Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (8 page)

Spies didn’t form commitments. They couldn’t. Neither did Nemesis operatives—usually. Though Eva had with Jack, and Simon with Alyce. Even Michael with Ada. But Marco was different from all of them because he alone worked as a spy.

When he’d taken the job with British Intelligence, it was the same as a vow of celibacy. Not literal celibacy, because he’d go mad if he couldn’t give and receive pleasure. But another kind of celibacy. He’d never know what it was like to court a woman. To speak with her father. To see her waiting for him at the end of the church aisle, or waiting for him at the window of their home. And while part of him mourned that loss, he knew he’d never be content with that life.

He’d picked espionage for a reason. Those in power were usually of the elite, and it gave him no small amount of gratification to dismantle their plans. Stability, however, wasn’t one of the reasons why he’d chosen spying as his profession.

But here was Mrs. Parrish, wearing the very symbols of her commitment to another. He didn’t care for the late Mr. Parrish. That man was dead, leaving behind a woman unprotected. And maybe Hugh Parrish hadn’t had any control over whether he lived or died, yet there was a petty, mean part of Marco that thought it damned selfish for Parrish to die without ensuring his wife’s safety.

Diavolo.
Maybe Mrs. Parrish
did
deserve help from Nemesis.

She stirred, her eyes blinking open. Looked at the carriage. Then him. She started.

“It’s not a dream,” he said.

She sat up straighter, tugging on her cloak. “I couldn’t decide if it was a fulfilled wish or a nightmare.”

“A bit of both.” He watched her rub at her face, then asked, “Still want to move forward with this?”

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I want my fortune back—and, as you said, there’s so much I could do with that money. Some real good. Maybe I won’t live as lavishly as before, but I don’t need six bedrooms to be happy.”

What did he need to be happy? He usually considered himself a contented man. He had his work for the government, but more importantly, his missions for Nemesis. Both shaped and changed the world. Perhaps in small ways, but enough to give him a sense of accomplishment. Not many could say the same, including his father, who manufactured vulcanized rubber gaskets, which brought him wealth but didn’t erase the lines of worry from his forehead. Or gain him entry into the realm of high society. For the titled, Marco, his father, and his grandfather would never be more than tradesmen, more fit to enter through the servants’ entrance than the front door of the houses of the aristocracy.

A sharp memory jabbed him. His first year at university, and though his father had also attended the same university, Marco had still been the object of the titled students’ scorn. They’d locked him out of his room several times. Left boot black, shoes, and rags on his bed. As though he were their servant.

Instead of returning home, as they’d hoped, Marco had made sure to excel at every endeavor. Including captaining the rugby team, earning trophies in boxing, and taking top prizes in his courses.

And for Prescott Black, the only thing that had real power wasn’t a thing at all, but a person, Marco’s mother, Lucia. Her smiles made his father smile, and her raucous laugh made him laugh.

And if he envied what his parents shared, he knew it to be an anomaly. In his work, he’d seen too many unhappy marriages, too many people tied together for the wrong reasons. His preferred lovers were widows, and hardly any of them had good things to say about their dead husbands.

Mrs. Parrish was a widow.

He kicked that notion out of his head like an errant football. All his thoughts needed to be on the mission. As much as he enjoyed making love, he could always put his desires on hold until the time was right. And the time—and the person—were definitely not right when it came to Mrs. Parrish. Pretty as she was, and admirably fighting hard against her own fears.

The widow frowned as she looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Strange. I’ve never thought about … what I needed to be happy.”

“Happiness isn’t a promise when we come into this world.”

“Duty, responsibility,” she murmured. “Those were the things I’d been taught. To be a good daughter, a wife. A mother.”

Interesting that, though she was childless, there was no wistful longing in her voice at this last word. “How long were you married to Mr. Parrish?”

“Doubtless Lucy told you.”

“It might’ve escaped my notice.”

She looked up, her lips curling into a wry smile. “I have a difficult time believing anything escapes your notice. So I can only imagine that your question is a circuitous way of asking me why I have no children, despite the six years I was married.” She gave a short laugh. “Your roundabout question would have shocked me only yesterday.”

“And today?”

“Perhaps I’m just exhausted, and can’t summon enough energy to be scandalized.” She rubbed her face. “But in answer to your question-yet-not-a-question, Hugh wanted a family.”

“You didn’t.”

“Not yet. I needed…” A frown creased between her straight brows. “Time as myself, before someone called me mama.”

“Mr. Parrish supported this idea?” If so, the dead man was far more progressive than others of his sort. While Marco was raised among the sons of self-made men and had two sisters, Simon came from the ranks of the elite and possessed many, many siblings. From what he’d described, and Marco’s own observations, genteel women were treated like prized hunting bitches, whelping one pup after another to ensure the family line. The queen herself had birthed nine children, though two were no longer living.

Mrs. Parrish picked at the seam of her cloak. “My husband believed something wasn’t quite right with my…” She cleared her throat. “He thought it a biological issue. Made me visit several doctors, all of whom declared me of sound health and perfectly able to … breed. Yet to everyone’s bafflement, I never did.”

Scratching at his goatee, Marco said, “A vinegar-soaked sponge.”

The widow did look shocked now, her gaze flying to his. “How did you know?”

“Unless he was remarkably unobservant,” Marco said, “your husband would’ve noticed if you put a prophylactic on him.” God above—Marco would have been aware if her slim hands rolled one of the lambskin or rubber devices over his
uccello
. “Same with rinsing after coitus. If my wife leaped up right after we’d made love”—odd how his voice grew deeper at those words—“to clean herself, I might get a little suspicious.”

“Do you have a wife?” she asked.

“I am and will always be a bachelor,” he answered.

“You cannot say
always,
” she said. “Unless you’ve got the gift of prophecy, too, no one can know the future.”

“I might not be able to read tarot cards or tea leaves, but I know that I’ll never marry.” He continued before she could press him further. “Getting a cap would have required you seeing a doctor for a fitting, which was risky, since it might lead to Mr. Parrish finding out. He was likely the sort of man to announce his intention of visiting your bedchamber ahead of time. After dinner, say, when you were both in the drawing room, and you were reading a novel while he perused the evening paper. Giving you plenty of time to prepare for his marital attentions.”

Mrs. Parrish was silent.

What a dull and passionless way to conduct a marriage. And entirely typical for the English. Marco had memories that he’d like to forget, of his mother stalking up to his father and dragging him by the neckcloth out of the study, and then they’d reappear several hours later, flushed and languorous. At the time, he’d been repulsed. Even now, he didn’t relish the thought of his parents’ sex life, but it set a standard that he’d rarely seen replicated.

He never thought about what kind of husband he’d be—that was a path he’d deliberately gated and locked. But if
he’d
been married to Mrs. Parrish …

Basta.
An unprofitable thought to pursue.

She spoke stiffly. “I expect you’ll call me unnatural. One of those awful progressive women subverting God and the law.”

“You might’ve noticed, Mrs. Parrish, that I’m not really the man to accuse anyone of subverting anything.” He leaned forward and braced his forearms on his thighs. “Every Nemesis agent chose their work because they don’t believe that anyone should have a say in how others lead their lives. Especially when it comes to the powerful dictating the choices—or lack of choices—for those without power. So if you decided you didn’t want to swell up with child every nine months, I’m not going to pass judgment on you.”

She stared at him. “You’re not?” she said, disbelief plain in her voice.

He shook his head. “I applaud your guile. For years, you were able to trick your husband and several doctors. That takes bravery and cunning. Two things Nemesis always appreciates.”

“And you?” she asked. “Do you appreciate a woman with cunning?”

He found himself smiling. “What do you think?”

She actually smiled back. “I think you’re the oddest man I’ve ever met.”

“But you’ve admitted to being somewhat sheltered.”

“Yet instinct tells me that there aren’t many men like you roaming this earth. And I do believe that’s for the best.”

He laughed. “I’m deciding whether or not to be insulted.”

“I’m deciding whether or not I tried to insult you,” she answered.

Unexpected heat pulsed through him, rattling him. Though he moved quickly when it came to missions, he liked knowing all the variables ahead of time, understanding exactly how every component worked, and what to anticipate. It made him nimble, fast to react, and completely confident in his actions.

Yet here was this little widow, sheltered but struggling against the bonds of her insulated life, carrying a small yet bright torch of rebellion. Consistently unbalancing him. He didn’t like questioning his own judgment. It made everything dangerous. Including himself.

He was grateful when the cab pulled up outside headquarters. After paying the driver, Marco let him and Mrs. Parrish into the chemist’s shop. Together, they went through the secret entrance, and within a minute, both stood in the parlor, where they were met by Harriet and Lazarus. Their voices abruptly stopped the moment Marco and Mrs. Parrish set foot in the parlor, but judging from the dark stain on Harriet’s cheeks and the way Lazarus tugged on his beard, yet another argument had been interrupted.

“Now what?” Marco asked.

Harriet pointed an accusing finger at Lazarus. “Please tell Colonel Numskull that if you can’t get to the groin, the best way to incapacitate a man is to slam the side of your hand into your opponent’s throat.”

“A good, solid punch to the solar plexus,” Lazarus retorted. “
That’s
the way to take a bloke down. He can’t prepare for it, and you can shock the hell out of him. Or knock the wind out of ’im. Maybe even stop his heart.”

“A hit to the throat is always going to hurt,” Harriet argued. “And it cuts off any way of breathing. No better means of disabling your enemy.”

“
Madonna,
is there nothing you two won’t fight about?” Marco said with a sigh.

“No,” they said in unison.

“Well, that’s an agreement about something,” Mrs. Parrish offered.

They both looked appalled at the idea.

“What did you learn?” Harriet asked, as if trying to distract herself from the notion that she and Lazarus might be in accord about anything.

Striding to the rickety sideboard, Marco poured himself a few fingers of whisky. He threw the drink back, letting its heat singe away thoughts of the spirited Widow Parrish. But alcohol wasn’t entirely successful, and he felt himself all too aware of her dark, still presence in the room.

He quickly briefed Lazarus and Harriet on everything the evening had revealed, including Devere’s citywide debts and sudden disappearance.

“Maybe someone caught up with him,” Lazarus offered. “Didn’t like the bloke’s habit of holding on to his money instead of paying up. Then gave him what for.” Lazarus mimed sticking a knife into someone’s gut.

“Charlie would’ve heard about it,” Marco countered.

“Perhaps she knew and didn’t tell us,” Mrs. Parrish said. “She did say that information was powerful. She didn’t want to give us that power.”

The widow was thinking more and more like a devious Nemesis agent. Did that mean she was being strengthened, or corrupted? “She’s got nothing to gain by withholding the possibility of Devere’s death from us,” Marco said. “It’d serve her better to tell us everything she knew so we could find him and she’d get her thirty pounds.”

“What’s it to be, then?” Lazarus asked. “Got everything you could from his offices.”

“His lodgings next, I’d wager,” Harriet suggested.

“He wouldn’t leave anything important there,” the old soldier countered. “Not if he owes half the city blunt. It’d be the first place the chaps wanting him would look.”

Harriet opened her mouth in a retort, but Marco cut her off. “Unless they’re looking for the wrong things.”

Despite the fact that Harriet had just made the suggestion, now Lazarus nodded sagely at Marco’s wisdom. Harriet crossed her arms over her chest and kicked the leg of the table.

The widow covered her mouth with her hand, but as though she were holding back a smile. She’d only been working with Nemesis for a day, and already she was falling into the rhythms of the place and people.

As if that searching self he’d felt in her had been searching for … this.

But that wasn’t possible. Not her. Not this.

“Tomorrow,” Marco went on, “I’ll break into Devere’s lodgings and conduct my own search.”

Lacing his fingers together, Lazarus gave his knuckles a solid crack, making both Harriet and Mrs. Parrish wince. “Right, then. Haven’t done a proper bit of second-story work in a while.”

“Mi dispiace, amico.”
Marco placed his hand on Lazarus’s shoulder. “You’ll have to wait a little longer.”

“You’ll take Desmond with you?” Harriet asked. “I’d join you myself, but I’ve got to be at my regular employment tomorrow.”