Calhoun nodded and took a step back, a broad grin on his handsome face. “I shall head back inside, then, shall I?” He paused, then said to Tommy, “And we’ll call that my debt repaid?”

  Tommy’s shoulders shook with a quick laugh. “It will take more than a few moments’ privacy to repay your debt, American.”

  “You’d best name it soon, Peck. I don’t like owing a Peeler.”

  “Why, are you afraid I’ll come for your wife’s crimes?”

  Imogen stiffened. It was the wrong thing to say. Caleb’s good-natured grin disappeared, replaced with cold threat. “Come for my wife, and I’ll destroy you.”

  “Keep her out of trouble, and I won’t have to.”

  A pause, and then Caleb’s grin returned. “You’d be lucky to have me come for you, Peck. I can promise that the more likely alternative would be far less welcome and far more entertaining.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Imogen will come for you. And she’ll knock you out.” Caleb tipped his head to the side and winked at her. “Alright, Lady Imogen?”

  She couldn’t help her little smile. “Alright, Mr. Calhoun.”

  “Don’t be long,” he said in a mock whisper. “Next time, it will be one of the women coming to check on you.” He turned his back on them, sauntered back across the street, and disappeared inside The Place.

  Silence fell as the door closed behind him, and Imogen wondered whether she could convince Tommy to return to their prior activities before he stepped away and looked back at her. “You should go with him.”

  Apparently not.

  She’d received her kiss, and now Thomas Peck was back to being detective inspector of Scotland Yard. Man of serious business.

  Which meant Imogen was to pretend that everything that had just transpired was in the past. Doing her very best to seem like the kind of woman who regularly kissed handsome men and lived a perfectly normal life afterward, she said, “Of course.”

  He gave a little grunt in reply, and moved away, returning to his place at the wall, putting several feet of distance between them.

  “Mr. Peck?” He did not reply, so she added quickly, “You needn’t worry that I’ll renege.”

  “Renege?”

  Had he forgotten the kiss so quickly? The offer she made? “On our deal. I’ll return to my brother. Tonight.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, before he said, “Yes. Our deal.” Reaching up and pulling his collar up to cover his neck, he added, “You should get inside, my lady. It’s cold.”

  It was cold. Colder than it had been when she’d exited The Place a quarter of an hour earlier. Colder, now that she knew how warm it was in his arms. Imogen catalogued him in the chill, in the shadows of the lantern light, knowing, instinctively, that this was likely the last time she would be alone with Detective Inspector Thomas Peck, who did not take risks with his future or his reputation, and who resented being made to do a lesser man’s work.

  It was ridiculous how handsome he was. His beard should have made him seem rough and unpleasant, but instead did the opposite, its sharp edges proving his skill with a blade and his care for his person. She knew how soft it was. How well oiled. Knew, too, the feel of it on her skin, sleek where his voice had been rough.

  That she’d never feel it again made her almost regret the first time.

  Almost.

  He lifted his chin. “I won’t leave until I’ve seen you inside.”

  Of course he wouldn’t. She nodded. “Good night, Mr. Peck.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  Turning away, she made her way to the door, suddenly eager to get inside and find her friends, who would distract her with laughter and stories and plans for tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. She, too, had work too important to risk.

  She’d nearly reached the door when the bell rang from high above, loud and urgent, and Imogen stilled, looking to the rooftop. The signal had come from one of their lookouts—close enough that whoever it was could clearly see that she was with Tommy. Everyone in the Belles’ operation knew Thomas Peck was a Peeler. Not to be trusted.

  Another reason not to go around kissing the man, but that was a thought for another time.

  Imogen turned back as the sound of thundering hooves and clattering wheels came from around the bend in the street. She looked toward the noise, knowing even before she understood that the carriage tearing toward her that it was coming too fast. There was no way the driver would stop the unmatched pair before it reached her.

  Everything happened at once.

  More bells. Loud and chaotic.

  “Imogen!” A shout from a distance.

  Was Tommy out of the path of the carriage?

  The clatter of wheels, the harsh crack of a whip.

  And then an immense force, knocking her back, off her feet, turning her in the air.

  A thundering crash. Bright light. Loud noise.

  And then absolute silence . . . broken by a deafening cheer.

  Imogen opened her eyes. She was on the floor inside The Place, atop Tommy, who was atop the door he’d ripped from the hinges as he’d pushed her from the path of the runaway carriage, being sure to put himself between her and the worst of the fall.

  He’d rescued her.

  Again.

  Only this time, London wouldn’t need the News to report it.

  Chapter Ten

  “When this works, I expect a commendation from the queen,” Imogen said, tucking herself behind a potted fern and surveying the crush in the Trevescan ballroom. “You do know how to put on a show, Duchess.”

  The Duchess of Trevescan turned a bright, practiced smile on the room. “You are not wrong. Have you been enjoying yourself?”

  Adelaide arrived, pressing a cup of ratafia into Imogen’s hand. “Drink.”

  “Well, as you know, balls are my very favorite thing in the world,” Imogen replied dryly before doing as she was told.

  “Not everything can end in an explosion, Imogen.”

  She slid a look at Duchess. “Is that a challenge?”

  “My husband would notice if we took down the place, Imogen, so let’s keep our focus on the actual goals, shall we?”

  The trio stood shoulder to shoulder, assessing the crowd in the ballroom, all bright colors and delighted chatter and swaying bodies. At the far end, a group of men stood deep in conversation. “Interesting that they are all together, no?” Imogen said.

  A marquess and two earls, all summoned to this particular ballroom under the guise of the very best of aristocratic celebrations—a ball in which one powerful man finds another to take his sister to wife.

  “Like follows like,” Duchess said darkly. “I saw you dancing with Oakham.”

  The marquess. Unmarried, and for good reason, if the Belles had properly done their job. He owned a string of shirtwaist factories in Whitechapel that mistreated their workers beyond imagining. If the Belles were correct, it was his money that had taken out Mrs. Mayhew’s print shop, where workers had been secretly organizing to protest his cruelty—he’d caught wind of the meetings and made sure they could not inspire others. No one ruled with an iron fist like an aristocrat looking to keep the status quo . . . status quo.

  “He didn’t say a word.” Imogen shuddered. “I assume he was deigning to dance with me because he could not say no to Charles.”

  “As long as Oakham’s here, Sesily and Caleb are at his home,” Duchess said. “Don’t forget that.”

  It was the only reason Imogen was willing to suffer the man and his ilk. “If you ask me,” she said, “it is much less complicated to knock him out, tie him up, and see him oublietted.”

  “Yes,” Duchess replied matter-of-factly, “but think of how digging such a deep hole would ruin our frocks.”

  “Speaking of frocks,” Adelaide said. “You shan’t avoid attention looking the way you do, Imogen. That color is beautiful on you.”

  Imogen looked down at the mandarin Dupioni silk, trimmed in gold thread. It was the first of an extensive order her brother had placed with Madame Hebert, Mayfair’s most coveted dressmaker, the very moment that Imogen had arrived home and told him she had rethought the situation and decided, indeed, marriage was a worthy goal.

  Charles, in a fit of senseless joy, had immediately summoned the dressmaker, irrationally certain that a collection of silks and satins and cottons and wools would convince some fool to marry her.

  The finest dress had arrived that morning and there was no denying Imogen was wild for the brilliant color—a mix of oranges and reds and yellows that she’d immediately loved . . . irritating, honestly, considering she did not want to have to wear that dress to this evening’s event. She wanted to wear it to The Place, and laugh and jest and dance the night away with people who accepted her for her peculiarities.

  She wanted to know what Tommy would think of it.

  She imagined his stern gaze moving over her, taking in the slide of the silk, the ruching of the bodice, her ever-present obsidian brooch. He wouldn’t say anything about the dress, but he would notice it. Because he noticed everything.

  And maybe he’d kiss her again.

  Not that she should be thinking of that now, when she had other, far more important things to be thinking about. But she was not dead, was she?

  If she were dead, she would not have spent the last hour in the arms of a half-dozen unmarried aristocrats, cataloguing all the ways they were not like Tommy Peck. Not as tall as him, nor as broad.

  Not as delightfully bearded.

  Not as taciturn. Not as stern.

  Not as deserving of this particular frock, in which she looked quite excellent indeed.

  But six years ago she’d agreed to work with the Duchess of Trevescan and help vanquish bad and powerful men, so . . . here they were, looking out on a field of suitors comprising the best and worst of society.

  “Imagine thinking you’d marry any of them,” Adelaide said, pushing her spectacles higher on her long, straight nose. “The very idea you wouldn’t blow a hole in the side of the house if you were forced to reside with one of them!” She rolled her eyes. “How did it go with the others?”

  Imogen understood immediately. The final two suitors Duchess had made certain would be in attendance. Imogen’s gaze fell to the bright golden hair of the youngest son of the Earl of Leaving. “Considering his father, Lord Waite seemed remarkably decent.”

  Clever and intelligent. Not remotely swayed by her knowledge of chemical reactions. Really a perfectly nice man. The kind of man any other woman with Imogen’s eligibility would have moved directly to the top of her list, if they didn’t know the truth—that the man’s father hadn’t blinked when he’d hired muscle to kill eight women attempting to leave his employ at brothels in Seven Dials—another message delivered, clean and terrifying.

  “And the other,” Imogen began, referring to the younger brother of Earl Haverford, who was so cruel that his wife did all she could to keep clear of him, and end his line. “He was . . . fine? Appears to have the mental capacity of a brighter than average toad, but showed no signs of his brother’s sadism being hereditary.”

  “Well. I suppose that’s something,” Duchess said, looking to a gleaming clock in the distance. “Now we simply wait until I’m able to see them out of my home.”

  Imogen looked to her friend. “Honestly, I’m shocked that my brother agreed to allow you to host, Duchess.” She smiled at the idea of Charles having to interact with Duchess for any reason. “You’re far too . . .” She trailed off.

  Adelaide offered, “Clever?”

  “I was going to say powerful.”

  “Let’s settle on fun,” Duchess said.

  The Duchess of Trevescan had been blessed with money, beauty, and a husband who never showed his face in London, which made her gatherings scandalous and her invitations coveted by the brightest stars of the ton.

  What those bright stars did not know, however, was that the balls the Duchess held for the aristocracy were nothing compared to the ones she held for those who worked for the aristocracy—monthly festivities devoted to the staff who saw and heard everything.

  Those maids—the ones who attended the ball held at Trevescan House on the last Tuesday of every month—were the most important part of the Hell’s Belles network, and Duchess, Sesily, Adelaide, and Imogen knew it. Without them, there would be no ball this evening—no hint of which of the men in the aristocracy were behind the crimes across the East End.

  Imogen laughed. “God knows my brother does not know what to do when faced with fun.” A thread of sadness whispered through her at the thought, as she cast a gaze across the ballroom once more, finding him at the other end, alone and unyielding. His stern blue gaze met hers; the message was more than clear. You should be dancing. “This night is endless.”

  “Maybe Adelaide and Clayborn could cause a scene,” Duchess said, waylaying a footman with a plate of tartlets, selecting one with a little asparagus tip at the center. “Clayborn gives an impassioned speech, Adelaide finds an East India investor and gives him a swift kick.”

  “I wouldn’t mind that plan,” Adelaide said, depositing a glass of champagne on a nearby table.

  “Perhaps I could chloroform myself,” Imogen offered. “You could pretend I was dead.”

  Duchess pretended to consider the idea. “It wouldn’t be the first dead body we had to deal with.”

  “I wouldn’t even be dead.” Imogen waved a hand dismissively. “Fifteen minutes, and everything would be back to normal.”

  “Just enough time to get you into a carriage,” Adelaide laughed. “You’d be halfway to Bath before anyone realized you’d gone missing.”

  “We would need a strong gentleman to carry you out of here, though,” Adelaide interjected. “Unfortunate that the detective inspector isn’t in attendance.”

  “Mmm,” Duchess agreed. “I’d like to watch him crash through one of these doors, a trail of timber and glass in his wake.”

  Imogen’s cheeks blazed at the none too subtle reference to the other night at The Place. The memory of soaring through the air and landing against his firm, muscular body a week earlier was not one that Imogen would soon forget. Nor, apparently, would the rest of the Belles. “Must we rehash it? Again?”

  “I intend to rehash it until the end of time,” Adelaide replied. “All that concern for your person. All that risking his life to protect you.”

  “Top notch,” Duchess agreed.

  He had been concerned. Are you hurt? he’d repeated again and again as he’d run his hands over her arms, down her back, along her legs. All beneath the shocked gaze of those inside The Place.

  He’d been concerned until he’d realized she was fine. And then he couldn’t have escaped her more quickly.

  “Considering the way he resisted remaining in my company for even a moment longer than Duchess insisted . . . just long enough to see me home to Dorring House,” Imogen said, “I don’t think he was interested in anything but seeing me returned to my brother, in one piece. I was an assignment. Passed down from the home secretary to one very unlucky Detective Inspector Thomas Peck.”

  “Considering all the places his hands were when you crashed through a door, I don’t think anyone would use the term unlucky to describe that man,” Adelaide said dryly.

  “A pity he’s Scotland Yard,” Duchess said. “I don’t like that at all, considering.”

  “He does the right thing with Imogen’s dossiers, though, so that’s something,” Adelaide replied, referencing the files the Belles had compiled on particularly criminal peers recently. Peck had been more than happy to arrest aristocrats and see them to justice. “Makes one wonder if he’d do the right thing with other things belonging to Imogen.”

  Cheeks flaming, Imogen cast a look at Duchess. “Please make it stop.”

  “You must admit it’s been an exciting week.” Duchess laughed.

  “Could we perhaps discuss the bits that did not leave Thomas Peck so eager to get away from me?”

  The duo shared a look but gave her what she wished. Duchess began, “Would you prefer to discuss O’Dwyer and Leafe’s?”

  “Mithra’s given them a place until they can set up a new shop,” Adelaide said, keeping her head down as she led them along the edge of the ballroom to a quieter corner where they would see anyone approaching. “They’re already seeing clients.”

  “And how long before they’re discovered and Mithra’s is in danger?” Imogen asked, looking to Duchess.

  “Mithra’s doubled the security she usually has, and she’s got half the brewmasters in London after her already.”

  “Ah, so it’s to be two birds with one stone,” Imogen muttered in frustration.

  “This is how it is, Imogen,” Duchess snapped. “They come for us. We move. And we do our best until they find us again. And we’re close. Tonight, after Sesily and Calhoun are through, we’ll be even closer.”

  Imogen nodded, swallowing her frustration. “Every day.”

  While she did not yet know who had set the bombs, she knew the hallmarks of the explosions were the same. The spray of the blast. The tinder. The strips of fabric used to soak the blasting oil and ensure the fire would catch, the oil would explode, and the whole building would come down, along with anyone inside.

  But she could not identify the culprits. Even though she was virtually certain that whoever it was had been trained by Scotland Yard . . . or was Scotland Yard. So certain that she would marry the first man her brother introduced to her if she was wrong.

  No proof was no proof, however. O’Dwyer and Leafe’s had the fabrics she’d taken from the Scotland Yard uniforms and the ones she’d taken from the sites of the explosions.

  “I don’t have it yet.”

  “You will,” Duchess said with certainty. “In this, there is no one cleverer than you. And when you sort it out, we shall have all the proof we need.”

  “And if I’m right?”

  “You’re right,” Adelaide said. “Think of how your brother commandeered your detective inspector to find you at The Place. Parliament thinks of Whitehall as their personal footmen.”