“Correct,” she said. “It will be more difficult. And it isn’t a challenge, but a statement of fact.”

“All facts can change.”

She nearly admired his audacity. Overcoming obstacles, finding the possible in the impossible—these were things that had drawn her to Nemesis in the first place. She never took the path of least resistance, and had to respect anyone who chose the same. But there were exceptions, especially when the resistance he faced was her own will.

“Something hasn’t changed, though,” he said, his gaze suddenly fixed out the window. “Rockley’s taking up one of the invitations he received.”

The man himself emerged from his house in evening finery, his shirtfront pristinely white, his black wool evening dress absorbing light.

She suppressed a groan. Her limbs were stiff and aching from a day spent in a poorly sprung four-wheeler, but it looked as though the night was far from over.

“Can’t aristocrats spend a quiet evening at home?” she muttered.

“This lot don’t have work or jobs,” Dalton said. “Not so far as I’ve seen. They got no reason to get up with the sun.”

“Which is it to be, then?” She peered at Rockley as he gave instructions to his coachman, but he was too far up the block for her to hear what he said. “Dinner with the industrialist? Will he dine with Lord Scargill, instead? Or is it the ball hosted by Lord Beckwith?”

Dalton grumbled. “This part I never knew. Always a different posh place each night.”

Her thoughts racing, Eva went over the list of names. She tried to place herself in Rockley’s mind, vile though that location was. He might take up the iron magnate’s offer, but she doubted Rockley wanted to associate with new money or men who made no secret of working for their wealth. Lord Scargill was a lesser nobleman of slim influence. As distinguished as the Carlton Club was, it permitted plutocrats who supported Tory causes as well as noblemen with ancient but trifling bloodlines. Rockley could have had enough interaction with those varieties of men whilst at the club. Yet Lord Beckwith was an earl, and while such titles were losing their importance, his hadn’t diminished.

“He’ll go to Lord Beckwith’s,” she said.

Dalton looked skeptical. “You sure?”

“No. But all we have at this point is instinct, and mine says Beckwith’s soiree. His mansion’s on Curzon Street.”

That seemed to mollify Dalton. He reached behind and slid open the door that allowed passengers to communicate with the cabman. “Oi, Palmer. We’re on the hunt for the toff again. Curzon Street.”

“Right you are, guv,” the driver answered with surprising cheer. As Rockley’s carriage pulled away, the cab followed.

Dalton sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his wide chest. It shouldn’t astonish her that he’d learned the name of their cabman, especially considering they’d been with the driver all day. The two seemed to share the camaraderie of the working man, and though Eva’s own circumstances were far from luxurious, she could never have that common ground. She couldn’t deny its utility, though. The inducement of a guinea for a day’s labor might buy the use of a man’s time, but it couldn’t buy his goodwill. She had secured one, Dalton the other.

They didn’t have far to go. Rockley’s carriage queued up behind a line of others outside a massive home in Mayfair. Lights and music poured from the tall windows, and a column of women in glittering gowns and men in evening clothes marched up the stairs like the world’s most elegant battering ram.

The cab stopped a discreet distance away.

“I’ve been here before,” Dalton said. “Not a lot, but I remember this place.”

“Only the upper echelons are invited to Lord Beckwith’s gatherings,” Eva said. To which Rockley clearly belonged. She sighed. “And his parties usually go on until three in the morning.”

Rockley alit from his carriage and joined the sparkling crowd heading inside. He exchanged nods and greetings with those near him. He was taller than most of the other guests, so following his progress into the mansion proved easy. At last, he went in. Ballard slipped down from the carriage and disappeared through the mews.

“He’ll be going in through the servants’ door in the back,” Dalton noted. “The rule was: stay nearby but out of sight. I got real talented at keeping myself hidden.”

She eyed his broad shoulders skeptically. “As though anyone could overlook you.”

His grin flashed in the darkness. “A man of many gifts, I am. I can show you a few.”

Most assuredly she would not respond to that. Opening the cab door, she said, “Let’s have ourselves a closer look.”

On the street, she made sure to keep close to the shadows, though one or two eyes turned in her direction. If anyone from the soiree were to glance out into the street, they’d hardly notice a woman in a plain day dress and short woolen cape. She might be mistaken for a governess, which suited her fine. Sending a quick glance behind her, she noted with approval that Dalton had a natural instinct for finding shadowed places. Amazing that man of such sizable proportions could hide himself at all, yet he did, and with an unanticipated agility.

They moved silently along the street, skirting around the edges of Lord Beckwith’s property. She slowed in her steps, allowing Dalton to catch up with her.

“Don’t suppose we’d be able to get in through the service entrance,” she whispered.

“This place was always kept tighter than a thief’s purse. Even the bloke at the back door had a list of who could and couldn’t go in, servants included.” He narrowed his eyes, gazing into the darkness. “There’s a house next door—it’s dark now.”

“Sir Harold Wallasey’s home. He and his wife are out of the country on a diplomatic mission—I read it in the paper. Probably left a skeleton staff.”

“See that window there?” He pointed one blunt-tipped finger toward a second-story window. “It’d have a right clear view of the ballroom.”

“Which would presuppose us being inside a private residence, uninvited, in order to utilize it.” At his grin, she demanded, “What?”

“Those fancy words you use.” His gaze heated. “I like ’em.”

Of all the responses to her vocabulary, this was the least expected, especially from him. The frank desire in his eyes stirred embers within her. And all she could say in return was the very articulate “Ah.”

He seemed to enjoy confusing her, for his smile widened. “You Nemesis lot said you’d do anything to see justice done.”

Straightening her spine, she said, “Of course.”

“That include breaking and entering?”

She rummaged through her handbag, which was, admittedly, a bit larger than the average lady’s purse. From its depths she pulled a slim silver case. She opened the case, revealing its velvet-lined interior, and held it up for his perusal. “This is Nemesis’s official policy for housebreaking.”

Dalton gave a low whistle.

Lock picks of every shape and variety were arranged neatly within.

*   *   *

“No one’s in the kitchen.” Eva peered through the windows. “Can’t even see a light down the hall. Perhaps even the butler and housekeeper are gone. The house seems empty.”

Beside her, Dalton said, “Seems downright rude not to take ’em up on the invitation.”

She stepped lightly to the door. Just to be certain, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. After a final glance around, she bent close to examine the lock.

“This won’t take long,” she murmured.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the view,” he said, leering openly at her backside, “but I’d like to give that lock a go.”

She eyed him dubiously. “The house might be empty, but we can’t linger or make too much noise. Kicking the door down would assuredly call attention.”

He gave her an affronted look. “Thought you trusted my brains.”

“I do—”

“To a point.” He held out one large hand. “Hand them picks over.”

“Do you know how to use them?”

After tugging on the knees of his trousers, he crouched down in front of the lock. “Spent years as a screwsman,” he said quietly. “’Course, none of the places I broke into were half as fine as this one, but locks are like ladies. Fancy or common, they all yield to a man who knows how to use his pick.”

“I think you left an r out of that last word.”

He chuckled. “I never leave anything out.” On no occasion would Dalton suffer a lack of confidence. She handed him the picks.

Eva clasped her elbows and watched as he sorted through the different picks, then began to slowly, carefully manipulate the lock. He frowned in concentration as he worked the picks. She fought the absurd impulse to push back a curl of dark hair that fell across his creased forehead.

The sounds of chatter and a string quartet from next door filled the small courtyard in which she and Dalton stood. Voices from the Beckwiths’ garden also glided over the wall separating the two properties—the melodic rise and fall of genteel conversation, most of it inconsequential. If there was the brokering of power to be done, it usually happened in card rooms and studies, where alliances and factions could be sealed with cigars and brandy.

Hearing a girl’s giggle followed by a man’s lower murmur, she recalled there were other ways of forming alliances.

“There’s a sweetheart,” Dalton said as he pushed open the door.

Together, they entered the darkened kitchen, Dalton quietly shutting the door behind them. A massive enclosed cooking range lurked against one wall, and shelves were lined with copper molds and pans. She gripped his sleeve to catch his attention. Silently, she pointed to the long table that ran the length of the kitchen. A kettle and two cups had been left out.