Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (13 page)

“I shall have these gowns ready for you by tomorrow evening,” the modiste said.

“Tomorrow morning,” Marco called from the front of the shop. “There’s an extra fifty francs in it for you.”

“Of course, sir!” The seamstress snapped for her assistant, and a skinny girl of around fourteen scurried out from behind some curtains and gathered up the heaps of clothing before retreating.

“Matching hats, parasols, and gloves, too,” Marco added.

Bronwyn stepped from the dressing room. “I can’t afford any of that.”

Disappointment flickered in his gaze as he took in her weeds, but the expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Consider it operating expenses,” he answered. “Everything will be settled when your fortune is restored to you.”

“What if it isn’t? I’ll have to work in a mill for years to pay Nemesis back.”

“Then we’d better be successful.” His smile was an elusive thing. “I’d hate to think of you breathing in cotton fluff in Manchester.”

“You are all solicitous concern,” she muttered.

Her breath caught when he reached for her, his fingers light against her cheek as he lowered her veil. “Can’t have you causing a scandal in the streets of Calais.”

She gave a small, wry laugh. “It’s too late for that. Scandal has become my constant companion.”

*   *   *

The remainder of the day was spent in a sham of tourism as she and Marco took in the attractions and sights of Calais. A sham because she had no interest in the bustling market at Place d’Armes, or the heavy towers of Église Notre Dame. Her thoughts were scattered like startled doves, flying in as many directions as the sky could hold. Marco did her the favor of speaking little, though it was obvious he knew his way around Calais and could, if she asked, tell her in depth about the history of the Tour de Guet, or the wonders of the electrified lighthouse.

He had an instinct for knowing what she needed, and that, too, disturbed her.

But she wasn’t easy in his company. She felt too aware of him as a stranger, a man embroiled in the dark work of espionage, and, worse still, a
man.

Eight months since Hugh had died, and before that, it had been nearly a year of celibacy as he battled the disease. At this point, spending extended periods of time in the company of an obese fishmonger might intrigue her.

No—it was him. Marco. A shadowed mystery of a man who tempted her with his black eyes and worldliness. Who seemed to know her in a way that was both frightening and alluring.

She was grateful when the day came to a close. Grateful, too, that they’d walked enough around the crowded port city that she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment she lay down in bed. If she dreamed of him, she was blessed with a poor memory of it, and woke to the illusion of a blameless conscience. She also woke to the sound of steady knocking at her door.

Pulling on her wrapper, she answered the door, and found several of the hotel maids waiting with boxes. The boxes bore the name of the modiste, and Bronwyn directed them to place her new wardrobe onto the bed. Two more maids appeared, carrying valises—she assumed they were there to hold her new clothing.

Bronwyn opened a box and studied the fawn-colored dress. At least it wasn’t black. She craved color, just the same. Still, even in disguise, she couldn’t bring herself to wear the vivid blues and greens she once adored. Not yet. No one would pay particular attention to a woman in dull hues. They’d simply think her dowdy, not in mourning.

And that was something her ethics could tolerate.

One of the maids helped her dress and pack. She examined herself in the pier glass over the mantel. The dark brown hat the modiste had selected was actually a rather jaunty number, with a handsome curl of pheasant feathers curving down to bob cheerfully with each turn of Bronwyn’s head.

“Monsieur wants you to meet him in the lobby as soon as you are ready,” the maid said in French.

Wants, not requests.

She didn’t know much about spies. In fact, she knew nothing at all, but she could deduce. And they likely didn’t work often with others. Or, if they did, they wouldn’t be the epitome of social graciousness. Unless it suited their needs.

Bronwyn carried her violin case while two porters took her valises. She wouldn’t get a chance to play for God knew how long, but she’d refused to leave it at Nemesis headquarters. It gave her some comfort, knowing that her old friend might be mute, but at least it came with her on this wild journey, her secret dream came with her like an invisible shadow.

She descended the stairs into the lobby, and Marco rose from his chair at her approach. If she’d been hoping for a look of frank masculine approval in his face now that she’d doffed her weeds, she was sorely disappointed. He only nodded, brief and clipped, and waved her toward the front door.

As she stepped out onto the curb, the sun felt especially harsh and cutting. The traffic on the street seemed sharp, too present.

“This is the first time I’ve seen the world without my veil in months,” she murmured to Marco.

“How does it look?”

“Brighter. Dirtier.” Mud and debris collected in gutters, and soot streaked the buildings’ façades. The veil had hidden all this from her, yet now she could see.

She could also see how good-looking Marco was in the sunlight. The planes of his face were harder, more angled, the shadows beneath his brow deeper. It didn’t give her any solace to realize that her companion on this escapade was handsome. Dangerous and handsome—one adding an edge to the other.

Her own appearance in the daylight must have caught him off guard, too, for he stared at her for several moments, frowning. Something was happening behind his opaque eyes, and whether he liked what he saw or not, she couldn’t tell. But she had his attention, and secret gratification welled.

Even with his attention, her heart pounded with a strange fear. People in the street might stop and glare at her. A widow too soon out of mourning. A disgrace, even here in France. Such scandal wouldn’t be tolerated.

Yet nobody noticed. No one stopped and pointed, or shouted. She was only one woman out of dozens on this street, hardly worth attention.

Did her widow’s weeds weigh more than this gown? She felt … lighter. As if her next step would liberate her from the earth’s gravity, and she’d go soaring up into the sky, and disappear forever. But she wasn’t afraid.

Guilt once again threatened to drag her back down. She oughtn’t to feel glad to be out of mourning.

“Take on whatever role you have to,” Marco said in a low voice. “However you survive, you do it. Each morning, each breath. Survive, and move forward.”

“Is that how you get through every day?”

He spread his palms, indicating that he did, indeed, stand before her.

“I don’t know if I can ever learn the ways of Nemesis,” she said.

“You already have,” he answered. “And you’re managing.”

It astonished her to realize that he was right.

*   *   *

Marco watched her the entire train ride from Calais to Paris. She had a book spread on her lap—Stevenson’s
Treasure Island,
which Harriet must have loaned her, since it was one of her favorites—but her gaze was fixed on the window and the passing landscape. Small villages, large towns, and the countryside of farmhouses and the brown fields of early spring.

She didn’t seem unfamiliar with France, and spoke the language well enough, but still she kept looking out the window, as if the rather ordinary and dull scenery held more interest than the swashbuckling deeds of cutthroat pirates. It was as though, despite her trepidation, she ate up everything she could see, every experience she could have. Eight months of seclusion—and the long tending of a husband’s illness before that—surely would make anyone long for a life beyond the pages of a book.

But it was more than her widowhood or previous duties as a nurse that made her stare at the French scenery. That want, that hunger he’d felt many times … that was the origin of her limitless curiosity, regardless of her fear. And he watched her with the same avid curiosity. What was going on behind those sage-leaf-green eyes of hers? Damn it—why should he care?

Without her veil in the daylight, she was both prettier and more unusual looking than he’d realized. The sun showed the minuscule hollow in her chin, the angularity of her nose. Yet together, these flaws made her striking, unforgettable, even when he closed his eyes. She burned there like the afterimage from staring directly at the tungsten filament of an electric light.

He’d known many lovely women in his life. Taken more than his share to his bed. She was not the most beautiful, but she kept drawing his gaze, his thoughts.

She’s your latest mission. Of course she interests you, even if you don’t want to be here.

Though when he searched for it, that reluctance at taking the job to recover her fortune had started to dissolve in infinitesimal fragments. Nemesis was dedicated to the poor, the helpless. She was and wasn’t these things. Yet at the thought of her burying herself as a paid companion, forever a nonentity, something cold and slippery congealed in his stomach.

He started at the unexpected sensation. Just a small twitch, yet she had to have been as aware of him as he was of her, because she finally turned from the window and asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Thinking of what our next step is,” he said. They sat alone in a first-class carriage, so he could speak freely. “As I said on the ship, we’re meeting two Nemesis agents in Paris to help us find Devere.”

She smiled, making his insides clench. “Here I thought there was nothing you couldn’t do on your own.”

“There’s not much point of having a team if you don’t make use of it,” he answered. “It’s not always about being a lone wolf.”

Her smile widened. “I see you as more of a tiger or panther. Hunting alone in the jungle.”

“A solitary business, hunting.”

“But necessary,” she noted. “One has to eat.”

“Or eliminate a threat,” he added.

“Not everyone in the jungle is a meal or a threat,” she countered. “Maybe there are innocent creatures you leave alone.”

“No such thing as innocent. Especially in a jungle.”

“What about when it’s time to mate?” she asked. “Do you hide yourself away then, too?”

Heat shot through him like an injection of morphine. Except instead of lethargy in his veins, he felt sharply, potently aware.

“Some things are worth leaving the safety of isolation,” he rumbled.
The hell are you doing, Black? Don’t flirt with her, for God’s sake.
But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Not enough to get married,” she pointed out.

“Spies make for bad husbands,” he said.

“A decidedly poor matrimonial candidate.”

He bowed. “You have described me to the atom, Mrs. Parrish.”

“Oh,” she said with an enigmatic smile, “I’m certain there’s more to you than that.”

The widow grew bolder by the moment. Though he couldn’t quite think of her as a widow anymore, now that she’d cast off her weeds. Even though she hadn’t selected brighter gowns, there was a new confidence in her since she’d left mourning behind—even if it was only temporary. When they finally returned to England, doubtless she’d take up her crape and bombazine again. A shame, that. Black didn’t complement redheads’ complexions, and it seemed a crime to cover her striking face with a veil, or hide those intelligent eyes of hers.

The train pulled into a small village station, and a passenger entered the carriage. He gave them both a bow before settling down with a newspaper, the headline blaring the latest about the end of the triple alliance between France, Germany, and Austria-Hungary. No doubt the boys at the home office would be neck-deep in investigating what this meant for Britain.

It surprised Marco that he didn’t itch to involve himself in it. He’d been content with his work at home—running an East End tavern that catered to Russian anarchist exiles. By operating the tavern, he could collect information casually, without any of the patrons aware of his activities. The police might think of those men and women as dangerous criminals, but to British Intelligence, the Russian émigrés provided valuable information about what transpired back in their home country. Besides, they weren’t half as risky to England as they were to Russia. It wasn’t Britain the anarchists wanted to dismantle, but their own tyrannical government.

But the damn police had raided the tavern a few weeks ago, shutting it down. He’d be able to reopen in a month or two, but it left him with time on his hands. Which was why, out of all the Nemesis agents, he’d been the one picked to handle Mrs. Parrish’s case. At first, he’d cursed his luck, being stuck with a job he didn’t want, helping a woman from a class he didn’t respect. But now … something had changed.

She wasn’t like the others. He saw that now. She possessed an unexpected depth. And a willingness to give, to help others. Damn it if that didn’t intrigue him. He was beginning to
like
her, beyond her obvious physical charms.

With the passenger’s presence, Marco decided it would be best to keep silent until their arrival in Paris. He and Mrs. Parrish could speak in English, but there was always the possibility that their companion spoke that language, especially if he was the kind of man who could afford a first-class ticket.

Within a short while, they arrived at the massive Gare du Nord station in Paris. Steam from the engines curled up to the soaring ceilings, and it seemed the entire mass of humanity had decided to gather on the platforms. After paying a porter to tote their baggage—though Mrs. Parrish insisted again on carrying her violin case herself—Marco tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her through the seething crowds. The air was full of the hiss and chug of trains and French voices shouting at top volume to be heard above the vehicles.

Outside, cabs lined up, waiting for fares. He ushered her into one of the carriages and called up to the driver, “Hôtel Cluzet.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

As the cab rolled through the teeming, lively, filthy streets of Paris, Mrs. Parrish asked, “Is there anything I need to know about the agents we’re meeting, besides what you’ve told me?”