Oakham chortled and reached for Tommy’s shoulder, missing it when Tommy sidestepped the touch. “Well, not the full show. Though Lord knows you’ll be asked for it. Do try to keep yourself in check, Peck. These ladies . . . they’re not for you.”

  Was his career worth not delivering these men a well-deserved facer? Everything in him told him to do it and hang the consequences. And then he saw it, a flash of fiery orange silk at the far end of the room.

  Imogen.

  If he started a brawl, he wouldn’t get to her.

  If he started a brawl, he would no longer have a reason to get to her.

  Except he did have a reason. He could see the carriage bearing down on her. The building coming down around her. These men, insulting her.

  If he started a brawl, he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

  But he deserved a damn medal for not starting one.

  Without farewell, he left them, vowing to open investigations into all three of them. What was it Imogen had asked for the other night? A slow boat to New Zealand? Tommy could not think of three more deserving passengers.

  Where was she?

  “Detective Inspector, what a lovely surprise.”

  Fucking hell. A man couldn’t get three feet in this damn room.

  Gritting his teeth, he turned to discover the Duchess of Trevescan, tall and blond and lithe—dressed in an ice blue gossamer gown that only made her seem more of a queen than she did on a working day. He dipped his head. “Your Grace.”

  “If we weren’t in this particular ballroom at this particular ball, I would tell you that considering all the ways we’ve met before now, you really needn’t stand on ceremony. Alas—”

  “While I’m wearing such a complicated cravat, I expect I have no choice but to stand on ceremony, ma’am.”

  She grinned. “It’s very well tied. Well enough that someone might come looking to steal your valet.”

  He didn’t have a valet. He had Phillips—who was a clotheshorse and had delighted in teaching him to tie this particular knot, which he was sure would delight the Duchess—a renowned detective inspector with a penchant for bespoke waistcoats. “Thank you.”

  “Since we are here playing our roles,” she said quietly, “I confess I am surprised you are dressed for an evening of play, when you are surely here for work.”

  He coughed a little laugh, then immediately qualified, “Forgive me, but I can see no scenario in which tonight’s festivities might be considered play.”

  She smiled. “Mr. Peck, I think you’ll find that most things are play when Imogen is involved.”

  He met the woman’s knowing blue gaze. “I know better than to think you’d tell me where she is.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

  Of course not. He exhaled harshly, biting his tongue before he said something inappropriate.

  “But the last I saw her,” the Duchess added, tipping her head in the direction of the doorway nearby, leading to a dim corridor behind, clearly not meant for guests, “she was on the hunt for some air.” Before he could leave she added, “Mr. Peck?”

  He met her gaze, no longer light and curious, but instead hard like steel. “Know that Imogen is not to be trifled with. Where her brother falls short, I assure you her friends . . . do not.”

  A vision flashed, the duchesses and Sesily Calhoun, clad in silks and satins in the rubble in the East End. At The Place. Shoulder to shoulder.

  “Make no mistake,” the duchess added. “Where others might be impressed by your position—I am far more interested in the man you are outside of the uniform.” She let her gaze linger on the men he’d left only moments earlier. “I noticed your self-control with that odious collective.”

  Tommy didn’t need to look. The hot fury that came in the wake of her words was enough. “I did not wish to ruin your party.”

  She nodded. “While I can assure you I would not have thought it ruined in the slightest, I appreciate your aplomb.” She leaned in. “Though I would have happily lent you a weapon.”

  “I assure you, I would have done the job without it.”

  Her brows rose. “I can see why Imogen thinks you’re a decent man.”

  The words warmed him in a way he did not expect. “And you?”

  The woman’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “I reserve judgement.” But she nodded in the direction of the corridor again, which was something.

  Tommy did not need further instruction. He nodded once and faded into the crowd and, when he had a chance, slipped away, down the winding hallway, undetected. He followed the winding corridor around a corner, trying all the doors along the way. He silently discovered a card game in progress and the stairs leading to the kitchens before another corner revealed what he was looking for—an unlocked door, a dark room, and Imogen.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ignoring the triumph that coursed through him as he found her in the darkness, on the far side of the room—a library—looking out the window, he closed the door behind him, taking care to make enough sound that she would hear. He didn’t want to scare her.

  Did she scare? She was a woman who faced down the worst of men without help or hesitation, much to his own frustration, so Tommy highly doubted he would scare her.

  Still, she turned at the sound, the darkness of the room hiding her face. A beat of silence, fairly crackling with anticipation. And then, “You found me.”

  Of course he’d found her. He was beginning to think it was all fated—following her, finding her.

  Christ. It wasn’t fair that she looked the way she did. Like a treat in a shop. Sweet and lush and more tempting than was sensible. The dress that made her look like a sunset in the light was a different thing altogether in the dark. With the moonlight streaming through the window, it was the color of summer peaches—the kind that sent rivers of juice down one’s chin.

  Tommy’s mouth watered.

  “As I’ve said before, my lady, you are very bad at hiding.”

  He imagined her lips curving in the darkness with the memory of their conversation the other night, and resented the shadows for keeping him from seeing it. “As I have said before, Mr. Peck, I am not trying very hard.”

  He turned to lock the door—he wasn’t a fool, and he knew that if they were found alone in the dark, it would destroy them both—before approaching her slowly, knowing he shouldn’t and, as usual, not being able to resist her temptation. “If not hiding, then what?”

  She lifted her chin, and admiration burst in his chest. Whatever she was about to say would be all truth. Pure Imogen. “Perhaps I was waiting for you to find me.”

  Something burst in his chest. Dangerous, like her explosions.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “I was looking for you.”

  She shook her head. “No. Why are you here, at Trevescan House? Dressed like . . .”

  He held his breath as her gaze tracked over him in the dim light, realizing that while he’d hated donning this costume earlier, now . . . he wanted her approval.

  “. . . like a rake about to lure a lady into the gardens.”

  A delicious vision appeared. Imogen in the gardens, looking like the sun, him on his knees, worshipping her.

  They shouldn’t be there. Together. Alone.

  He shook his head to clear it, even as he went hard as stone. He cleared his throat at the discomfort and cast about for something to say to bring the conversation away from darkness and the things husbands and wives did within it. “Should you not be . . . dancing?”

  She looked to him. “Are you offering to take me for a spin?”

  His brow furrowed. “No.”

  “Do you dance, Detective Inspector?”

  “Not here,” he said.

  “You ought to learn,” she said. “What with how you look . . . ladies will want to dance with you.”

  He didn’t care what ladies wanted to do. He wanted to know what a lady wanted to do. “I know how to dance.”

  Her brows rose. “Did they teach you that at Whitehall?”

  “No,” he said. “My mother taught me.”

  On Sunday afternoons around the scarred oak table in the main room of their flat in Shoreditch. A vestige of his mother’s former life, before she’d been swept away from her home in Marylebone by David Peck, a street sweep who’d promised her the wide world.

  And delivered none of it.

  Not that Esme Peck had ever seemed to mind as she’d sent Tommy and his sister, Rose, around and around the table, clapping her hands in time to an imaginary orchestra. His parents had made music all on their own.

  But his father had never been able to make good on his promises, and when he died, Esme had been left with far less than she’d been born with.

  He cleared his throat, willing the thoughts away even as he welcomed the lesson in them. This place—it was not for him.

  This lady—he could never give her the life she deserved.

  Imogen was studying him. “That’s an unexpected education for a policeman.”

  “Considering how you spend your time outside of Mayfair, my lady,” he replied, “I would think you are expert in uncommon education.”

  Her brows rose at the question—no doubt she’d heard the edge in it . . . the one he hadn’t meant to be there. “What education should I have received?”

  “Training in all the typical useless nonsense.”

  Her eyes were lit with fire now, as though she’d never been so entertained. “Define useless nonsense.”

  She was baiting him and he took it. “Embroidery, dancing, menu planning . . . French. Dancing.”

  She made a face. “Menu planning. Awful. We only ever have lamb when my brother dines at home.”

  “You don’t enjoy lamb?” Why did he ask that? He didn’t care how she felt about lamb.

  “I enjoy lamb even less than I enjoy dancing if I’m being honest.”

  He blinked. “And French?”

  She shook her head. “I did not take to it.”

  “What did you take to?”

  “Chemistry.”

  He couldn’t help his surprised laugh—or the pleasure that came with the way her gaze brightened, as though she liked making him laugh. He liked it, too. Even though he shouldn’t.

  “And a bit of Old Norse.”

  His brows rose. “I’m sure that comes in quite handy.”

  “Less handy than chemistry, equally as handy as menu planning,” she said.

  He shook his head, unable to stop himself from saying, “You are like no woman I have ever known.”

  She grinned, pride in her bright eyes. “So I have been told.”

  His chest was tight with the look of her. With the way she did not hide her curiosity, but instead took pride in it. “When I was a little girl, my father used to boast to his friends about me. Rubbish at embroidery, excelled at equations. No grace whatsoever on the dance floor, but more than able to handle combustible liquids. Unable to wrap my head around menu planning, but an excellent addition to a discussion of animal husbandry. Could converse with a Viking, but not with the French ambassador.” She paused for a long moment and then quipped, “And would you believe not a single visit to Reykjavik?”

  They laughed together, softly, the sound curling around them like a promise. And then, like a fool, Tommy said, “I would have been proud of you, too.”

  “Thank you.” She dropped a tiny bob of a curtsy, her black ringlets bouncing as her smile turned bittersweet. “But when he died . . .” She shook her head. “Well. Suffice to say, Charles did not find me so worthy of discussion.”

  Her brother was an idiot.

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “My friends, luckily, have found me quite useful.” She tilted her head in his direction. “And I know my way around an explosion.”

  “A fact I fully intend to discuss with you.”

  She nodded. “I am not a fool, Detective Inspector.”

  His brows shot together. “What does that mean?”

  “Only that I assumed you were here for business, rather than pleasure.”

  In that moment, Tommy decided that women like Imogen Loveless should not say the word pleasure. It was distracting and dangerous. And it filled a man’s thoughts with visions that were absolutely unbusinesslike.

  He let out a breath that might have been a laugh if he weren’t suddenly consumed with the need to tell her the truth. “Lady Imogen, I am here because your brother invited me.”

  “Ah.” Something unpleasant coursed through him at the little response, as though he’d said something wrong, even though it was the truth. Even though it was not a secret. Before he could speak, however, Imogen added dryly, “My brother certainly has a way with the home secretary.” She stood straight, her little sigh like gunshot in the quiet room. “And so? You are to play companion until, what . . . I choose a husband?”

  “That is what we discussed.”

  “So you are to be my keeper. My brother is afraid of the rest of the world discovering what I do with my time, if not hours of embroidery and dancing lessons. And you are to ensure I do not leave the limits of Mayfair.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “Really, Detective Inspector. I would have thought you’d have no patience for this whatsoever. Playing nursemaid to me, as though I am an errant child.”

  “You have been nearly killed twice in the last ten days, my lady, so—”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said. “Not if you’re to be my governor.”

  “Stop,” he said, disliking the words. He should leave this room. Wait outside for her. If they were caught, Dorring would call them both on the carpet. Hell, if they were caught, they’d both be ruined. Frustration flared and he thrust a hand through his hair. “He didn’t come to me, Imogen. I went to him.”

  She sucked in a breath at the words. At her name, which felt forbidden on his lips without her title preceding it. “Why?”

  Because you aren’t safe. “Because I want you to tell me what you know about the explosions in the East End.”

  Understanding dawned. “So you convinced my brother I required a keeper.”

  “Not a keeper. A guard.” In the darkness, the word took on new meaning—not an assignment. Not business. Something else. Something more powerful.

  As though he were her protector. And hadn’t he been? Hadn’t he taken an arrow for her as he’d carried her from a collapsing building? Hadn’t he raised his broadsword as he’d saved her from the carriage careening down Bedford Court?

  Hadn’t he donned chainmail for her that very evening, and headed into battle in Mayfair?

  “Is there reason to believe I need one? Besides my brother’s bid to keep me from besmirching his own reputation?”

  “Considering the trouble you and your friends discover regularly, and the fact that you’ve put at least two aristocrats in Newgate, a guard is not the worst of ideas.”

  “I haven’t needed one yet.”

  “You need one all the damn time!” he said sharply. “If I hadn’t been in Spitalfields . . . in Covent Garden . . .”

  “If you hadn’t been in those places, I wouldn’t have been in danger, Detective Inspector.” The woman was enraging. But before he could say so, she added, “And I am to be grateful for you offering to play shadow to me until I am packed off to the country to be a wife to someone who neither loves nor understands me?” She gave a little laugh. “No, thank you.”

  It hadn’t occurred to him what would happen when she found a husband, but he didn’t like the idea of Imogen Loveless—who’d once marched into the jail at Scotland Yard and blown open one of its cells—whiling away her days in the country.

  Though she wouldn’t be forgotten.

  That, he was sure of.

  She shook her head. “I’m very sorry, Detective Inspector, but you have hitched your wagon to the wrong horse. I’ve no intention of being kept or guarded or nursemaided or whatever it is you’re intending.”

  In his silence, Imogen nodded and crossed toward the door, the only sound in the room the silk slide of her skirts. He moved to let her pass, telling himself it was for the best. The sooner they were out of this room, the sooner he could return to the comfort of his job.

  Except he couldn’t stop himself from speaking to her retreating back. “You’ve no intention of marrying, either. So why are we here, Lady Imogen?”

  She stopped, lifting her gaze to his. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He approached her, slowly. Certainly. “Your brother may be easily fooled, my lady, but I am not. You’ve no intention of marrying anyone in that ballroom. What are you up to?”

  She worried her lip, watching him. Considering her reply. Choosing her words. He waited, ready to unravel whatever lie she was about to tell.

  Except, as usual, Imogen Loveless was not predictable. One of her lovely round shoulders lifted and fell in a little shrug. “Perhaps I am proving to my brother that I am not the marrying kind.”

  It was nonsense, of course. “And when half the eligible men in Mayfair ask for your hand?”

  She laughed. “For all the time you spend in Mayfair, you don’t spend much time in ballrooms, Mr. Peck. And it shows.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I am too much for marriage. Were you not listening when I told you about the Old Norse?”

  The words filled Tommy with indignation and no small amount of anger. The idea that someone might find her to be too much—when he could not find a way to look away from her—it was infuriating.

  Bollocks.

  Before he could find a less foulmouthed response, she lifted her attention to his chest. “I blame my ancestors.”

  “Your ancestors?”

  She nodded. “Imogen Loveless. It’s in the name, after all. My destiny.”

  “Bollocks.” Turned out, he couldn’t keep it in. “You’re perfectly loveable.”

  Her gaze flew to his at the words, and he drank in the look of her, eyes wide, mouth parted on a surprised little gasp, her shocked expression there and gone in an instant, replaced with a secret little smile. “That’s kind of you.”