Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (34 page)

He pointed downward. If his instincts were correct—and they almost always were—the place they sought would be on the ground floor. Which left them with several stories to descend without being seen.

Conscious that there had to be more guards, Marco took Bronwyn’s hand, and together they slid toward the stairs. Not much of a surprise that the home was fitted with only the best furniture and art, as though the occupant were an aristocrat’s younger son or perhaps a prosperous banker. Which he was, of a sort. Les Grillons had made the bulk of their fortune through loans, just like any other bank. Except their interest rates and penalties were much higher. Including murder.

He and Bronwyn reached the second floor without incident, until Marco felt a subtle shift in the atmosphere. A tiny vibration along the floor. He pulled Bronwyn into an unlocked room, easing the door shut just before another sentry passed by. Judging by the sofa and the writing table, it was a small parlor. Marco dragged her behind the sofa seconds before the guard opened the door.

A breathless moment as the sentry surveyed the room. If they were caught, either they’d be killed immediately, or else tortured and
then
killed. Marco could try to fight their way out, which might work, but then the whole plan would be scuppered, and they’d be left with nothing.

Yet all these thoughts he kept well buried. As they waited out the guard, Bronwyn looked with wide eyes at Marco, and he calmly gazed back. No sense in alarming her even more with all the things that could go very wrong. And a spy—or Nemesis operative—who was disconcerted by an obstacle would not only fail at their objective, they’d probably wind up dead.

So he only nodded at her, indicating that everything was fine. Which it was. He had to convince himself of that.

At last, the sentry shut the door and moved on. Marco very slowly exhaled, and Bronwyn let out a shuddering breath.

After another minute, he rose up from behind the sofa, and helped her up. Once he was convinced that everything was clear, he slipped out of the parlor, with Bronwyn close behind.

Descending the stairs, they kept close to the wall and moved quickly but cautiously. There was no place to hide on a staircase. Finally, they reached the ground floor. Marco bypassed all the rooms with open doors—sitting rooms, salons, the dining room. The one he sought would have its door closed. And locked. And so it was, once they reached it. Marco placed her hand on his shoulder and indicated that she should watch the hallway. She would give him a squeeze if she sensed anyone near. After she nodded in understanding, he knelt down to pick the lock, conscious all the while that a guard could pass by at any moment. At last, he picked the lock and let them in, then locked the door behind them.

The study was decorated in the very latest style—a touch ornate for Marco’s preferences, but he wasn’t sorry his taste differed from a notorious crime lord’s. Immediately, he went to the large desk that dominated the chamber. Every drawer was locked. Not much of an impediment. The bigger challenge came from sorting through everything within.

He carefully pulled out stacks of papers and notebooks, and motioned for Bronwyn to start looking through them. He saw the name Reynard written on a book’s nameplate.

“What are we looking for?” she asked almost soundlessly.

“Banking ledgers,” he answered, just as quietly. “Like the ones our friend Bertrand showed us. Look for a series of numbers starting with 865–03.”

She nodded and began to sort through the sheaves of paper. A meticulous record keeper, this Grillons boss, detailing loans, smuggling ventures, profits from brothels, expenses and earnings from the importation of opium. Just like any businessman. But no banking ledger.

Until Bronwyn tapped him on the arm and placed a folder in front of him. Neat columns of numbers showed deposits and withdrawals from a bank. At the very top was a series of numbers: the account code.

From inside his coat, Marco pulled out a square of standard ledger paper. He tore off a tiny piece, and used a solvent he carried to patch the paper over the last three digits of the account number. The solvent made the original ink disappear. With the same pen on Reynard’s desk, Marco changed the numbers, matching the handwriting perfectly. He prided himself as Nemesis’s expert forger, and this was no exception.

“Remember when I left you alone in Montepulciano?” he whispered as he worked. “I was telegraphing Simon and Alyce. They went to Switzerland and opened an account with the Banque Suisse Nationale, using this number.” He pointed to the new account routing code.

“How did you know that’s the bank our Grillons friends would use?”

“Those starting numbers are among the exclusive codes the bank uses.” Marco blew on the ink to dry it. “Once the pressure starts coming down on Reynard, and Cluzet, they’ll both transfer money from their contingency accounts into their Swiss accounts. But they won’t know that the cash will actually be going to the new account—
your
new account.”

Setting the ledger carefully back where it had come from, he explained, “Les Grillons, they’re a distrustful lot. Don’t even trust each other. They’ve all got secret stashes of money and knives behind their backs. All of them have exigency plans should things head south. And they will.”

She stared at him. “Nemesis. It runs as intricately as one of those Swiss clocks. And your cunning mind … what’s it thinking? I’ll never know.”

Though she spoke in a neutral tone, he could feel the sadness and anger in her. Despite everything they’d done tonight, it was easier to jump between roofs than close the distance between them.

He glanced toward the door. “Right now I’m thinking the guard’s set to come by in minutes.”

They stole from the study, with Marco careful to lock the door behind him as they exited. Then they crept back up the long flights of stairs, pressing back into the shadows when a guard passed on the landing above them. He led and she kept watch on their backs, until they returned to the top floor. He wasn’t tall enough to reach the trapdoor and shove it open without getting a running start, and that would make too much noise.

“Get on my shoulders,” he whispered.

He crouched down, and she climbed up onto him. He stood, bringing her close to the trapdoor, which she pushed open quietly. She pulled herself up into the crawl space. Bronwyn extended a helping hand to him, but he shook his head. He weighed too much for her to support him. Likely, he’d just pull her back down.

But with the trapdoor now open, he could jump from a crouch and haul himself up.

A guard started up the stairs. Marco motioned for Bronwyn to close the trapdoor. She shook her head, gesturing for him to jump up.

The guard was almost there.

Marco ducked into a nearby room and hid behind an armoire. God, he hoped Bronwyn shut the trapdoor.

The door opened and the guard peered into the room. But he only glanced into the chamber for a moment before moving on. After several minutes, Marco emerged from behind the armoire and slipped into the hallway.

The trapdoor, which had been closed, opened, and Bronwyn’s relieved face appeared.

He quickly leaped up and hauled himself into the attic. Marco shut the door right before another sentry passed on patrol.

He had them wait a few minutes before creeping through the crawl space to ensure that the guard didn’t hear any suspicious noises above. Once he was certain they were in the clear, he waved her toward the open dormer window.

And then they were back on the roof. With its jump to safety. He went first. And this time, when it was her turn, she didn’t hesitate. Simply hunkered down and then sprang into a leap. And he welcomed her back into his arms for her landing. It felt … too good.

“Bene?”
he asked.

She let out a tremulous breath. “That will never be my favorite thing to do.”

“Doesn’t have to be. Cluzet’s home adjoins its neighbor, so it’ll be a simple stroll.”

Softly, she whimpered. “We have to do this again?”

“It’s the best way,” he answered. “Set everyone in Les Grillons against each other. Nemesis doesn’t do things in half measures.”

“I should be grateful for Nemesis’s thoroughness.” She still hadn’t pulled from his arms, and it felt exactly as it should be, that they stood atop a roof high above Paris, wrapped around each other. “But when this is all over, I’ll be grateful for some wine.”

When it was all over. If everything went according to plan, that wouldn’t be much longer. And he and Bronwyn would have their affair, then part ways—forever.

As she extracted herself now from his embrace, he decided he’d welcome some wine-induced oblivion, too.

*   *   *

They went on to the second home, the one that belonged to Cluzet.

Though they didn’t have to jump from roof to roof, they still needed to enter from the attic, since Cluzet kept just as many guards positioned around the perimeter of his house as his nefarious colleague.

Once inside, it was a matter of locating the study. But soon after finishing changing the account numbers, a noise alerted Marco that they were soon to have company. He quickly replaced the ledger, then he and Bronwyn ducked behind some heavy curtains right before the door to the study opened. Someone walked to the desk and sat down.

Ah, damn!
Apparently, Cluzet didn’t spend his whole night cavorting. The sounds of papers being shuffled indicated that the man was tireless in his devotion to his criminal work.

Bronwyn stared at Marco with wide eyes. They’d never get out of here without being noticed.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Cluzet?” One of the guards. “The supper you ordered is ready.”

“Yes, fine.” With a sigh, Cluzet stood and left the study. And he didn’t shut the door behind him.

Marco took Bronwyn’s hand, and they hurried out of the study. They both checked the hallway first for more guards. It was empty. So they rushed down the corridor, all the way to a set of doors that led to a garden.

Stepping out into the garden, she and Marco slid through the shadows of trees and fountains, until they reached the garden’s back gate. He hastily picked the lock, and in seconds, they were in the mews, speeding away from the house.

No one within was aware what had transpired. Or that the seeds of Cluzet’s and Reynard’s ruin had been planted.

*   *   *

Dawn came on in a gray pallor as Bronwyn and Marco made their way back to the toy shop. Her reflection in a window showed she looked equally ashen, weary from the long night’s events.

For all its reputation as a city of gaiety, Paris lived on bread and milk, like anywhere else. Marco and Bronwyn now passed the hardworking
citoyens
hurrying through the chill morning, making their deliveries as the rest of the city just began to stir. It was a place of merchants, factory girls, and pickpockets. No different from any of scores of cities across Europe. No one en route to their work paid Bronwyn and Marco any notice. Unsurprising, since she’d noticed that he’d been careful to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. And with her tucked close beside him as they walked, his innocuous appearance seemed to extend to her, as well. They might as well have been crossing sweepers or paupers, people gave them so little attention.

He bought two rolls and coffees from a passing vendor, who barely noticed them. They ate their breakfast on foot, with no time to stop to even lean against a splintered wooden fence to eat.

“More evidence that the life of a Nemesis operative or an intelligence agent is the diametric opposite of glamorous,” he said to her between mouthfuls.

At last, they reached the toy shop. They double-checked to make sure the narrow street was empty before prying open the boards covering the door. Once inside, they passed the rows of sightless dolls and moldering game boards, until they reached the living quarters at the back.

Sooty light pressed through the gaps in the boards covering the windows. There hadn’t been time or opportunity to clean, so the place was just as dusty and stale as it had been when they’d first come here the other day.

Without a word, she trudged over to the bed, and sat heavily on it. She began to unlace her boots. Neither of them had spoken since Reynard’s, and the silence felt as heavy as ore.

“There won’t be any apologies,” he said into the quiet. “Not from me.”

She didn’t look up from unfastening her boots. “I didn’t ask for one.”

“So the fact that you won’t talk to me—hell, that you’ve stopped
looking
at me—means things are right as rain.” There was anger in his voice.

She glanced up at him. “Mocking me isn’t going to win my favor.”

“Damn it,” he muttered, “it was easier to break into Reynard’s and Cluzet’s homes. At least there, I knew what to do.” He paced away, then back. “You say there isn’t any favor that needs winning.”

She kicked aside her boots, one then the other. “All right, you want the truth of it? I’m disappointed.”

He tensed. “I’ve done everything—”

“Not in you. In myself.” She rubbed at her face. “I thought myself a realist when it came to the world. That I could see things as they were rather than how I wanted them to be. But it was just a trick I played on myself. I still believed…” She sighed. “I believed in dragons. And knights to slay those dragons.”

“I’m no knight.” His voice sounded rusty, unused.

“I know. And I also know that I don’t want to be rescued. What I truly need are lessons in holding the lance, so that any time another dragon crosses my path, I can slay it on my own.”

He crossed to her, and crouched down. “You’re already halfway there. More than halfway.”

“I had a good teacher.”

He shook his head. “What did I teach you, except not to trust me?”

“I should have. Who you truly are or aren’t is none of my concern. But everywhere that it counts, you’ve shown yourself to be honorable—”

He snorted.

“Honorable,” she persisted. “Loyal. Dedicated to your cause. Even if you don’t think the cause deserves it.” The very traits that made her love him. And kept her at arm’s length.