Going back and forth between Jack’s list and combing through the thick dossiers was tedious, slow work. Yet Jack surprised her—and everyone—with his dedication to the process, scanning through piles of documents and making notes. His notes could only be read by himself, but when he spoke them aloud, they made perfect sense.

By the time the sun had begun to set and the lamps inside had been lit, they’d gone through all the names Jack had provided. Every one of them had legitimate and known business connections to Rockley. Except one.

“John Gilling,” Eva said. “What do we know of him?”

“A barrister and a minor figure in the social world,” Simon answered, ticking off points on his fingers. “Shares chambers near the Inner Temple. The third son of an old landowning family.”

“Shares chambers?” Marco rubbed at his neatly trimmed goatee. “Then his practice isn’t exactly flourishing.”

“For a man his age,” Simon confirmed, “he ought to be farther along in his career. He’s a regular during the Season, but always looks a bit shabbier, a bit more threadbare, than most.”

“Sounds like the type of bloke who’d want a little something extra in his pockets,” Jack said.

Eva studied the papers in front of her. “We’ve checked all the other names, and Gilling seems the most likely candidate. Gilling’s in need of funds, and that would work to Rockley’s advantage. But Gilling’s position would give him access to other contractors’ bids—that’s why Rockley would approach him in the first place. Gilling’s got to be the key. He’s surely Rockley’s partner in the government contract. But we need to be certain.”

“How?” asked Lazarus, gnawing on the stem of his battered briar pipe. Harriet shot him an annoyed look, which only made him gnaw with more gusto.

“Bluff,” Jack said. “Then see how much he reveals.”

“The best way to do that is to catch him off guard.” Eva tapped her chin as she ran through the sundry scenarios that would best work to Nemesis’s advantage. Abruptly, she looked at Simon. “You were able to find out which social events Rockley was invited to. Can you do the same for Gilling? I’ll need to know if he’ll be attending any balls within the next few days, and be certain that Rockley won’t be attending the same events.”

“Of course,” he answered immediately. “What are you planning?”

Eva stood and stretched. She didn’t miss the way Jack’s gaze lingered on her, or the answering heat within her body.

“Last night, Jack and I watched an elegant soiree from the outside. But now it’s time for us to get a closer look. You and I,” she continued, directing her words to Jack with a grin, “are going to a ball.”

*   *   *

Jack stared at himself in the mirror, not certain if he liked what he saw. The fabric was covered with chalk marks and looked like something a chap might wear when performing at the music hall. Didn’t look much like a fancy suit of clothes at all. He shifted, and bit back an oath as pins dug into him.

“Careful, sir.” The tailor kneeling at his feet spoke without looking up from adjusting the hem of Jack’s trousers. “It’s best if you stay still until we’re done fitting you.”

“Don’t like staying still,” Jack muttered. To distract himself, he took stock of the small tailor’s shop in which he now stood, his gaze moving restlessly over bolts of fabric, dress mannequins, and half-completed suits. The shop smelled of wool and tea, and pale sunlight crept past the crowded front window to pool on the floor. The whirr of a sewing machine droned through the shop as another tailor made what would be some gent’s coat.

“You’ve got no choice.” Simon, bored, leaned against a counter. “The ball Gilling’s attending is tonight, and if we want your evening clothes done in time, you’d better cooperate.”

Likely, the toff had grown up having suits especially made for him, and had perfected the art of standing motionless while some tailor stuck a measuring tape right against his tackle.

Not Jack. He’d gone with Rockley to his tailor on Old Burlington Street. That place was a palace compared to this cramped little shop, all carved wood, thick carpet, and armies of tailors bowing and smiling. Once a month, Rockley would go to be fitted for new clothes, with Jack standing guard, as usual. Tailors had swarmed over Rockley, measuring, cutting, murmuring toadying nonsense, and he’d just stood there like a god accepting worship as if it were his due.

Now it was Jack’s turn to be turned this way and that, and grunted at as if he were cattle being considered for purchase and slaughter.

“Are you certain you can get his suit ready in time, Mr. Olney?” Simon asked the tailor. “We need it by no later than eight tonight.”

“It won’t be easy,” Olney answered, frowning at Jack’s trousers. “But I’ll get it done. Nemesis helped me out when those men were demanding protection money, and I owe you all a debt of thanks. Mind,” he added, giving Jack an up-and-down look, “this chap’s terrifically big. Getting evening clothes to fit him properly will be a challenge.”

Jack was about to tell Olney that the British prison system had made him this terrifically big, but decided that the fewer people who knew about his time at Dunmoor, the better. At least the tailor didn’t ask too many questions.

“There’s no better tailor in North London,” Simon replied. At least the smile he gave Olney looked genuine.

The tailor reddened from the praise. “Too kind, Mr. Addison-Shawe.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll just … get back to it, shall I?”

Simon waved his hand, the kind of gesture rich folk seemed born knowing how to do. Olney immediately returned to his work.

Or tried to. “Sir,” he said to Jack with a strained smile, “I can’t measure your legs properly if you hold that stance.”

Jack bristled. “This is how I always stand.” His legs were braced wide, and he balanced on the balls of his feet.

“You’re standing like a boxer.” Simon pushed away from the counter and paced around the shop. “Bring your legs closer together. Closer,” he snapped when Jack shifted slightly.

“I feel like a sodding fool,” Jack growled. Once again, he was out of his element, an ignorant outsider—and the one person he felt slightly comfortable with was all the way on the other side of town. “This whole scheme’s ridiculous.”

The haughty look on Simon’s face slowly changed, becoming almost kind. “I remember the first time I was fitted. Couldn’t have been more than seven or eight. Everyone was very cross, shouting at me not to move, telling me how to stand. My father was … displeased.” Simon’s mouth twisted. “He expected better from an Addison-Shawe.”

Jack stared at Simon for a moment. He hadn’t been expecting that. Especially not from Simon.

Frustration dimmed. “So, I stand like this?” Jack asked, changing his stance.

Simon considered his posture, then nodded. “That will suffice.” He returned to the counter and carelessly flipped through a magazine.

For a while, the only sounds in the shop came from the scattered traffic outside and the hum of the sewing machine inside. Olney continued to pin and mark what would eventually become Jack’s evening clothes.

He’d never owned a special suit for going out at night before.

“If this party we’re going to tonight is so flash,” Jack said, “does that mean Eva’s got to wear some fancy gown?”

“I suppose,” Simon answered from behind his magazine.

Jack recalled the women at the ball from the other night, in their frothy gowns, delicate as frosted cakes, and tried to picture Eva in something similar. But she seemed too hard-boiled for things like lace fans and silk flowers. He smiled to himself, imagining her striding into a ballroom, bold as brass, with a pistol tucked into her velvet sash. Maybe she’d make it a pearl-gripped pistol, for formal occasions.

“She got a man?” he asked.

Frowning, Simon lowered the magazine. “Eva’s private life is her own.”

“So,” Jack said, raising one eyebrow, “you don’t know.”

“Of course I know. As much as she tells me,” Simon added on a mutter.

“Keeps herself close.” Jack watched as the tailor continued to make adjustments on his clothing, little nips and tucks whose purpose only Olney seemed to understand.

“Trying to get her to open?” Now it was Simon’s chance to lift a brow. “I’ve news for you, Dalton: it won’t work. Eva’s the toughest woman I know. Hell, she’s the toughest person I know, male or female.”

“Someone hurt her,” Jack guessed. “Someone in her past.” The thought made his fists clench with the need to beat the bastard, whoever he was.

“Nothing so melodramatic. She simply…” He shrugged. “She doesn’t trust many people. That’s how she’s always been. The most unsentimental woman I’ve ever met. Won’t form intimate attachments.”

It sounded very much to Jack as though it meant Eva didn’t have a man. Which made him glad, indeed.

“You tried, though,” he said. God knew that if Jack worked side-by-side with her, day after day, he’d try to form an intimate attachment. Hell, he’d only known her for less than a week, and he couldn’t stop wondering about the taste of her lips, the texture of her skin. His nights had become damned restless because of her.

Just because she kept everyone at arm’s length didn’t mean she lacked desire or passion. He’d seen it, felt it. But she couldn’t keep it buried forever.

Simon straightened, tugging on his coat. “I might have. But she rightly pointed out that people who work together oughtn’t mix the personal and professional.”

Jack snorted. “Maybe it’s on account of her type not being polished toffs. Maybe she needs someone a bit more rough around the edges.” He studied himself in the mirror, in his strange piecemeal evening clothes.