Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) Read Free Page B

glanced at her violin case. If Lucy Nelson hadn’t told him her mistress played, and played well, by all accounts, he wouldn’t have anticipated that, either. Most patrician women favored the piano. Violin required a bit more … boldness. More passion than gentlemen’s daughters cared to show.
    When she’d taken his arm, he’d felt it in her—a kind of hollowness, a demand for something. As if looking at the world through eyes that truly saw and assessed, rather than existing in a cloud of privilege. And that awareness had drawn on him, pulling him in despite himself.
    It had to be an illusion. He’d encountered enough of them in his life. Perpetrated them, too.
    The carriage came to a stop, and the driver called down that they’d arrived. After grabbing her valise, Marco stepped out then handed Mrs. Parrish down to the curb. She carried her violin case herself. He watched her take in the storefront, with its inexpensive lace curtains hanging in the windows. “I cannot pay for the cab.”
    “Taken care of,” he answered, handing the driver a coin. Then he opened the door to the Cottage Rose and waved her in. “I know you have questions, and they’ll all be answered.”
    “In fifteen minutes,” she said.
    “Good memory.” One of his most valuable assets was his memory. Pursuing a career in espionage was damned difficult if you didn’t possess an unusual ability for recollection. How else would he know the difference between a Chanot and a Cousineau violin, if he hadn’t practiced hefting different instruments in their cases? You never knew when such a skill might be needed, either.
    If she smiled, he couldn’t see it beneath her veil. Instead, she swept past him and into the shop. It smelled of bergamot and sugar inside. Women clustered around slightly battered oak tables, cups of tea held between their fingers, and picked at platters of iced cakes.
    The hostess bustled forward. “They’re in the back,” she said.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Akeem.”
    “Of course, Marco.”
    As he threaded his way down a narrow corridor rife with china, the widow finally spoke. “I’d figure you for the sort of man who favors public houses rather than tea shops.”
    “Public houses serve the worst wine,” he answered. “When it’s libation I want, I’ve got my own favored establishments. Ones that know the consequence of a good Barolo. And Mrs. Akeem is always welcoming to Nemesis. Ever since we helped her chase off the bigoted idiots who didn’t want a woman of her nationality opening a business in this area.”
    She was silent for a moment. Then, “I prefer Chianti to Barolo.”
    Another surprise from Mrs. Parrish. He wondered what others were to come.
    *   *   *
    “Oh, madam!” The moment Mrs. Parrish stepped into the private room at the tea shop, a small, curvaceous woman rushed forward, tears gleaming in her eyes. Lucy Nelson managed to stop herself from embracing her former mistress. Instead, she wrung her hands and cast Mrs. Parrish sorrowful glances.
    Marco watched as the widow pulled back her veil, revealing her face like the last act of a play. “What in heaven’s name is going on, Lucy? Who are these people?” Her gaze fell on the other occupant of the private room.
    “I’m Harriet.” Harriet Bradley came forward with her hand outstretched, and Mrs. Parrish was too polite to refuse to shake.
    “No last name for you, either, I suppose,” Mrs. Parrish said.
    “It’s an issue of protection,” Harriet explained. “Everyone’s protection.”
    “I keep being told that withholding information is a matter of safety,” Mrs. Parrish answered. “Yet I always believed that knowing more is the path of greatest security.”
    Marco moved past her, and offered her a chair—he might not have wanted this assignment, but he still possessed manners. Three other chairs were arranged around a table that held cups and a pot of tea. Fashion prints lined the floral walls, and lamps with painted china bases