Bustling in with a cup of foam and a razor, the morgue attendant set to work shaving the corpse’s face. “I ain’t a mortician,” he grumbled, “making a body pretty for a funeral.” Yet Tiffield didn’t stop in his task.

Once the dead man had been shaved, Jack produced a bundle of clothing from the pack he carried and tossed them toward Tiffield.

“Put those on him,” Jack said.

The morgue attendant studied the wad of garments. “They look just like your clothes.”

“Never you mind that,” Charlie snapped. “Just get the stiff dressed.”

Tiffield complained under his breath again, but pulled the garments onto the cadaver. Eva winced at the rough, impersonal way the morgue attendant handled the body, as if it were nothing more than a haunch of meat at Smithfield Market. Her one consolation was that rigor mortis hadn’t yet set in.

“There,” Tiffield announced. “All nice and handsome for you.”

“Needs one more thing,” Charlie said. From a pocket in her skirt she produced a flask, and splashed strong-smelling whiskey across the body’s chest and face. “Now he ain’t dead, just dead drunk.”

Though the words felt odd and sour in her mouth, Eva asked, “How much do we pay you for the … body?”

Tiffield started to speak, glanced at Charlie, then stopped. After a moment, he said, “Nothing.”

Eva looked back and forth between the morgue attendant and Charlie. Clearly, Tiffield was in some kind of debt to the bookmaker, but whether it was a financial debt or another kind of obligation, Eva wasn’t certain—nor did she want to know. The many faces of London were often ugly, and possessing a certain amount of believable deniability often worked in one’s favor.

Before Tiffield could change his mind, Jack hefted the body onto his back. “Blimey, he’s a heavy bugger,” he said through gritted teeth.

“We weighed him yesterday,” the morgue attendant said. “Over sixteen stone.”

“Me, too,” Jack muttered.

“Got to go now, Tiffield,” Charlie announced. “Standard terms apply.”

“I know” was the sullen answer. “I never saw you. I don’t remember anything.”

Charlie strode to Tiffield and patted his face. “Good lad.”

The woman could give lessons in sheer audacity, Eva decided.

In short order, they were back outside. Eva breathed out in relief to be away from so many corpses, but her sigh was short-lived as she pointedly remembered the dead man Jack carried. She, Jack, and Charlie gathered far away from incriminating light.

“Where do we send payment?” she asked Charlie.

“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” the bookmaker answered.

“I don’t carry debts,” Jack growled. “Tell me what I owe, and it’ll get paid.”

Charlie’s smile was singularly ominous. “Sorry, ducks. The where, when, and what—that’s up to me to decide.” Cheerfully, she said, “Good to see you out of the clink, Jack. And it’s been a pleasure, Miss Prim,” she added with a wink. “Have a charming evening.”

Before Eva could object to her unflattering sobriquet, Charlie seemed to melt into the shadows. One moment she was there. The next, nothing. Eva strained to hear even the lightest footstep on the pavement. But Charlie had vanished.

Eva wasn’t sorry to see her go.

Grunting, Jack shifted beneath the weight of the body. “Feels like I’m carrying my own corpse.”

“You are.” Despite her cavalier words, she felt all too aware of the similarities between him and the dead man.

Jack snorted. “What do the toffs say? Indubitably. Now let’s go get me killed.”

*   *   *

The gaming club was the sort of place gentlemen liked to frequent. It trod the line between seedy and smart that seemed to draw well-heeled blokes by the cartload. Not quite as elegant as the clubs of St. James’s, not as unsavory as the dens clustered near Covent Garden. Jack knew from experience that the club kept a few girls upstairs, but for the most part the men came to play cards and roulette, drink too much and laugh too loud.

Rockley was inside. He came here every Thursday, but just to be certain, he checked the mews behind the club and saw the bastard’s carriage. The hour approached four, when Rockley usually left and headed home to sleep the sleep of the conscienceless. Eva was in place. All Jack had to do now was wait in the shadows across the street.

Except he’d done far too much waiting in the past, and it scratched him now. If everything went well in the next few minutes, he’d be that much closer to finally gaining vengeance. If everything didn’t go well, tomorrow Tiffield would be showing off his corpse to some new interested buyer.

A sick despair climbed up his throat, and he spat upon the ground to rid himself of it. Now wasn’t the time to think about the shortness of his life, or how he’d leave this world without a soul to care whether he was alive or taking up space in the city morgue.

No, that wasn’t true. There was Eva. He’d seen how she had looked at him back in that place of death. As if he mattered to her. More than a pawn in Nemesis’s game. More than a former brawler, failed murderer, and escaped convict.

New energy moved through him. Like he used to before a fight, he danced lightly on the balls of his feet, shaking out his arms, stretching his neck. He had to succeed. He’d never lost a match back when he was a boxer. He wouldn’t take a dive or lose this one.

He kept himself loose, even when the clock struck four and Rockley’s carriage drove up to the front. The bastard himself emerged from the club, gleaming in his evening clothes. His bodyguard took the lead, scanning up and down the street, then giving Rockley a nod that everything was clear. Rockley moved toward his waiting carriage.

Now.

Jack darted out from the shadows with a burst of speed. He ran in front of the club, close enough for Rockley and his bodyguard to see him but not close enough to be within decent firing range. His legs burned with the urge to carry him to Rockley, not past him. Maybe he could try it. Maybe he could be fast enough to smash the son of a bitch’s head against the stone steps before his bodyguard could shoot.

No—he had to stick with the plan. He halted in the middle of the street and stared at Rockley. The bastard had to see him in order for the scheme to work.

Rockley looked at him. Jack looked back. A distance of only twenty feet separated them.

For a moment, time shuddered to a stop. The street fell away, the club, the whole sodding city.

Jack hadn’t been this close to him in years. He’d aged a little—more lines fanned around his eyes and a few bracketed his mouth—and wrinkles in his evening clothes revealed it had been a long night.

Rockley’s eyes widened when he saw Jack. And Jack had to pretend that he was just as surprised to be spotted—as though he’d been spying on Rockley and had been accidentally caught while trying to slip away.

Despite his plan to simply be seen and then run away, Jack snarled, “Filthy murderer. I’m still going to make you pay.”

Rockley’s shock vanished, replaced by a look of bitterest hate. “Trash is all you are, Dalton. All you will ever be. You cannot touch me.”

“Don’t want to touch you,” Jack spat. “Just kill you.” His feet carried him closer, his hands already curving to wrap around Rockley’s throat.

Rockley paled and took a step back. He smacked his silver-topped walking stick against his bodyguard’s arm. “You idiot,” he growled. “Take care of him!”

Ballard shook his head like he was rattling his thoughts straight. Then reached into his jacket and pulled out a big, mean pistol.

Thoughts of crushing Rockley’s windpipe scattered as soon as Jack saw the gun. Right. The plan.

Time to go.

He ran. Speeding down the dark, empty street, he listened to make sure the bodyguard followed. There. The tread of thick boots—like his—on the pavement. Ballard ran with the grace of a heavy wagon. Instinct shouted to run as fast as possible, lose the thug in the maze of streets leading toward the river. Instead, Jack paused at an intersection, waiting for Ballard to catch sight of him.

The bodyguard shouted, “Oi!” He leveled his pistol.

Jack ducked as a shot rang out. The bullet slammed into the wall behind him.

Cursing at his missed shot, Ballard rushed toward Jack. Jack spun around and ran. After waiting and watching for so long, and not having enough action, it felt almost good to throw himself into this chase, his blood pumping, his body moving.

There, just up ahead, he spotted the Embankment. If he ran straight toward it, he’d corner himself. If he turned down this alley, he could shake off Ballard.

He headed to the river. It was a thick, black snake twisting in front of him, a few small wherries bobbing over its surface.

At the edge of the Embankment, Jack spun around to face the approaching bodyguard.

Ballard’s steps slowed as he got Jack in his sights. He lifted his gun. “Diamond Jack Dalton,” he jeered. “You ain’t so grand. I’m protecting his lordship now.”

“You’ll be pulling his knife out of your back soon,” Jack said. “Unless you wise up. But maybe you can’t wise up. Maybe you’re too sodding stupid.”

Ballard sneered. “I ain’t the one who went and cornered myself.” He pointed his revolver. Cocked the hammer.

Jack’s heart slammed inside his chest as he waited. This had to be perfectly timed. Wait. Wait.

The gun fired. Three times.

Jack toppled backward into the water. The river closed around him, dark and heavy as death.


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

From her position a hundred feet down the Embankment, Eva stiffened when she heard the shots, then the splash of a person falling into the river. Did someone cry out? Had Jack been hit?