She didn’t relax against the seat until they were well out of St. John’s Wood, with no sounds of pursuit. Only then did she give a long, slow exhale.

Jack’s smile flashed in the darkness. “Haven’t had that much fun since all three O’Leary brothers challenged me in the ring.“

Given what she’d just witnessed at the brothel, she had no doubt how that fight had concluded.

“It’s serious business, what we do for Nemesis,” she answered. Then grinned. “But that was fun.” She couldn’t admit that to anyone—except Jack. Yet the excitement of what they’d just done continued to course through her.

“Could use a pint after a dustup like that,” he said with a grin.

“Me, too,” she said, wistful. But there’d be no drinks until after they reached headquarters.

“We could share a pint or two at the pub.” His expression sobered. “What I said before, about you trying to gull me—”

Her mood plummeted. She glanced away. “Don’t.”

He put his fingers on her chin and turned her to face him. Rough, the pads of his fingertips against her skin, and his eyes were dark as mystery, filled with fire. Heat settled low in her belly.

“Goddamn it,” he rumbled. “Listen. I’m … sorry about what I said.” He shook his head. “Where I’m from, ain’t no one as ruthless and manipulative than women. Men got nothing on them. But the women, they have to survive, any way they can. That’s what I know.”

“I’m not like them,” she said tightly.

“You ain’t like any woman I’ve met,” he answered, heated.

His gaze searched her face, and she marveled at the contrast between the man who’d relentlessly cut through the guards at the brothel and this man, who looked at her with desire and admiration. Yet they were the same man. Brutal but honorable in his way. Capable of base violence and fierce emotion. Including the emotion he felt for her.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I oughtn’t have said that to you, and I hate that I did.”

She clasped his wrist and leaned closer. Then kissed him. Because she had to. Because every part of her wanted it, wanted him. She tasted his blood in the kiss, metallic and earthy.

His grip on her chin tightened, and his growl traveled from deep in his throat into her with low, dark reverberations.

“You’re like no one I’ve ever known, either,” she whispered against his mouth.

“A pair of rare birds we are,” he agreed. “Not birds—wolves. Rare wolves.”

She glanced down at the strongbox. “Wolves who are in possession of dangerous, perhaps even ruinous, information.”

Both his eyes and teeth gleamed in the shadows. “A wolf’s got to have fangs.”

*   *   *

At Nemesis headquarters, no one wanted to wait until morning to open the strongbox. Everyone gathered around Eva as she sat at the parlor table, using her picks to open the two hefty locks securing the strongbox’s lid.

Jack leaned against the wall, holding a damp cloth to his busted lip, watching. Impatience burned at him to see what, if anything, the coffer held—but he didn’t want to be one more body breathing down Eva’s neck as she worked.

It was a damned pretty neck, though. What he wouldn’t give for a proper time and place to run his mouth over it, breathe in its scent. But proper times and places were in bloody short supply.

All he could do was wait and seethe, slowly torn apart by his hunger for Eva and his need to learn what was in the coffer.

Could be that the strongbox contained nothing more than a few dirty French photographs or letters from mistresses. If that was true, then everything he and Eva had done was for nothing, and they’d be no closer to destroying Rockley than they’d been at the beginning. No—they’d be worse off, because they had nothing to hold over the bastard, their hand played.

He wasn’t the only impatient one.

“Give us a go at that,” Marco urged. “I cracked the Turkish embassy’s safe in Paris in less than three minutes.”

“If you’d stop chattering at me,” she said without looking up, “I’d get this done much faster.”

“Shut it and let the lady work,” Jack snapped.

Marco scowled at him, but at least he stopped talking.

Finally, the telltale snick of the locks opening sounded in the quiet room. Everyone crowded closer to the table, Jack included, as Eva opened the lid. Tension was sharp and tight when she held up what was inside.

Stacks of paper.

“What are they?” Harriet demanded.

Eva sorted through them. “A list of London’s most elite courtesans, and their even more elite clients.”

Simon plucked that sheet of paper from her fingers. “Top-ranking ministers, heads of major corporations, bishops.” He whistled. “This could wreak considerable damage if it fell into the wrong hands.”

“’Course that’s why Rockley has it,” Jack muttered. “Anyone tries to make a move against him, and he’s got ’em by the stones.”

Eva held up two official-looking documents. “Deeds. One to a property here in London—a town house in Knightsbridge by the looks of it—and a house in Somerset.” She studied them closer. “The name of the deed holder has been left blank.”

“He must’ve swindled them from someone,” Lazarus suggested.

“It’s a veritable trove of villainy,” Harriet said, shaking her head.

Jack clamped down on his edginess. “None of this’s what we’re looking for.”

More silence as Eva rifled through the papers. It seemed Rockley had gotten involved in a sodding heap of crime, or at least liked to hang on to evidence of other people’s offenses for his own use.

It took them nearly half an hour to go through all the documents, sorting them, studying them.

Finally, Eva said, “Yes. This.” She untied a cord binding a set of papers. It appeared to be columns of numbers, with notations scribbled beside the figures.

“Is that it?” Simon demanded.

“A full accounting of the government contract for the cartridges.” She scanned the documents and muttered a curse. “That son of a bitch. He and Gilling took more than half the money allocated for the production of the cartridges. Rockley got the lion’s share, but Gilling made a profit, too. With the rest, they purchased substandard manufacturing materials from foreign suppliers. Bills of sale, as proof.” She pointed to several sheets of paper.

Simon examined the bills, and his upper-class features twisted with a snarl. “He fucking sold out British soldiers. How many men died because of him?” He flung the papers onto the table. “I’ll kill him.”

Jack smiled grimly. At last the toff understood the fury and need for vengeance that ate at him. “Get in the queue, mate.”

Slowly, Eva got to her feet. She gathered all the papers and set them back in the strongbox. “No one’s killing anyone. We’ve got the evidence we need against him, and we’re going to make use of it. He will be made to pay for his misconduct.”

He bristled. “You sound so bloody calm about it.”

“I’m feeling anything but tranquil,” she answered, meeting his gaze. In the lamplight, she looked carved from golden marble. It was the coolness, he realized, she used to shield herself, a kind of armor she made with her mind. The more the world threatened to shatter apart, the calmer she became. “He’s kept a good record of his crimes—and there are many. When it comes time to lead the charge against him, I’ll be right there, sword in hand.”

Her voice was flat, detached, but he understood now. He saw it in her eyes, and could feel it in the fury that turned her so perfectly still—when it came time for Eva to unleash the fierceness within herself, God help whoever stood in her way.

And damn him if he didn’t want to be there to see it.

*   *   *

Returning to her simple, ordinary rooms after the events of the night felt as though she were visiting someone else’s life. And she was—except the life she visited was her own. There, on her table, were lesson plans and books. There, propped upon the mantel was a photograph of her parents that had come in their last letter. Unsurprisingly, her father and mother looked stern and righteous as they posed outside the school they had built in the depths of Nigeria.

Their letter, penned by her mother, was tucked into the top drawer of Eva’s nightstand. Once again, her mother had urged her to join them, to give up tutoring for a higher calling. Your talents are too exceptional to be wasted on the bored daughters of the bourgeoisie, Elizabeth Warrick had written. There is a young missionary here who is in search of a wife and helpmeet. I should be very happy to pass along your permission for him to write to you. Use your life for some greater purpose.

Eva hadn’t yet replied to the letter.

Clad now in her nightgown but unable to sleep, she strode to her desk, preparing to finally answer. Yet before she wrote a single line, she flung her pen to the desk and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.

What would she tell them? How could she describe her and Jack storming into a brothel to steal documents belonging to a corrupt nobleman? And what would she say about Jack, the escaped convict who fought like a brute but had a soul of incomparable depth. And the way he kissed her … heat streaked through her, simply remembering the feel of his lips against hers, how he seemed to breathe her in, taking her into himself as though she were a vital part of him he couldn’t survive without.

She’d hated having to leave him at headquarters an hour ago. She wanted him here, with her. In her bed. But with all of Nemesis watching, she couldn’t very well take him by the hand and lead him out the door. They’d question her judgment—Simon most of all—in entangling herself with Jack whilst in the middle of a mission. She questioned her judgment, too. There wasn’t anything wise or careful about wanting him. And she had ever been wise and careful.