dangerous mistake. If he nabbed the wrong bloke, Devere would find out about it, and then there’d be no chance of getting Nemesis’s hands on him.
“I’m not entirely certain what we’re doing here,” Mrs. Parrish said, glancing out the cab’s window. Streetlights weren’t plentiful in this run-down part of the city, and between the hood of her cloak—he’d had her remove her veil, though she’d objected—and the shadows, he could barely make out her features. But he didn’t need to see them now to remember everything, such as the tiny dip in her lower lip, or the straight line of her reddish-gold eyebrows, or how she’d set her chin whenever she was trying to be brave. Her chin often formed that firm shape, pushed slightly forward. It was a struggle, he saw, for her to keep her determination.
Marco had them swing by Nemesis headquarters and pick up Desmond for the trip to Bethnal Green—this wasn’t an assignment Marco wanted for himself, and it would be better tonight to have another agent accompanying them. Introductions had been made quickly between Desmond, his sister Riza, and the Widow Parrish. Night had fallen, which meant that they had a limited amount of time. If Mrs. Parrish had been surprised by Desmond and Riza’s half-Indian parentage—clearly evident in the color of their skin and hair—she made no mention of it. She’d paused briefly, but then shaken their hands and been swept up in the mission.
A scalpel, Eva had called Marco once. A suave scalpel, the Nemesis agent had said, more specifically.
He almost grinned to himself. Nothing by half measures. He might not want to be on this case, but when he was the lead on a mission, he moved with speed and precision. An old habit ingrained by training. When the lives of thousands of soldiers or civilians were at risk, he couldn’t proceed slowly. Even when it came to gathering intelligence, he had a surgical precision. No lingering, not when the anesthetized patient could wake at any moment and begin screaming.
He’d snatched a folio of papers off a diplomat’s desk in the beat of a fly’s wings. He’d broken into a French arms manufacturer’s safe box in less than two minutes. Though the Widow Parrish was genteel, he’d rather spend his time seeing to the needs of the poor—over the course of his work with British Intelligence, he’d seen far too much poverty and privation, both at home and abroad.
He’d never been a member of the elite—and didn’t want to be. He’d endured enough at their hands to ever want anything to do with them. It was one of the main reasons why he’d become an intelligence agent, and why he helped form Nemesis six years ago. Their targets were often from the highest ranks of society, which gave him a cold, brutal satisfaction when the bastards were brought down.
She was of them, the Widow Parrish.
Still, he’d been strong-armed into this job, and now that he’d committed to it, he wouldn’t doze his way through.
“Back at Devere’s offices,” he said as the carriage rocked over the rough pavement, “you said something that made me think.”
“A rare occurrence,” Desmond offered.
Marco in turn offered the agent one of his favorite Italian hand gestures.
“I can’t imagine I have anything to add to your elaborate thought process,” Mrs. Parrish said.
“You said that if Devere didn’t take the money for himself,” Marco explained, “that it wound up in someone else’s pockets.”
“Yes, and then you asked if I was a betting woman.”
“Which you apparently are,” he said.
“There’s a small thrill in taking a chance,” she admitted, though uncertainty edged her voice. Then she tipped up her chin, and though the charcoal light within the carriage mostly hid her face, his imagination filled in the details. With the fairness of her redhead’s complexion, doubtless she wore a warm pink hue.
He forced his thoughts to something other than the color and temperature of the
“I’m not entirely certain what we’re doing here,” Mrs. Parrish said, glancing out the cab’s window. Streetlights weren’t plentiful in this run-down part of the city, and between the hood of her cloak—he’d had her remove her veil, though she’d objected—and the shadows, he could barely make out her features. But he didn’t need to see them now to remember everything, such as the tiny dip in her lower lip, or the straight line of her reddish-gold eyebrows, or how she’d set her chin whenever she was trying to be brave. Her chin often formed that firm shape, pushed slightly forward. It was a struggle, he saw, for her to keep her determination.
Marco had them swing by Nemesis headquarters and pick up Desmond for the trip to Bethnal Green—this wasn’t an assignment Marco wanted for himself, and it would be better tonight to have another agent accompanying them. Introductions had been made quickly between Desmond, his sister Riza, and the Widow Parrish. Night had fallen, which meant that they had a limited amount of time. If Mrs. Parrish had been surprised by Desmond and Riza’s half-Indian parentage—clearly evident in the color of their skin and hair—she made no mention of it. She’d paused briefly, but then shaken their hands and been swept up in the mission.
A scalpel, Eva had called Marco once. A suave scalpel, the Nemesis agent had said, more specifically.
He almost grinned to himself. Nothing by half measures. He might not want to be on this case, but when he was the lead on a mission, he moved with speed and precision. An old habit ingrained by training. When the lives of thousands of soldiers or civilians were at risk, he couldn’t proceed slowly. Even when it came to gathering intelligence, he had a surgical precision. No lingering, not when the anesthetized patient could wake at any moment and begin screaming.
He’d snatched a folio of papers off a diplomat’s desk in the beat of a fly’s wings. He’d broken into a French arms manufacturer’s safe box in less than two minutes. Though the Widow Parrish was genteel, he’d rather spend his time seeing to the needs of the poor—over the course of his work with British Intelligence, he’d seen far too much poverty and privation, both at home and abroad.
He’d never been a member of the elite—and didn’t want to be. He’d endured enough at their hands to ever want anything to do with them. It was one of the main reasons why he’d become an intelligence agent, and why he helped form Nemesis six years ago. Their targets were often from the highest ranks of society, which gave him a cold, brutal satisfaction when the bastards were brought down.
She was of them, the Widow Parrish.
Still, he’d been strong-armed into this job, and now that he’d committed to it, he wouldn’t doze his way through.
“Back at Devere’s offices,” he said as the carriage rocked over the rough pavement, “you said something that made me think.”
“A rare occurrence,” Desmond offered.
Marco in turn offered the agent one of his favorite Italian hand gestures.
“I can’t imagine I have anything to add to your elaborate thought process,” Mrs. Parrish said.
“You said that if Devere didn’t take the money for himself,” Marco explained, “that it wound up in someone else’s pockets.”
“Yes, and then you asked if I was a betting woman.”
“Which you apparently are,” he said.
“There’s a small thrill in taking a chance,” she admitted, though uncertainty edged her voice. Then she tipped up her chin, and though the charcoal light within the carriage mostly hid her face, his imagination filled in the details. With the fairness of her redhead’s complexion, doubtless she wore a warm pink hue.
He forced his thoughts to something other than the color and temperature of the
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