Dangerous Seduction: A Nemesis Unlimited Novel
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Authors: Zoë Archer
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To Zack, for his boundless strength
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to the Secret Facebook Feminist Collective for their wisdom, activism, compassion, and commitment to sharing TMI.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1.
Trewyn, Cornwall
Wheal Prosperity Copper Mine
1886
The granite room shook. Hissing and grinding filled the chamber. The huge machine crouching within it might crush a man into a paste of flesh and a powder of bone if it spun out of control.
Three men stared across the large pump engine at Simon Addison-Shawe, their arms folded across their chests. The men’s eyes were hard, mouths fixed in thin, severe lines.
These buggers probably think they look intimidating,
Simon mused. He fought to keep from smiling. Years ago, echoing across dusty grassland, he’d heard the rhythmic pounding of Zulu warriors beating on their shields in preparation for an attack. In a dank Whitechapel alley, he’d faced down a dozen underworld toughs with nothing more than a rusty pipe for defense.
Three copper-mine managers were as threatening to Simon as three old, toothless dogs.
But they were dangerous men. Men who couldn’t be crossed without consequences, not just for himself, but hundreds of others. Being deferential didn’t come naturally to Simon, yet the success of his mission relied on it. He had a role to play. The long game, Marco called it. Almost nothing could be transformed with immediate action. It took days, weeks, sometimes months to get the job done—impatience or unwanted emotion could spell disaster for an operation.
“If you want this job, Sharpe,” one of the managers said, “show us what you can do. This pump engine hasn’t been working right for the past two days. Fix it.”
“Yes, sir,” Simon answered, tugging on his cap. He roughened his accent from its usual genteel tones, just as he’d donned the coarse but clean garments of a working man. Under the judging eyes of this tribunal, he kept his gaze directed toward the floor in a semblance of humility, though the wealth of Simon’s estate in Norfolk could buy and sell the entire village of Trewyn ten times over. The Addison-Shawes didn’t have a title, but their family name and holdings dated back to the time of the Restoration. From the moment of his birth, he’d been instilled with the knowledge that he was a gentleman.
And yet to the three managers of the Wheal Prosperity copper mine, he had to pretend to be Simon Sharpe, itinerant machinist, who could fix a water pump but knew nothing about the etiquette of a Society ball.
He immediately got to work repairing the pump. The bag of tools at his feet was his own, purchased from a dockyard machinist in London. Shiny new tools would only dispel the illusion that Simon was a laboring man. The wrench he grasped now wore a proud patina of use. As he adjusted valves and tightened fittings, he recalled the instruction about water pumps he’d received back in London prior to setting out on this mission. He’d interviewed men and read volumes of books—all to ensure that he could confidently maintain the pumps that kept the Wheal Prosperity mine from flooding. Floods were among the worst dangers a copper mine could face.
Cracks webbed across the engine’s pressure gauges, and rust crusted its bolts. Most of the machinery at the mine needed replacement, not repair.
He and the managers stood inside the wooden engine house near the mine’s shaft. Aside from the chugging of the other machinery, silence hung over the hills outside. It was working hours, which meant that most everyone was currently belowground, clawing copper from the earth. Through the small window in the engine house, Simon spotted outbuildings and chimneys dotting the landscape.
The managers—Gorley, Murton, and Ware—looked on impassively as he worked. It was imperative that Simon did this job correctly. He didn’t need the money, but he needed this job. The workers of Wheal Prosperity had never met him, not a one would recognize him or know his real name, but they needed him to get the job, too.
Several weeks earlier, a typewritten letter had found its way to the Nemesis, Unlimited, headquarters in London.
Dear sirs,
I have been informed through sundry sources that when proper justice cannot be obtained, your organization can provide it. Should this letter reach you, I urge you to investigate the Wheal Prosperity mine in Cornwall. Horrible abuses occur here, rendering the miners all but slaves. Any attempts by the miners themselves to remedy the situation have been met with the harshest of retribution. I, myself, am powerless, but perhaps Nemesis Unlimited can achieve success where others have failed. The situation here is quite desperate. I hope for all our sakes that this missive reaches you, and that you will heed this plea for help, and soon.
The letter was unsigned. They weren’t uncommon, anonymous letters like this. At least three a month arrived at headquarters. Some were just outraged ramblings about imaginary or minor offenses. But others, like the one about the mine, demanded attention.
Now it was Simon’s task to figure out what, exactly, these alleged abuses were, and, if they indeed existed, how he could stop them. Anger clouded his eyes at the thought that anyone in England, this so-called bastion of civilization and integrity, could exist in a state of near slavery. Yet he knew it happened every day, in nearly every city, town, and village.
Nemesis might not be able to create perfect equality, but its operatives fought damned hard for it.
As Simon worked, he said, “If I may ask, sirs, what happened to the man who had this job before?”
Murton—or was it Gorley? Simon couldn’t tell these mustachioed, self-satisfied men apart—answered caustically, “Never you mind that, Sharpe. All that matters is that we have ourselves a vacancy. So if you want the situation, stop talking and keep working.”
Simon ducked his head deferentially, but he caught the shared wary glances between the managers.
Hello, boys. That’ll need some looking into.
If they gave him the job.
Half the lights inside the engine house weren’t working, so Simon labored by the illumination coming through the window and open door. A shadow suddenly darkened the section of the pump engine on which he worked, and he glanced up to see who stood in the doorway.
The light behind the figure blocked any physical details, but the voice that came from it was assuredly female.
“How are we to eat our bread,” the woman said, “or make our pies if we haven’t any butter? I ask you, gentlemen”—she almost sneered that last word—“
how
?”
“What now, Miss Carr?” Gorley asked wearily.
Simon straightened as the woman stormed into the engine house. As she did, he finally caught a decent glimpse of her.
Strictly speaking, Miss Carr wasn’t beautiful. Her face was too angular, with a pointed chin and a thin nose. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. In the indistinct light of the engine house, he couldn’t determine the color of her eyes, but they seemed bright and full of fire, ringed with thick black lashes. A wide mouth offset the sharpness of her features. She’d pinned back her dark hair, but a few stray tendrils drifted across her cheeks.
She wore the sturdy dress and thick apron of a bal-maiden—one of the women who broke up the copper ore into small pieces—an ensemble far from fashionable, but it revealed her to have a slim figure with a narrow waist and gently rounded bosom. There was little that was soft about her appearance. This young woman worked, and worked hard, to earn her living. She even carried a heavy bucking iron—a flat hammer used for smashing ore into a sortable and transportable size. She gripped it tightly, not like a tool but a weapon.
Miss Carr’s shoulders were set straight and her chin tilted upright. Simon had learned, over the course of his thirty-five years, how to read people in an instant. Miss Carr was a woman to be reckoned with. She certainly had more energy and dynamism than any of the machines in the engine house.
Her gaze flicked over to Simon, back to the managers, and then to him again, lingering for the barest moment. Though her expression barely changed, a tiny furrow appeared between her brows, as if trying to puzzle out a mystery.
She cleared her throat.
Simon had honed the ability to make himself invisible—not an easy task for a man over six feet tall and burdened with a face many women had called “pretty as a new-minted coin”—but sometimes it was necessary to become as inconspicuous as possible. Valuable information could be gathered when one appeared to vanish.
He did so now, making himself proverbially disappear, moving around to another side of the engine.
It had the desired effect. Miss Carr turned away from him to face the managers.
“The butter at the company store,” she said, her voice accented with the hard
r
s and dropped
t
s of Cornwall. “It’s on the verge of going rancid.”
“But it hasn’t yet spoiled, has it?” Ware asked, condescension seeping from his words.
“In a few days, it won’t be fit to eat by man or beast,” she fired back. “It needs to be replaced. The store needs to stock fresh butter.”
“And as soon as the current supply is bought up by the villagers, it will be,” Gorley answered.
“By which point it will have made everyone sick.”
Gorley continued pedantically, “It’s simply not economical for the company store to replace almost a hundred pounds of butter just on your say-so, Miss Carr.”
“But—”
Murton sighed. “This matter is closed to discussion. We have important business to deal with here, and you’re taking up our valuable time.” He pulled a brass-cased pocket watch from his waistcoat. “The mine closes for the night in fifteen minutes. Go home early.” He produced an indulgent smile.
“We haven’t—”
“Go on, now.” Ware made a shooing motion with his hands.
Throwing them all a scowl, Miss Carr turned on her heel and stalked from the room. But not before sending Simon one last, speculative glance. His own curiosity stirred. He watched her as, once outside, she threw her bucking iron aside and marched with wide strides away from the mine.
Silence followed her departure.
“Termagant,” Gorley muttered.
“Virago,” added Ware.
“Pain in the arse, more like,” said Murton, and the three managers laughed.
“Begging your pardons, sirs,” Simon interjected as humbly as he could manage. “She’s got some years on her, but a fair hand can make her run smooth.”
“Are you talking about the pump engine or Alyce Carr?” Gorley chuckled at his own wit.
“Alyce Carr, sir?”
“The delightful young woman that just shrieked at us,” Ware said. “Imagine, a damned bal-maiden who thinks she can run a mine better than the professionals.” He shook his head, as though to dislodge the patently impossible idea.
Gorley fixed Simon with a piercing look. “Avoid Alyce, Sharpe. She’ll only lead you into trouble.”
“That’s assuming I get the job, sirs,” Simon noted.