Dangerous Seduction: A Nemesis Unlimited Novel (14 page)

“How long have you known?” she demanded in an undertone.

“Since I left your home.” At her continued shock, he said, “This is my
work,
Alyce. If I couldn’t tell that I was being followed, and by a tyro”—she sputtered in outrage at that—“then I’d have to become a machinist for real.” She’d actually done a fair job of tailing, which was the greater surprise, but he’d been at this game for too long to not know when someone followed him.

“Or,” she hissed, “go back to the aristo world you come from.”

His mouth tightened. “Nobody can help the circumstances of their birth. It’s what comes after that defines them.” He took a step closer, and noted that she didn’t back away. Good. He didn’t want her shrinking from him. “Now, are we going to stand here all night, praying that someone catches us, or are you going to help me get inside?”

She eyed the managers’ house suspiciously. “You could be leading me into a trap.”

“Then stay out here. Or go home. But make a choice.” He slipped past her, ignoring her almost noiseless gasp of chagrin. Now he needed focus, and whatever she decided to do, he couldn’t let her distract him. But she was damned distracting …

The servants’ entrance was at the bottom of steps leading to a partially subterranean story. The transom above the door and a few narrow windows would let in light during the day, though with the house being so modern, he’d no doubt there were gas lamps to light the servants’ work. Right now, it was dark and quiet inside, thanks to him cooling his heels for the past hours. Whenever he had to wait out servants, he knew it would take a long while.

He eased down the stairs, then settled himself in front of the door with his lock picks.

“Someone could be awake in there.” Alyce crouched close beside him, and he caught the scent of cool night air and her skin.

“Everyone’s asleep, even the maids.” He slid the picks into the lock.

“You sure of that?”

“I’ve been watching the house for the past three nights. They keep to the same schedule. Servants are the first up and last to bed,” he added, making minute adjustments to his tools.

“So you’ve got a lot of experience with servants.” Her whisper was sharp with bitterness.

He should’ve expected her anger over his necessary duplicity. Even anticipated her resentment because he was a gentleman’s son. It was all part of the job. Dozens of times he’d ruthlessly made use of someone to ensure a job’s success.

And if that person became angry or bitter—it didn’t matter. The only important thing was justice.

He’d even treaded lightly with Alyce.

Yet her hurt had somehow migrated from her into him, and he felt a strange pain to see the betrayal in her eyes, hear it in her voice. It shouldn’t bother him—this mission was about more than her, it concerned an entire village and all the workers at Wheal Prosperity.

It shouldn’t bother him—but did.

“I’ve had to go in disguise as a servant, too,” he said, which was true. Granted, he wouldn’t have known as much about the lives and habits of domestic workers if he hadn’t grown up with them, but that wasn’t any of her business. “A tutor. Coachman, footman. Nobody knows how much footmen get pinched and prodded by ladies—and some gentlemen. I’d always find new bruises under my livery.”

She fell silent, and he glanced over to find her staring at him as if he’d crawled out from the ocean. “Tutors, coachmen, footmen.” She shook her head. “It’s a wonder we can breathe the same air. And
that
.” Her gaze slid to the picks he was manipulating. “Do they teach housebreaking at Harrow?”

“Studies supplementary to the curriculum.”

A little flare of triumph lit in him when she fought a smile. Then they both quieted as he continued to pick the lock. Finally, it opened with a gratifying click.

He slipped inside, Alyce at his back. It wasn’t easy to move with his usual stealth with the heavy weight he carried, but he’d managed under tougher conditions. The door opened into a corridor that stretched into pitch-darkness.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he whispered. “I’ll lead us.”

“Lead us
where
?” But she did as he asked.

Good as his eyesight was, he had to find his way by touch, his hand running along the chair rail lining the hallway.

She took a deep sniff. “God, that
smell
. Is that…?”

“Rancid butter.” Though he was aware of the sleeping household all around, and the danger of the situation, he smiled in the darkness. “Hope I can wash that stink out of my clothes, or no one will sit next to me in church.”

Her hand disappeared from his shoulder. “Are you really going to—”

He fumbled for, and found, her hand, and put it back onto his shoulder. “Enough talk. From now until we’re half a mile from this house, we work silently. Give my shoulder a squeeze if you understand.”

The feel of her strong fingers tightening around him caused a sudden pulse of heat to flare. A woman with strong hands and a strong will … The possibilities …

He shook his head at himself and his thoughts.
This isn’t how you get a mission done.
He’d prided himself on his spotless record for Nemesis. Not once had he let his cock cloud his judgment. He never involved himself with any women in an operation—unless circumstance demanded it. There were all sorts of secrets and information to be learned in a willing woman’s bed. He’d learned many, many secrets swathed in fine linens and expensive perfume.

But that wasn’t the plan here. Alyce was no bored magnate’s wife. The only reason he’d have to take her to bed was because he wanted her.

Goddamn it, get your sodding brains out of your trousers.

As he edged deeper down the hallway, toward the kitchen, he kept his senses on alert for any sounds or signs of movement in the house. But his thoughts remained focused on the slim, strong hand on his shoulder. The problem was that he
liked
Alyce. Simple lust could be shrugged off, or taken care of with a cold bath or time alone with his hand. But actually enjoying a woman’s company, admiring her—that made things a hell of a lot more complicated.

They reached the kitchen, where light from the windows fell in cool squares across tiled surfaces, gleaming cooking pots, a china cupboard, and a large, modern range. A stone sink stood beneath the windows with spigots for hot and cold running water. Alyce slowly straightened up from her crouch. Her eyes narrowing, she turned in a slow circle.

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to. This was probably the first time she’d been in a kitchen this expensive and modern. By comparison, the kitchen at her cottage looked medieval, humble. That Sarah Carr could cook such delicious food, and with such limited means, testified to her skill and resourcefulness. And soon, Sarah and Henry would have a child to feed from that modest kitchen. They’d probably have another, and another. Simon had seen the large, tumultuous families of Trewyn. Babies came faster than the parents could support them. But support them they did—under the meanest conditions. Everyone was always hungry. Even Simon felt the continual gnaw. There was never enough.

Yet this kitchen, bright and clean and new, fed only three men who mostly sat behind desks all day. The kitchen also provided meals for the servants who waited on the managers, but their fare would be simpler, cheaper.

Fury crossed Alyce’s face and her hands trembled. She looked as though she wanted to tear the shining copper pots down from the wall and throw open the cabinet to shatter the china cups and plates. Here was visible proof of the cavernous gap between the workers and the managers, proof at its most elemental: food.

He took a warning step toward her, but he didn’t need to bother. She drew in a shaky breath, calming herself. The work of Nemesis was always emotional, but the trick was to keep those feelings buried so the mind could be clear.

She spread her hands, asking silently,
Now what?

A heavy door stood at one end of the kitchen. He opened it, and cool air rushed out, lightly scented with beef and dairy. The larder. It smelled of cold prosperity.

Alyce slipped in beside him, and again he heard her suck in her breath at the massive amount of food stored here. Haunches of meat hung from the rafters, with one flank large enough to feed a family of seven. Despite the darkness of the larder, he could see the sheer greed in her eyes. She probably wanted to steal one of the joints of beef—there’d been a minuscule amount of meat in Sarah’s stew. Alyce’s hand hovered close to the piece of beef. But she pulled away.

She knows. A theft like that wouldn’t go unreported.
Every cottage and home would be ransacked by the constabulary, the thief arrested and sent to a county gaol.

Proof again of her intelligence. She thought beyond immediate desires, to the larger scheme.

He set the pack of rancid butter on the stone floor. Opening it assaulted his nose, and she reared back, covering her nose and mouth. He began stacking the wrapped blocks of butter on the marble counter. She started to help, both of them moving quickly and silently to empty the pack of its contents.

Once it was empty, he lifted a large glass cloche. Beneath were more blocks of butter, pale and creamy in the soft light. He bent close and inhaled deeply. The milky scent brought him straight back into childhood and slices of bread thickly spread with sweet butter served with his tea in the nursery.

He glanced pointedly between the fresh butter and his pack. Her eyes widened with understanding, then she grinned wickedly. Her smile arrowed straight through him.

She ducked out into the kitchen, then returned a moment later with a roll of paraffin paper. Again, he nodded his approval. Together, she and Simon wrapped each block of fresh butter and carefully set them in his pack. When all the butter had been loaded, hands soon glistened, so he wiped them off on a nearby square of toweling. A groan caught in his throat when he glanced up to see Alyce leaning against the counter, eyes closed, licking her fingers. Her expression was nothing short of ecstasy.

It felt like a deliberate punishment, taunting him with what he couldn’t—shouldn’t—have.

He wanted it to be
his
tongue running up and down her glossy fingers, sucking them into his mouth, tasting butter and her flesh. And if he didn’t care as much about the mission as he did, he would’ve done exactly that—walked up to her and licked her slowly, watching her face the whole while. Maybe she would’ve slapped him. Maybe she would’ve wanted more than her fingers in his mouth.

He’d never know. There was no overlooking that they were deep in the house of the enemy, their situation precarious. He could forget himself with her. Easily.

Quietly, he cleared his throat. She glanced up at him, the tip of her index finger still between her lips. Her gaze was carnal but cruel as she lowered her hand.

As he shouldered his pack, she unwrapped all the blocks of rancid butter, choking a little on the smell, then covered as much as she could with the cloche. He and Alyce left the larder, and she stuffed the paper far back into the stove’s cold firebox. In the morning, the cook would unknowingly destroy the evidence when loading up and setting fire to wood to heat the stove. He smiled again at Alyce’s ingenuity.

Quickly, they made their way out of the kitchen and out of the house. He made certain to lock the door behind him.

And then they were hurrying away from the house, down the hill, neither of them daring to speak until the house was just a dark, looming shape on the knoll. They stopped for breath beside a hedgerow.

“And now?” she whispered. Her eyes gleamed. Not with fear or anger. With excitement. She was
enjoying
this.

Goddamn it.

“Now, we finish a little game the Americans call the ‘switch.’”

*   *   *

The hour was late, but Alyce knew there would still be a constable or two on patrol. So she and Simon made their way quietly, stealthily to the company store. He quickly picked the lock to the store’s back doors. Her mind reeled as she watched him deftly break in. In a single night, he’d changed so many times, her head spun like a mill wheel. From machinist, to gentleman, to Nemesis operative. And now to this—expert burglar.

Who
was
he? The mystery of him kept unfolding, like a map being opened one small corner at a time. She thought she’d known his whole geography, but then another piece of the map was revealed, leaving her disoriented. Lost.

Anger still singed her. The whole time he’d been lying. Lying to her.

He had his reasons. Are you going to be a sulky child, or are you going to help?

The back loading doors to the store opened, and together, they crept inside. Darkness smothered the inside of the shop, but she knew the place the way she knew recurring bad dreams. She followed him to the larder, a small room that wasn’t half as cold as the insulated chamber inside the managers’ house. It gave off a faint stink. The meat on its hooks and racks here was tinged gray, not red, and bottles were filled with cloudy liquid that was supposed to be milk—unlike the opaque, brightly white bottles of milk at the house. She noticed a gap on the wooden counter where the butter had been.

Without speaking, she and Simon unloaded the blocks of wrapped, fresh butter. They worked quickly together. Every so often, he shot her a glance, ripe with awareness.

“What?” she whispered, torn between annoyance and interest.

He shook his head. “It’ll have to wait.”

She would’ve thought that breaking and entering—twice in one night—would’ve bothered her. Every Sunday saw her at church, dutifully listening to sermons and believing herself, in essence, a good person. Yet she’d be a liar if she said there hadn’t been something almost …
fun
 … about burglarizing the managers’ home, and again here in the company store. Technically, she wasn’t actually
stealing
from the store, since they were putting merchandise back, but these weren’t Bible- or law-abiding deeds.

For a good purpose,
she reminded herself. She wasn’t about to start a life of crime after tonight.