The clock in the station declared it to be half past two in the morning. Only a few dozen people moved around the platform instead of the usual mobs waiting for trains to take them north. He’d been to King’s Cross a dozen times, maybe more. Even so, he hadn’t been in a huge train station in years. Unease gnawed on the back of his neck. The very size of the place made him edgy, with its massive vaulted ceiling. His too tight suit already made him feel squeezed. This made it worse, his heart pounding as if trying to force its way out of his chest.

“Let’s go.” Eva led the way down the platform, with Simon and Marco staying close at Jack’s heels.

He could do it. Now. Break away from these Nemesis madmen and track Rockley down on his own. There were dozens of places in the station he could lose himself if he ran fast. Behind the colonnades. Across the tracks and into the goods or coal depot.

“I wouldn’t.” Eva spoke over her shoulder. “Simon’s a crack shot. He’s got a shelf of trophies from Eton.”

“Harrow,” said Simon.

She waved a slim hand. “Those distinctions only matter to you. Either way, Dalton, you better not risk it.”

“Don’t like being threatened,” he growled.

She turned and faced him so abruptly, he nearly collided with her. “Don’t give us a reason to threaten you.” A man in a wrinkled tweed suit gave them a curious look, so she pasted a bright smile on her face. “Come, Cousin Henry, Mama has made up a room for you and I’d wager she’s keeping herself awake for your arrival.”

The man in the tweed suit moved on.

“She better have a drink waiting for me,” Jack said. He surely needed one.

“One of her famous cordials, no doubt.” She tipped her head toward the arches that led to the booking office and the exit. “Do hurry along, cousin. We don’t want to be discourteous to Mama.”

He thought of a dozen rude things to say, but didn’t want to attract any more attention. It seemed the smarter course of action to just follow along with these Nemesis lunatics and consider a plan of escape as he went.

The four of them walked quickly through the station, passing the ticket office, and then out onto the street. Several cabs lined up on St. Pancras Road, the heads of both drivers and horses drooping as they dozed. Only one driver looked awake, and he waved at them as they emerged from the station. Another one of their “friends,” Jack assumed. The others hastened toward the waiting cab.

“Come on, Dalton,” Eva said when Jack remained on the curb.

“Give me a bloody minute.” He drew in a deep lungful of air. It was heavy with the scents of coal smoke, horse dung, mud. Not a trace of rock dust or bitter Yorkshire wind. Thank God.

He was back. Back in London. He never thought to be here again.

“Now, Dalton,” Eva said, yet her voice was far gentler than her words.

He didn’t want to stand out here, waiting for some copper to stroll by on patrol, so he got into the cab with the others. As soon as the door closed, they were off, clattering away from King’s Cross Station.

London. London. The name beat through him like another pulse as he stared out the cab window and the passing streets. He’d been born here, and his earliest memories involved him running barefoot and filthy through the city’s knotted streets. A wretched, glittering trollop of a city. Christ, how he loved it. Missed it. As the cab drove into the night, he kept his starved gaze on the city, past churches and squares and grimy streets. Though most of London’s citizens were tucked in their beds, the lanes quiet and still, there were still others out on their particular nighttime business, scuttling like roaches beneath the street lamps.

Eva and the two men spoke to one another in low voices, but Jack barely heard them. Somewhere out there was Rockley. Somewhere in London that son of a bitch drank and fucked, little knowing that his miserable life was soon to end.

The cab turned into a narrow lane lined with darkened shops. The lane itself looked empty, and the lodgings above the shops had their shutters and curtains drawn. Once the hired carriage stopped, Marco hopped out, with Simon following. Eva remained in the carriage as Jack peered curiously through the cab’s open door.

Of all the places he thought Nemesis would take him, he wasn’t figuring on Clerkenwell, a place more suited to shabby paper shufflers and Italian immigrants than secret organizations bent on vengeance.

“Expecting a fortified palace, perhaps?” Eva’s voice was arch in the dark confines of the carriage.

“Some gun towers, at the least.”

“Not very discreet, gun towers.” She waved toward the carriage door. “Let’s not stand on custom, Mr. Dalton. After you.”

He clambered from the cab, frowning when he saw Marco standing at the door to a chemist’s shop. “Got a case of clap, gov?”

Marco scowled, but Jack heard Eva’s soft snort of laughter behind him as she got out of the carriage. Marco unlocked the door to the chemist’s.

Following everyone inside, Jack decided not to voice his questions. He’d just wait to see how everything played out. Keep his eyes and ears sharp. That was always the best way to learn something. Talk too much, ask too many questions, and people start to get suspicious. The Nemesis crew was already chary enough. No need to give them further fuel.

The shop itself was silent and still. Bottles lined up like informants along built-in shelves, with premade tonics keeping company beside faded advertisements touting a return to health and vigor. A brass scale sat ready to dole out judgment from atop a glass-topped counter. The faint acrid smell of chemicals hung in the air.

Stepping behind the counter, Eva ran her fingers beneath its overhang. She appeared to grasp something, and pulled. There was a quiet unlatching sound. One of the built-in cabinets swung open, revealing a steep wooden staircase heading upward.

Jack raised his brows. Nemesis liked to keep its tracks hidden.

He had little option other than to follow Eva as she headed up the stairs. She didn’t bother turning on the gas lamp, but walked up through the darkness in perfect comfort—as though she spent every night skulking about in the shadows. Not an unreasonable assumption.

She kept glancing behind her, as if making sure he was still there.

The narrow stairwell pressed in on all sides, the stairs creaking beneath him. Compared to her light tread, he felt huge and ungainly. Even Marco and Simon trailing after him seemed to have cats’ feet as they all ascended the stairs.

It had been decades since he’d been a housebreaker. He’d lost his touch for subtlety and surprise. That wasn’t how he’d earned his bread. As a brawler and then a bodyguard, his job had been to make sure everyone had seen and heard him coming. Maybe that’s why his attempt to kill Rockley had gone so spectacularly badly. He should have fallen back on old habits, gone for a carefully planned and secret attack. Instead, he’d just barged right into Rockley’s place and wrapped his hands around the bastard’s neck. One of the other bodyguards on duty had come up behind Jack and knocked him out. By the time Jack had woken up, he’d been lying on the floor of a Black Maria, his hands in manacles, on his way to the station.

That’s what lack of finesse had gotten him—imprisonment, without even the benefit of getting revenge.

Another door stood at the top of the stairwell. Eva knocked—three short taps, a pause, and then another tap. Locks clicked as they were unbolted. The door opened.

A dark-haired woman stood on the other side of the door. Gas lamps burned behind her, throwing her into shadow.

“Everything went as planned?” the woman asked Eva. “No difficulties?”

Eva said, “You sound almost sorry, Harriet.”

“Always looking for an excuse to practice my surgical skills.” She gazed past Eva to Jack. “That him, then?”

“Silly us,” said Simon, “we brought back the wrong convict.”

Harriet clicked her tongue, then stepped back, allowing them inside.

As Jack crossed the threshold, he took in the details of the room. Maybe he had been expecting something a little … grander. Not this ordinary parlor, with a plain round table in the middle, surrounded by battered bentwood chairs. Two upholstered chairs were shoved against the walls, which were covered with striped wallpaper that peeled up along the seams. A framed print of the Lincoln’s Inn Gate House hung on the wall.

Beyond the parlor, Jack could just make out a kitchen with a closed range stove and another set of stairs that presumably led to more rooms.

“The hell is this place?” Jack demanded.

“Nemesis’s headquarters.” Eva set her reticule down on the table. As she did, Simon and Marco set their gear down, as well. They all seemed to exhale, their faces looking tight and drawn in the artificial light.

“Looks like a clerk’s lodgings. A badly paid clerk.”

“We save our funds for things of importance,” Simon said, curt. He shut the door and did up the numerous locks, including sliding a thick bolt into place. “Explosives. Train tickets for escaped convicts.”

“Tea for returning operatives.” This was spoken by a man with a salt-and-pepper beard, coming into the parlor with a tray holding several chipped china cups and a teapot covered in painted flowers. He glanced at Jack inquisitively, but only put the tray on the table. He poured out four cups, added cubes of sugar and milk from a small pitcher, then handed them around, even giving one to Jack.

“Cheers,” Jack said, guarded. The cup was tiny in his hand, but he held it up and sniffed at the tea.