Sweet Revenge

Just as she was about to head outside to see if any of the operatives were near, the door opened. Simon, Marco, and Harriet entered. The moment they saw Jack, everyone began shouting at once.

“Where the hell have you been?” Simon bellowed.

“We’ve been combing the city, looking for your miserable hide.” Marco’s olive skin darkened with anger.

Harriet glanced back and forth between Eva and Jack. “Did you know about this?” Her voice was accusatory.

“Can’t keep me chained up like a dog in a yard,” Jack fired back.

“I’d no idea,” said Eva. “Not until he showed up at my door.”

This drove Simon apoplectic. He could barely form words. “At your … how did…” He rounded on Jack. “Goddamn you—you nearly put everything at risk.”

To Eva’s surprise, rather than punching Simon, Jack calmly folded his arms across his chest. Disdain replaced his rage. “It was you who let me escape. And it was you who underestimated my brains.” He studied his nails, the picture of bored derision. “Seems like you ought to be angry with yourselves, not me.”

While Simon blustered and Marco and Harriet gaped, Eva had to bite her lip to hide her smile. Only yesterday, Jack had been convinced he hadn’t any value beyond his bodily strength, and now here he was, finally taking credit for his intelligence.

“There’s no time for wasting on accusations and interrogations,” she said. “Jack’s written up a list of the men who met with Rockley, and we need to cross-reference it with what we know of his business dealings.”

A brief silence fell, fraught with speculative glances. Eva realized that she’d called Jack by his Christian name—a clear indicator that he’d become more than a pawn in their game. After seeing him in her rooms, watching him with the Hallow daughters, she felt he was no longer merely the embodiment of vengeance. More than a fierce masculine force possessing a dark, mysterious allure. He was … a man. Jack.

Troubled by her own complex feelings, she pulled the list from her handbag and set it on the table. “I’ll need you to read it to me,” she said to Jack, “so I may transcribe it and make it a little more legible.”

As the other Nemesis agents calmed themselves, she and Jack worked at copying his list. There were disgruntled rumblings from Simon and Marco, and a few inquisitive glances from Harriet, but Eva and Jack were able to complete their task quickly. Once they had done so, and Lazarus had returned from his own search of the city, the next few hours were occupied with reviewing the names.

Harriet brought out the sizable dossiers that had been compiled on Rockley, including as much of his financial and business connections as possible. The file itself was the product of countless hours of information gathering, not all of it aboveboard. Eva herself had posed as a clerk and sneaked into the record vaults of several corporations in order to obtain vital intelligence about Rockley’s numerous business ventures.

Going back and forth between Jack’s list and combing through the thick dossiers was tedious, slow work. Yet Jack surprised her—and everyone—with his dedication to the process, scanning through piles of documents and making notes. His notes could only be read by himself, but when he spoke them aloud, they made perfect sense.

By the time the sun had begun to set and the lamps inside had been lit, they’d gone through all the names Jack had provided. Every one of them had legitimate and known business connections to Rockley. Except one.

“John Gilling,” Eva said. “What do we know of him?”

“A barrister and a minor figure in the social world,” Simon answered, ticking off points on his fingers. “Shares chambers near the Inner Temple. The third son of an old landowning family.”

“Shares chambers?” Marco rubbed at his neatly trimmed goatee. “Then his practice isn’t exactly flourishing.”

“For a man his age,” Simon confirmed, “he ought to be farther along in his career. He’s a regular during the Season, but always looks a bit shabbier, a bit more threadbare, than most.”

“Sounds like the type of bloke who’d want a little something extra in his pockets,” Jack said.

Eva studied the papers in front of her. “We’ve checked all the other names, and Gilling seems the most likely candidate. Gilling’s in need of funds, and that would work to Rockley’s advantage. But Gilling’s position would give him access to other contractors’ bids—that’s why Rockley would approach him in the first place. Gilling’s got to be the key. He’s surely Rockley’s partner in the government contract. But we need to be certain.”

“How?” asked Lazarus, gnawing on the stem of his battered briar pipe. Harriet shot him an annoyed look, which only made him gnaw with more gusto.

“Bluff,” Jack said. “Then see how much he reveals.”

“The best way to do that is to catch him off guard.” Eva tapped her chin as she ran through the sundry scenarios that would best work to Nemesis’s advantage. Abruptly, she looked at Simon. “You were able to find out which social events Rockley was invited to. Can you do the same for Gilling? I’ll need to know if he’ll be attending any balls within the next few days, and be certain that Rockley won’t be attending the same events.”

“Of course,” he answered immediately. “What are you planning?”

Eva stood and stretched. She didn’t miss the way Jack’s gaze lingered on her, or the answering heat within her body.

“Last night, Jack and I watched an elegant soiree from the outside. But now it’s time for us to get a closer look. You and I,” she continued, directing her words to Jack with a grin, “are going to a ball.”

* * *

Jack stared at himself in the mirror, not certain if he liked what he saw. The fabric was covered with chalk marks and looked like something a chap might wear when performing at the music hall. Didn’t look much like a fancy suit of clothes at all. He shifted, and bit back an oath as pins dug into him.

“Careful, sir.” The tailor kneeling at his feet spoke without looking up from adjusting the hem of Jack’s trousers. “It’s best if you stay still until we’re done fitting you.”

“Don’t like staying still,” Jack muttered. To distract himself, he took stock of the small tailor’s shop in which he now stood, his gaze moving restlessly over bolts of fabric, dress mannequins, and half-completed suits. The shop smelled of wool and tea, and pale sunlight crept past the crowded front window to pool on the floor. The whirr of a sewing machine droned through the shop as another tailor made what would be some gent’s coat.

“You’ve got no choice.” Simon, bored, leaned against a counter. “The ball Gilling’s attending is tonight, and if we want your evening clothes done in time, you’d better cooperate.”

Likely, the toff had grown up having suits especially made for him, and had perfected the art of standing motionless while some tailor stuck a measuring tape right against his tackle.

Not Jack. He’d gone with Rockley to his tailor on Old Burlington Street. That place was a palace compared to this cramped little shop, all carved wood, thick carpet, and armies of tailors bowing and smiling. Once a month, Rockley would go to be fitted for new clothes, with Jack standing guard, as usual. Tailors had swarmed over Rockley, measuring, cutting, murmuring toadying nonsense, and he’d just stood there like a god accepting worship as if it were his due.

Now it was Jack’s turn to be turned this way and that, and grunted at as if he were cattle being considered for purchase and slaughter.

“Are you certain you can get his suit ready in time, Mr. Olney?” Simon asked the tailor. “We need it by no later than eight tonight.”