Afterward, he lay in the cold tub, emptied but nowhere near satisfied. Nowhere near sated. Over the years, any relief he’d found had proved temporary. There was only one cure for what ailed him…but he couldn’t take it.
The best is still to come, my Lottie.
He’d never forgotten the promise he’d made her. Back then, he’d intended to give his bride the world. Instead, he’d had to abandon her for her own good.
He told himself it was for the best that Lottie hated him. It would make it easier for him to carry out his plan. A few months ago, Jack’s superior had picked up rumblings that the First Flame had become active again, resurrected by a new leader. The last time the First Flame had come out of hibernation, it had incited a clash between a mob and authorities in Spain; hundreds were killed, an entire village burned to the ground. Then, a few weeks ago, Jack had followed a lead to Calais and met a fellow connected to the First Flame. The man had agreed to help Jack…but then he disappeared.
Jack’s search for the suspect had brought him to London. He had to find the cove, discover what the anarchists were planning now, and put a stop to it before more lives were lost. At the same time, Jack had to protect Lottie. He did not, for a single second, believe that she was going to heed his advice. She planned to do exactly as she pleased, which meant her loyalty to her friend Amara Quinton would land her right in the middle of whatever the First Flame was scheming.
Whatever the case, Jack would protect Lottie. He would bleed, lay down his life, before he let her come to harm. Dying, however, would be easier than the other part of his plan: he could guard her, but he could not get close to her. He couldn’t act on his desires, couldn’t open his heart the way he yearned to, couldn’t be…himself.
That had always been the problem with him and Lottie.
The hairs stirred on his nape, cutting through his brooding. Years of training put his senses on instant alert; he heard the subtle, unmistakable click of his door being picked. He was out of the tub in a flash, grabbing the pistol he never left out of reach. Water sluiced from his muscles as he leveled his weapon at the opening door.
“Hello to you too, darling.” The blonde who entered smirked, dipping her gaze briefly to his groin. “Did you miss me?”
Jack grabbed a towel, knotting it around his waist. He did not like feeling exposed in front of a woman. Even if that woman was a spy under his command and he knew she was merely trying to get his goat.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said curtly. “If Mrs. Clooney sees you, I’ll have to find new rooms.”
“As if I would be seen.” Maria Delaney examined herself in the cracked looking glass, adjusting her wig. “Besides, that blowsy old mort won’t throw you out. She wants you in her bed too badly.”
He yanked on a shirt. “What do you want?”
“Primus called a meeting.” She picked up a neckcloth from a chair, tossing it to him before sauntering to the door. “Three o’clock, the usual place. Don’t be late.”
Twelve
Although not the most pleasant location, the butcher shop on Skinner Street provided a secure and inconspicuous place to meet. Mr. Campbell, whose family had owned the shop for three generations, was an old friend of Primus, the leader of Jack’s team. As Campbell’s brother had been killed in a riot instigated by the First Flame, the butcher was an ally. He was short and brawny, his tea strong enough to melt teeth and his stew some of the best Jack had ever sampled.
Jack entered through the back door, which was heavy and had multiple locks to keep thieves out. As the back room was used to store and cure the carcasses Mr. Campbell bought from the nearby market, it had no windows, and the door separating it from the front of the shop was extra thick. This had the benefit of preventing anything discussed in the room from being overheard. The smell, however, was trapped in along with the sound. Luckily, it must have been before market day because there were only two sides of beef and a few yet-to-be defeathered fowl hanging from hooks.
Nonetheless, Maria Delaney complained. Short and curvy, she gave the impression of softness until one looked into her eyes. She had a spy’s gaze, hard and assessing. The gathering included the two other spies who answered to Jack, Jean-Paul Laurent and Luis Calderone, and the team’s head spymaster, Primus.
“All of us here are rich.” Delaney addressed the group, giving her fake blonde locks an irritable shake. “We’ve traveled across the Continent, been in some of Europe’s finest places. Andthisis the best we can do for a meeting place?”
She had a point. Primus not only paid them an exorbitant salary, but he was a financial genius who’d taught them to invest their money well. He was motivated by pragmatism as well as generosity: a rich spy was less likely to be bought off by the enemy. As a result, all of them could have retired…but none of them did. They were too dedicated to the cause. For Jack, the work also kept his demons at bay; he didn’t know who he would be without it.
“You owe me five pounds,mon ami,” Laurent said to Calderone.
The Frenchman and Spaniard were both dark-haired Adonises, the former a shade taller, the latter a bit more muscular. Women loved them, and they sometimes loved women. Mostly, though, they saved their true affection for one another.
“I should have known better than to wager with a Frenchman.”
Sighing, Calderone handed over the money.
Delaney narrowed her eyes at them. “What did you bet on?”
“How long it would take before you started complaining,” Laurent said smugly.
Although Laurent and Delaney were not related, they fought like they were. Not that Jack had much experience when it came to family. In fact, this group was the closest thing he had to one…which wasn’t saying much.
Delaney curled her hands. “I’ll give you something to complain about?—”
“Enough.” Primus spoke, and everyone listened. “We have work to do.”
The spymaster’s ability to pull the wool over people’s eyes never ceased to amaze Jack. When Primus was out and about in London, he played the part of Sir Hewitt Lancaster, a bumbling well-to-do drunkard. No one took him seriously; few cared when he was around. His money got him through doors, and the snobs enjoyed having him around as a target for their condescension. It was the perfect disguise, day and night from the man he truly was.
