Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (7 page)

“And this Charlie resides here?”

Marco shrugged. “Don’t know if Charlie lives here, but she does work here.”

“Charlie is a she?” Mrs. Parrish sucked in a breath. “You’re taking me to a brothel?”

“God, no. I’m taking you to an underground bare-knuckle brawling match.”

*   *   *

“I thought you were jesting,” Mrs. Parrish shouted above the din, “when you mentioned the brawl.”

“I never joke about boxing,” he yelled back. “It’s a beautiful, ancient art.”

The boxer in the makeshift ring took a punch straight to his nose, sending blood spraying in an arc that spattered on the shirts and jackets of the nearest bystanders. The match itself was held in a former slaughterhouse, huge holes in the walls and ceiling, and the massive space teemed with sweaty, shouting men—and a few women—all of them there to bet on the fates of burly, cold-eyed brawlers. The scent of coppery blood and rank sweat hung thickly in the air.

“I can see the aesthetic majesty,” Mrs. Parrish muttered.

He scanned her face beneath the hood of her cloak. She was pale, and looked a little ill. Despite this, her wide eyes seemed to try to take everything in at once.

Desmond pushed through the crowd to join Marco and Mrs. Parrish. His black hair was plastered to his spice-hued skin, and he looked cross. “Where the hell is this Charlie?”

“Working,” Marco answered. “But she’ll join us just as soon as she collects after the match.”

The crowd roared as one of the bruisers went down hard, and four blokes were required to drag the unconscious fighter out of the ring. Men clustered in a group as money changed hands, all of them gathered around one central figure that wasn’t quite visible amid the chaos. Finally, the bettors dispersed, revealing Charlie at the center of the madness, pocketing a huge wad of cash.

As they stood waiting, a red-faced man staggered toward Marco.
Ah, hell.

“You,” the man slurred, pointing a finger at Marco.

“Me,” he answered.

“You were the bloke that done took my kids away,” the bloke snarled.

“Seeing as how you beat them every morning and night,” Marco answered, “I didn’t think you’d miss them very much.” The three children in question had been placed in an orphanage, and were later adopted by a childless couple in Greenwich. Last Marco had heard, the eldest son was apprenticed to a printer.

“How’m I supposed to get any money if my kids ain’t working?”

“I suggest getting a job.”

When the bloke swung at Marco, he was prepared, taking a short sidestep and avoiding the blow. The bully stumbled forward, and Marco kicked the back of his knees, sending the bloke sprawling to the dirt. But the fool didn’t stay down. He lurched to his feet and threw another punch. Marco struck fast, a direct hit to the bully’s jaw.

The man sank to the ground, bloody and unconscious.

Marco shook out his fist. He caught Mrs. Parrish’s stunned look, and only stared coolly back. A moment later, Charlie caught sight of Marco and gave a small wave, then crossed through the throng. The crowd parted for Charlie, her natural authority like a ship’s prow, cutting through the waves of humanity.

Recovering herself, Mrs. Parrish said under her breath, “Now I feel especially dowdy.”

“Ah, don’t compare yourself to Charlie,” Marco answered. “There’s no one like her.”

The woman in question stopped in front of them. She tipped back her bowler hat and plucked the stub of a cigar from her mouth, then planted her hands on her hips. In all of Marco’s travels, he’d never encountered a woman—a
person—
as singular as the bookmaker. She seemed somewhere in her early forties, though she wore her age with a triumphant glow of beauty, defiant in her lack of youth. Charlie favored shirtwaists and well-tailored waistcoats, as well as the finest in neckcloths. Though she wore masculine trappings on her top half, she preferred skirts, as if to remind everyone that she was indeed a woman.

“Nemesis comes a-calling,” she said. “Here I haven’t asked for my favor yet.”

“Charlie did us a kindness some time ago,” Marco explained to Mrs. Parrish. He wouldn’t go into the details of how Charlie had helped them obtain a corpse as part of a mission to ruin a corrupt nobleman, since that tale might make the widow finally pass out, or else storm off in horror.

And one of their best agents had once boxed in this very place. A right brute of a man, that Jack Dutton, as he called himself now, married to Eva and running a school in Manchester. But that didn’t keep Jack or Eva from taking on their own Nemesis cases in their new location.

“And my kindnesses always come with a price,” Charlie added with a not particularly friendly grin. She glanced at Mrs. Parrish. “She ain’t one of yours. Not with those pretty little hands.”

The widow tucked her hands into the folds of her cloak. “Charming establishment you have here.”

Charlie threw back her head and laughed. “I wouldn’t keep pigs in here, love, but thanks for the sentiment.” Then her gaze fell on Desmond, and a feral gleam lit her eyes. “But
this
one is yours.”

“How can you tell?” Desmond asked, placing his own hands on his hips.

“It’s in the eyes, love,” Charlie purred. “I knew a bloke who was a sniper for the army. Could shoot an enemy right in the heart at two hundred yards in dense jungle. You Nemesis lot have the same look in your eyes.” She pointed a finger at Desmond. “Dangerous, you are.” She grinned. “Almost as dangerous as me.”

“We’ll just have to test that theory,” Desmond answered.

“Maybe
you’ll
be the favor I call in,” she murmured.

Marco stepped between them. “We’re actually here for a reason.”

The Widow Parrish looked ashen, swaying on her feet. She had to be roasting beneath her heavy mourning clothes and woolen cloak. The crude boxing arena couldn’t be an easy place for her to be, either, with blood staining the dirt that comprised the ring and the ongoing racket of men bellowing at one another.

Yet she didn’t voice a word of complaint.

And bugger him if that didn’t appeal.

He wanted to pull her close and have her lean on him, give her support. No. Her case fell to him, but he wasn’t her protector. It’d been her choice to get involved with Nemesis. Either she’d flow with the current or be dragged under—depending on whether or not she was a strong swimmer. He wasn’t her raft.

But, damn it, what were these compulsions? She was sheltered. Delicate. That had to be it.

Not qualities he cared for. And though Mrs. Parrish had been shielded from the outside world, she’d already shown that she wasn’t actually frail.

“Let’s move this conversation to a more salubrious location,” he said.

“An abattoir would be more salubrious,” Mrs. Parrish murmured.

“This building was, once,” he noted.

She grimaced. “It must have been much more pleasant back then.”

Charlie gave another raffish grin. “And right cesspit it is. But I’m the gem floating on the top.”

“That’s a mental image I’ll always treasure,” Mrs. Parrish said.

The bookmaker laughed. “I like you, your ladyship. There’s more than steel and whalebone holding up your spine.” She glanced around the boxing arena. “It’s going to be a few minutes before the next match is announced. We can take this to my pub.”

“You own a pub?” Mrs. Parrish asked.

Charlie smirked. “There isn’t a piece of this filthy city I don’t own, in one way or another.”

*   *   *

The Two Cats pub wasn’t much of an improvement on the boxing ring. Tucked into a rotting corner of a nameless street, choked with coal and tobacco smoke and crammed with furniture that had barely survived countless scuffles between patrons, the pub could safely be called a hovel. Marco had seen his share of run-down taverns and hostelries from here to Constantinople. The Two Cats impressed even him with its shabbiness.

None of which he voiced to Mrs. Parrish. He made sure she was tucked close beside him in the settle, away from the searching eyes and groping hands of the patrons.
Patrons
being an elegant term in this case for
shambling drunkards.
Of course, if anyone did make a play for her, Marco had more than his share of weapons tucked away to defend her. His fists being two of them.

He felt her warm presence beside him. Not her actual heat, but something else, a searching quality that made him aware of her every movement, every breath. It drew on him. Intrigued him.

Across the table sat Charlie, with Desmond wedged against her in the small booth. Their gazes kept catching on each other, then breaking apart. Desmond drummed his fingers on the table, as he always did when unsettled. The agent had faced down gun-toting gangs and drug-addled madmen without a bead of sweat, but Charlie seemed to put him on edge.

A barmaid thumped down four glasses of dubious beer. She scuttled off when Charlie jerked her head, dismissing the server.

Mrs. Parrish picked up her glass. Gently, Marco laid his hand on her wrist and pushed the glass back down onto the table.

“You don’t want any part of that,” he said sotto voce. “Unless you fancy spending half the night in the privy.”

After giving him a grateful look, she carefully pushed the glass away from her.

Charlie, however, had no concerns about the beer. She threw hers back and finished the entire contents in two swallows. Likely she’d developed some immunity to whatever lived in the beverage.

Charlie wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “If it’s another favor you want…”

“Not a favor,” Desmond said. “Information.”

“Information
is
a favor,” the bookmaker corrected. “Nothing more powerful or dangerous.”

“Then add it to our bill,” Marco said. “No one else in London’s got the knowledge that you do.”

“Damn right,” Charlie said. “The British Museum ain’t nothing compared to me.”

“We’re looking for someone,” Desmond said.

Mrs. Parrish continued, “A financial advisor named Edgar Devere.” She then gave the bookmaker the same description of Devere that she’d given Marco earlier.

Charlie snarled. “I know him. Owes me thirty pounds. Worst bloke to count on to come through with blunt.”

Raising a brow, Marco prompted, “Bad investment?”

“A money-thieving bastard is what he is,” snapped Charlie.

Mrs. Parrish said nothing at this foul language, though her hands tightened into fists as they rested on the tabletop. “Does he owe other people money?” she asked.

“No bookmaker in London will take his bets anymore,” Charlie answered, “on account of he doesn’t pay anyone back.”

“Maybe he did come through for some of them,” Desmond said, “and you didn’t hear about it.”

“There isn’t a bloody thing that happens in this town without me knowing about it,” Charlie countered. “Especially when it comes to welching.” She glanced at Brownyn, then at Bronwyn’s drink.

Bronwyn waved at it, silently giving the other woman permission.

Charlie grabbed Bronwyn’s glass and downed her drink in only a few gulps. Desmond stared like one transfixed.

“When was the last time anyone’s seen Devere?” Marco pressed. The man might not have been at his offices for three months, but that didn’t mean he kept away from London’s gaming action.

Charlie shrugged. “It’s got to be months now.” She peered at Mrs. Parrish. “Did he take a bet from you?”

“He took everything from me,” the widow answered.

Charlie whistled. “Bad investment, love.”

“It wasn’t mine, but the result was the same.”

Charlie pulled a pocket watch from her waistcoat. The case was engraved and set all over with rubies—a risky item to own in this part of town, but it was a measure of her stature that she could carry such a precious object without concern that she’d be a pickpocket’s victim. No doubt someone found out the very hard way not to steal from Charlie.

“Delightful as this little chat’s been,” she said, rising to her feet, “I’ve got beer money to earn. Consider this another favor Nemesis owes me.” She winked at Desmond. “Come and see me if you want to see how the bad people play.”

Before Desmond could answer, Charlie was gone. The other Nemesis agent leaned back, looking stunned.

“Seems I’ve missed a lot since I’ve been in America,” he muttered. Then, with a “what the hell” shrug, he drank down his beer.

Mrs. Parrish looked almost as stunned as Desmond. “That was … an interesting woman.”

“A London original,” Marco answered. “But she taught us one thing tonight. Your money isn’t anywhere in the city. And neither is Devere.”

“Somewhere else in England, then?” Mrs. Parrish asked.

“We’ve got one good place to find out,” Marco said. “Devere’s lodgings. It’s time for a break-in.”

“My God,” the widow said on an exhalation, a look of trepidation on her face. “There’s more?”

His look was pitiless. “It never lets up, not from one moment to the next, until the job is done.”

*   *   *

Mrs. Parrish looked gray with exhaustion, and still stunned at the new world she’d seen and her immersion within it, so after parting ways with Desmond—who had his own agenda for the rest of the night—Marco found them a cab and headed back toward headquarters.

He sat opposite her, watching as she fought to stay awake. But at last her tiredness won, and she leaned against the threadbare squabs and fell into a light doze. Yet her hands were still curled into fists, protecting her even as she slept.

Did she miss her husband? His presence in her life, in her bed? Society proscribed strict rules for the means and how long a woman was supposed to mourn the loss of a spouse. If left to her own devices, would she cast off her weeds already, or would she be like the queen, and cling to her sorrow for the rest of her life?

Why should it matter to him?

He wished for a glass of good
vino nobile
. He’d be sure to pour himself one when he returned home—though, damn it, Lazarus would be there and demand a glass of his own, and Marco’s cache of imported wine was a private hoard he didn’t like to share with anyone. He was far more jealous of his wine than his women. When his lovers demanded more devotion from him, and he was unable to give it to them, he let them move on to other men without a word of objection.