Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (4 page)

“We ought to discuss our strategy with the others,” Harriet said.

Bronwyn’s heart pounded. This couldn’t actually be happening—could it? These people, what they proposed. It was all madness. Nothing could come of it but wasted effort. She should just collect her bag and violin, use one of her precious coins to hire a cab to take her to the boardinghouse, and place the advertisement for her services as a hired companion. That would be the safe, wise thing to do.

But she’d been safe and wise. She’d married the man of her father’s choosing, and while she’d had little cause for complaint during the marriage itself, when her husband had died, she’d become a pauper. In order to recover her lost fortune, she’d followed the dictates for mourning and communicated with solicitors only through correspondence—and even that was slightly improper. All that had netted her were very polite letters back insisting that there wasn’t anything to be done but make the best of an unfortunate situation.

An unfortunate situation.
That’s what wisdom and safety had netted her. A debt-ridden dead husband, with nothing left for her but a boardinghouse and advertisements in the newspaper.

Becoming a hired companion to a debutante or wealthy widow had no time limit. Such situations would always exist. But if Marco was to be believed, each time the sun set over Notting Hill, she was that much further away from independence. Soon, her fate would be unavoidable, and she’d fade like wallpaper, until there was nothing left of her but an echo of a pattern, sun-bleached and peeling.

“Mrs. Parrish,” Marco said to her, “Nemesis is a train that doesn’t stop until it reaches its destination. Once we begin, there’s no pulling the brake.” He stepped away from the mantel. “No disembarkation at stations if the ride becomes too bumpy. Too much is at stake for our agents to start a mission and abandon it halfway.”

Harriet nodded in agreement.

“I’ve got a strong suspicion,” he continued, “that there’s more to your husband’s debts and Devere’s involvement with them than what’s readily apparent. And whatever that might be, it will come with a substantial danger.” He fixed her with his sharp, dark gaze. “This is the moment of your decision. Go forward on this risky path, or not at all.”

Her heart now threatened to rip right from her body and leave a dark, wet stain on the front of her weeds. Never did she imagine, when she ate her dry toast and drank her reboiled tea this morning, that by midday, she’d find herself in the midst of a secret society, or that she’d even consider their scandalous, treacherous proposition.

Could she do this? Fear formed a cold vise around her throat. Neither path was exactly what she’d choose for herself. Still, she did have a choice to make, one that was hers alone.

“When do we start?” she asked.

His expression didn’t change. Yet something in his weathered, chiseled face seemed to alter. Turning from wariness to … a grudging respect. A flare of pleasure spread through her. He appeared to be a man who doled out his esteem with a parsimonious hand. But she had earned some of it just now.

“Immediately,” he answered.

*   *   *

Nothing could be accomplished without first speaking with Devere, or so Marco insisted. But all of Bronwyn’s letters to him had gone unanswered, and in her widowed state, it was impossible for her to actually go to his offices.

“We’ll find a way in.” Marco’s tone was utterly confident. “First, we’ve got to get you situated.”

“The boardinghouse…”

He shook his head. “Too far, and no respectable boardinghouse keeper is going to approve of what we’ll be doing.”

Bronwyn didn’t care for the sound of that.

“Take her from here”—Harriet glanced around at the tea shop’s private room—“to headquarters?”

“The safest option,” he answered.

“Haven’t I got a say in this?” Bronwyn interjected.

“Of course,” he replied. “But if you’re intelligent, you’ll do what we say, when we say it.”

“Sounds rather like being married,” she muttered, and both Harriet and Lucy snickered.

He crossed his arms over his lean chest. “Consider it as a marriage of convenience. Close your eyes and think of England. Better yet, think of your money.”

“This isn’t about my fortune,” she objected, standing.

He raised a brow.

“Well, it
is
about my fortune,” she said. “But I swear to you, my motives aren’t mercenary. I just…” She glanced around the room, barely seeing its tidy but worn furnishings. “I’ve been dependent on others my entire life. My father. Then Hugh. And without my money, I’ll be dependent again—this time on people I don’t know, people who truly don’t care what happens to me. I’ll be a … a thing to them.”

“You’re not a thing, madam!” Lucy insisted.

“That’s exactly what I am. Something that’s useful, until I’m not.” She struggled to sort through her thoughts, like picking out notes from a cacophony to make a melody. “Then what? My boarding school was the best on the Continent. For all that … what did I learn? Not a blessed thing about making my way in the world. But having some coin in my coffers … then I’d have some say in my future, in my life. I could … I could be in command of myself. For the first time.”

She gulped for breath, shocked at the words that had spilled forth—an untapped spring, bubbling to the surface. How long had they been trapped, needing to come out, until this very moment? In front of two strangers and her former maid?

It felt odd to speak so freely, when all her life she’d never even thought she’d have the right.
No one wants to hear your opinions,
her deportment teacher had instructed.
It’s vulgar to speak your thoughts.

Bronwyn had taken those lessons to heart, and since then had carefully erased her ideas from her mind, so she’d never be tempted to say them aloud. Things like her desire to play violin professionally rather than become someone’s decorative wife. Yet in this shop, with these people, she hadn’t tried to stop herself.

She waited. Any moment now, shock or revulsion would appear on the others’ faces.

But none came. Only nods of approval from Harriet and Lucy. Marco remained impassive. He and Harriet exchanged glances. The older woman slowly smiled. Turning back to Bronwyn, she said, “You don’t know me, nor I you. But we’re both women, and women who aren’t given the consideration we deserve. Trust me right now. Going to headquarters is the best choice for you.”

“Do I
have
a choice?”

“Of course,” she answered. “But this isn’t our first mission. You’d be wise to benefit from our experience.”

Beyond Bronwyn’s world of afternoon teas, charity bazaars, and balls, she herself had very little experience with the world. She’d nursed her husband through a fatal illness, but that consisted mainly of reading to him and catching his coughed-up blood in a handkerchief or basin. The doctors had dismissed her suggestions immediately. She hadn’t even left the grounds of the spa because she’d been warned that pickpockets preyed upon travelers.

God, what kind of world birthed generations of women who could do almost nothing for themselves but make sure they could plan and dress for a dinner party?

This
was her choice. Her first step on her own.

“If time is short,” she said, “then we ought to leave immediately.”

Lucy stood and, in what looked like an impulsive move, took Bronwyn’s hands in hers. “I’m so glad, madam.”

“Thank you, Lucy. For everything. I hope your new situation is good.”

Her former maid beamed. “I’m dressing an earl’s daughter!”

“Quite a rise in station,” Bronwyn said wryly.

The smile fell away from Lucy’s face. “My new mistress is kind, but … she isn’t you.”

For the first time since Hugh’s death, tears pricked Bronwyn’s eyes. “Thank you.”

Suddenly, Marco was beside her. He carried her valise and her violin case. She blinked in surprise, not having heard or seen him move. She ought to expect that from him. He was a man, solid and real, but there was a part of him made up of secrets and shadowed corners holding unknown dangers.

“We need to move quickly,” he said.

In moments, Bronwyn was bustled outside and into a waiting cab. Harriet and Marco climbed in after her, and Lucy stood on the curb, waving them off.

They traveled in silence, rolling through the streets of London, into decidedly working-class neighborhoods. The buildings stood close and were streaked by soot. The avenues themselves teemed with people and carts, all of them hurrying to unknown but clearly important destinations.

She’d never been to these parts of the city. They were rather … grim. Ugly. But then she saw a woman carrying a basket of bread. A man played with a child on the front stoop of his house, tossing a ball back and forth. For all that they weren’t the prettiest parts of London, there was life in them.

Astonishing, the size and variety of this city. Her repulsion slowly fell away, in crumbling pieces, until she had to fight the urge to press her face to the window and stare, taking everything in.

The cab pulled up outside a chemist’s in Clerkenwell, and Harriet and Marco stepped down from the carriage and waited for her.

“Is someone ill?” she asked.

Marco scowled. “Society.” With that, he entered the chemist’s shop. Clearly, Bronwyn was expected to follow.

Inside, a man in the apron of his profession waited on a customer, filling the woman’s order for toothache powder. There were no other patrons in the shop.

“It’ll be just a moment, sir,” the chemist called to Marco.

Baffled, Bronwyn wandered around the shop, looking at the numerous bottles of medicine and health tonics displayed on the shelves and in glass cases. They promised every sort of cure, from dyspepsia to catarrh to nervous despondency. She was well familiar with chemists’ shops, having frequented several when Hugh first became ill. The brass fittings in this one didn’t shine as brightly, and the wooden cabinets were worn and in need of polishing, but it didn’t seem to matter whether the patrons were wealthy or working-class—everyone’s bodies were fragile and subject to the whims of sickness.

Finally, the woman with the aching tooth left the shop. But instead of assisting Marco, the chemist glanced around the store as if ensuring it was empty. His hand drifted beneath the counter. There was a click, and Bronwyn watched with silent amazement as one of the cabinets swung open, revealing a narrow staircase.

“
Grazie,
Mr. Byrne,” Marco murmured.

Harriet climbed the stairs, but Bronwyn hesitated. What was she supposed to do?

“This way, Mrs. Parrish.” Marco waved her toward the staircase.

She sent a curious glance toward the chemist, who regarded her with an equal measure of curiosity, his gaze lingering on her weeds. Given the nature of the neighborhood, the quality of her clothing—even in mourning—stood out. But the dress she wore was the only one she had left. Everything else had been sold. The woman with the toothache likely had more clothing than Bronwyn.

She ascended the narrow, dark stairs. She felt Marco’s presence behind her. Instinct told her not to look over her shoulder, but to just keep climbing.

A battered door stood at the top of the stairwell. Harriet rapped her fist against it in a pattern of knocks.

At her knock, the door swung open, and the burly form of a man blocked most of the light behind him.

“This her, then?” he asked in a slightly rough accent.

“And a very good afternoon to you, Lazarus,” Harriet answered crisply. “Your manners haven’t improved since we’ve been gone.”

“This isn’t a salon, is it, Harridan?” the man retorted.

“If it was, you’d be thrown out by the footmen.”

Marco rumbled, “Lazarus, let us in, damn it.”

The burly man stepped aside, muttering, and Bronwyn followed Harriet into a very ordinary walk-up flat. The door opened to a parlor, at the center of which was a large, worn wooden table. Beyond the parlor lay a small kitchen. Leading off the parlor was a flight of stairs. Curtained windows that fronted the street let in gray afternoon light. Aside from the mass of dossiers and papers on the parlor table, it was a singularly unimpressive room.

She took a few steps inside and turned a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. “For all Lucy’s talk, I would’ve thought Nemesis’s headquarters would have boasted marble columns and war rooms to rival the cabinet.”

“Nemesis operates in a pro bono capacity,” Harriet explained.

“This isn’t a moneymaking operation,” growled Lazarus around the stem of a clay pipe. He had a salt-and-pepper beard, and carried himself like an old soldier. “Otherwise, we’d be damned foolish businessmen.”

For some reason, Bronwyn found herself turning to Marco for confirmation. “But I thought, when you said you didn’t take up causes for people like me, it meant…” Her cheeks heated.

“That this time we’re doing it for a percentage because you’d have the cash to cover it.” He set her bags down. “Wouldn’t be very fair of us if we treated you differently than our other clients.” He said this almost grudgingly.

“Fairness never entered my mind,” she answered.

“Why should it,” Harriet said, “when you haven’t been treated fairly?”

“But all this grandeur”—Marco waved at the modest chamber—“is financed out of Nemesis agents’ own pockets.”

She stared at him, shocked. These people couldn’t possibly be real, bankrolling justice for its own sake. “There can’t be very many of you, then.”

He chuckled, a sound like the pouring of a rich, dark wine into fine crystal, then cut his laughter short. “Never enough.”

“Some are on assignment right now,” Harriet said. “Desmond and Riza just came back from a mission that took them to the United States—you’ll meet them later.”

Her mind whirled. This world was so new, so hidden. How could she have ever known of it? And yet, like a receding tide, it became revealed.

“Your work is pro bono,” she said, “yet I can’t imagine what kind of outside employment you’d have to keep the Nemesis coffers full. Perhaps you’re bank robbers.”

Lazarus chortled. “We stay on the side of the law. Usually.”