He went looking for Imogen.

  Frustration and something close to panic in his throat, he scanned the assembled crowd—difficult, as everyone appeared to be in motion. A few dozen men were rushing to and from the river, enormous buckets in hand. To one side, several others wheeled a cart full of heavy casks away from the building, following the direction of a dark-haired, brown-skinned woman Tommy did not recognize.

  All around him, dockworkers were arriving in groups, each one heading for a small group in front of the building. There, the Duke and Duchess of Clayborn stood with Saviour and Henrietta Whittington. Above the line, the couple were owners and operators of Sedley-Whittington, one of the largest shipping companies in Britain, with stake in more than half of the river berths. Below the line, Whittington was known as Beast, one third of The Bareknuckle Bastards, the most successful smuggling operation England had ever seen. Not that anyone could prove it.

  Point was, nothing happened in the Docklands without the couple knowing. Apparently, that included fire.

  Tommy headed for the quartet, vaguely thinking that it wasn’t every day dukes and known smugglers spent time together, though considering the Duchess of Clayborn’s father was widely believed to be the head of The Bully Boys, the biggest gang of thugs on the South Bank, maybe it wasn’t so impossible a friendship.

  He didn’t care much about it then, however.

  He wanted to know where Imogen was. Immediately.

  “Detective Inspector!” He gritted his teeth at the bright words from the Duchess of Clayborn, who was the first in the group to notice him. She broke away from the others and approached him. “What brings you here?”

  “I did not have a chance to thank my hostess for this evening’s ball,” he said dryly, summoning a little laugh from the lady as he looked past her to survey the crowd for Imogen. “That, and it looks like you may want Scotland Yard here soon enough.”

  From a distance, Saviour Whittington let out a humorless snort. “Oh, yes, Scotland Yard is always a welcome presence in the East End.”

  Tommy turned a stern gaze on the other man. “Do you have a reason for wishing me gone, Beast?”

  The other man rocked back on his heels and said, “Besides the fact that every time Peelers turn up here, something goes sideways? Hear me, Peck—if any one of our men are harmed tonight, I’m coming for you personally.”

  “I didn’t set the fire,” Tommy replied.

  “Clearly not,” Beast said, rocking back on his heels. “Too busy playin’ at being a toff tonight, it seems.”

  Tommy looked down at his clothes—made for dukes and not Docklands—and felt his face heat.

  Mrs. Whittington took pity on him. “We haven’t time for the two of you to spar, boys. We’ve a blaze to prevent.” She looked to Tommy. “We can use your help, Inspector.”

  His and that of every other able-bodied person in the Docklands. Fire in London was the hand of God, superseding every other concern, no matter how dire. If it was not caught at the start, it would consume every building and body it could—and no one would be able to stop it.

  He looked to Beast. In this, at least, there was no line between them. “Set up a line from the river,” he said, shucking the coat that cost more than his entire wardrobe, tossing it aside as he moved to help. “We’ll need more men.”

  “Oy!” Beast shouted to a boy running past. “Take the boys and get the bells ringin’ on all these ships. We’re going to need as many hands as possible to keep the whole thing from burnin’. And send word to my brothers. All free hands are needed here. Now.”

  The boy was already running, and the rest were spurred into action, knowing time was running out, and if they did not get the fire in check soon, the whole of the Docklands was threatened. At the entrance to the building, the woman he did not recognize waved off the men who’d been ferrying casks, driving them in the direction of the line of dockworkers forming to pass water from the river—thankfully at high tide—to stop the fire.

  The Duke and Duchess of Clayborn were headed in that direction as though they’d done this exact thing a dozen times before. Tommy knew the job. He joined them.

  Adelaide threw him a look as he stepped into line next to her, taking a bucket of water and passing it to her. She took it, immediately passing it to her husband. “It isn’t every day you find a Peeler down here,” she offered. “Imogen is going to enjoy finding you on this particular line, Mr. Peck.”

  Tommy took an empty bucket from her and sent it toward the river. “Where is she?”

  She looked over her shoulder in the direction of the warehouse, squinting against the flames. “Not far. She went looking for . . .” She trailed off and looked back at him. “She’ll return presently.”

  “Where?” The question wasn’t soft. But neither was his temper at that moment. Every inch of him wanted to find her first, and join the line second, but he knew that the fire was the first and most important task.

  Water sloshed over his hand, ice-cold from the river. Adelaide took the bucket and waved away the question. “It’s not important.”

  “I think I’d just as well be the judge of that.”

  Apparently his tone revealed how he did not care for the Duchess’s response, as Clayborn leaned around Adelaide’s figure to level Tommy with a glare. “Careful, Peck.”

  Lord save him from love-struck men. Tommy took a deep breath, doing his best to swallow his frustration, not entirely believing that if the Duke of Clayborn decided to come for him, the entirety of the Docklands wouldn’t happily see Tommy into the river. He looked to the warehouse, where a dozen men were now carrying water inside. “What’s inside?”

  “The entire stock of Mithra Singh’s new brewery.”

  Ale. He looked to the woman at the entrance to the building. “Miss Singh, I imagine?”

  “The finest brewmistress in London,” Clayborn said.

  “Brewmaster, too,” his wife pointed out as she passed another empty bucket down the line.

  Clayborn nodded and clarified. “Better than anyone making ale today.”

  Men who’d made a fortune brewing and selling ale wouldn’t like a woman claiming that crown. “Rivals?” Tommy asked.

  Neither responded.

  “What else is inside? Besides the beer?”

  More silence.

  Goddammit, if these women would stop keeping secrets from him, he could help them. Did they not see it? Several buckets passed in silence before Tommy caught Adelaide’s eyes. “The fire isn’t an accident.”

  When she did not reply, her husband spoke. “Do you think they’d be here if it was?”

  Them. The women the papers called the Hell’s Belles. Tommy snapped his attention to the duke. “And you allow them to come?”

  Clayborn offered a humorless laugh. “Allow them? You think for one moment these women ask permission for what they do?” He shook his head and looked down at his wife. “All I can do is be grateful she allows me to fight by her side.”

  It was madness. If he’d known where Imogen was headed earlier in the evening, he would have tied her up with the ribbons of her own stockings to keep her safe.

  Where was she?

  The Duke and Duchess of Clayborn were now making eyes at each other, but Tommy couldn’t keep in his retort, quick and angry. “And so, what? She says she wants to walk into fire and you simply—”

  “Oy!” The shout came from above, in the direction of the building, and Tommy recognized it instantly.

  Except, of course, he couldn’t have.

  Because it wasn’t possible that he was hearing correctly.

  “How is it looking from out there?”

  It wasn’t possible. There was no goddamn way that Imogen Loveless was inside a burning building, calling down to the street below, as though she were casually hailing a hack.

  “What in hell?” The Duke of Clayborn’s words rang around them.

  For her part, the Duchess of Clayborn turned calmly and looked up into the dark space that marked the second floor of the building, where Imogen’s face peered out like a little moon in a sky about to turn into an inferno, and said, “From out here it still seems like it’s confined to the upper floors, but it’s more important how it looks from in there, Imogen!”

  “Right as rain! No fire at all where I am. I just require a bit longer!” Imogen said. “I’ve nearly sorted it!” Her gaze fell on him and her eyes lit up, as though they were meeting on a stroll through Hyde Park. “Tommy! I didn’t expect you to arrive so quickly!”

  Tommy couldn’t find the words to reply. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to find words ever again.

  Adelaide slid a nervous look at him. “Do be quick about it, Imogen; the detective inspector is . . . growling.”

  “Sometimes he does that,” Imogen said. “Usually when he is irritated with me.”

  “I think he might be irritated then, Im.”

  Irritated was not even in the same universe as how Tommy was feeling. Tommy was feeling unhinged.

  “I’m perfectly safe, Tommy!” Imogen said happily, as though two floors above her the whole building weren’t threatening to cave in. “No need to worry!”

  He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at her.

  Instead, he turned on Clayborn. “You let her walk into fire.”

  “I didn’t know.” Clayborn’s eyes went wide, and he immediately pushed his wife behind him, keeping her from whatever Tommy had become. “Fucking hell—I didn’t know. Dammit, Adelaide!” he tossed over his shoulder. “What is Imogen doing inside? The whole place could—”

  Adelaide didn’t let him finish, her voice clear and crisp and certain. Like she’d seen Imogen do this kind of thing a hundred times before. “She insisted. She didn’t want another building to—”

  Tommy went cold when she caught herself from finishing the sentence.

  “Another building to what, Adelaide?” her husband roared, passing water with more vigor.

  Tommy finished for her. “To explode.”

  Adelaide looked to him. “Exactly. She went in to—”

  Tommy didn’t hear the rest. He was too busy running for the building.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He found her on the first floor, crouched by an enormous wooden silo, in a pool of lantern light, in a room that smelled like wheat. She was holding a jar of beige powder and leaning over the damn bag she carried everywhere.

  Tommy pulled up straight just inside the entrance to the room, sucking in a deep breath—what felt like the first one he’d taken since he’d opened the door to the Trevescan library and discovered she’d given him the slip.

  He rubbed one hand across his chest as he exhaled—trying to ease the tightness there, even as he knew it would not dissipate. At least, not until this woman was out of his life and had taken her chaos with her.

  Christ.

  “I’ve changed my mind; I am going to make it my life’s purpose to get you married.”

  She did not look up from her task as she lowered the jar into the bag, slowly. Instead, she said, “While I am sympathetic to your deep-rooted sense of responsibility, Tommy, and more than impressed with your commitment to your promise to my brother, I would appreciate it if you did not distract me.”

  His brow furrowed and he took a step closer. “What is that?”

  “Mercury fulminate.”

  He stilled. Tommy had been investigating the explosions throughout London long enough to know that mercury fulminate had been used in the other two in the East End. He also knew that, in the wrong hands, it could cause the whole place to go, and them with it. Her with it. “Dammit, Imogen—leave it. I’ll handle getting it out of here.”

  “No need. It’s perfectly safe when handled properly.”

  “And is carting it around in a carpetbag proper handling?”

  “Not for most people, no. But I am not most people.” Was she smiling? He couldn’t see it in the dim light, but he could swear he heard it. She finished seating the jar within the bag and returned to the silo, ignoring the bag and him, as though this were all completely normal.

  “You do realize that I’ve just discovered you inside a burning building with an explosive.”

  She stood and wiped her hands on her skirts. “And do you have reason to believe I have taken enough leave of my senses to be inside this burning building, with an explosive, by design?”

  He didn’t. Despite the proximity this woman seemed to have to murder and mayhem, Tommy had never believed she was responsible for it. Not even at the beginning, when he hadn’t understood her. What he understood was that he wanted her out of this place.

  He wanted her safe. And not only because it was his job.

  Not that he was willing to admit it to her. “I have reason to believe you’ve taken leave of your senses in any number of ways,” he said.

  “It is remarkable how everyone thinks I am the mad one,” Imogen grumbled.

  Before he could ask her to explain, there was a rumble outside the room, where a half-dozen men climbed the stairs, buckets in hand, to fight the fire.

  “They’ll need salt and alum to keep the fire from spreading while they fight it,” she said, all casual, as she snatched up the lantern and crouched low to look under the silo.

  Tommy did not move. “They know.”

  “I assume Beast and Hattie have it under control.” She paused, reaching a hand into the darkness, and Tommy held his breath. “They’ve handled fire here before.”

  He didn’t want to talk about what the Sedley-Whittingtons had handled before. Not when this woman was destroying him, pulling words from him like “When I get you out of here, I’m going to turn you over my knee.”

  “I’m nearly done,” she replied, the words entirely lacking in concern.

  “Nearly done—” His indignation strangled the words in his throat. “Imogen, the whole place is aflame.”

  “Not the whole place,” she said calmly into the darkness under the silo as she reached beneath it, feeling about for something. Hopefully not something flammable. “And when I am through it will remain largely un-aflame.”

  “Imogen. Look at me.”

  He wanted to see her eyes. Wanted to know she was as unconcerned as she sounded.

  “I cannot, I’m afraid,” she said, pressing her cheek to the floor.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, you are a distraction, Tommy Peck,” she said. “And I would like very much for my friend to have as much of her brewery as possible in the morning.”

  Satisfied, she came to her knees and pressed her hands to her thighs, one hand clenched in a fist. She took a deep breath. “I would like to have as much of the Docklands as possible in the morning,” she said, to herself more than to him.

  And then, before he could reply, she said softly, with a voice that threatened to crack, “I would like very much for them to lose tonight.”

  He recognized the frustration in the words. The quiet, barely-there admission that she was tired. But more than that, he recognized the meaning in them. Imogen knew who was behind the explosions. He was sure of it.

  “Who? Who are they?” He took a step toward her, wanting to help her up. Wanting to get her out. Wanting her to see that they were on the same side. “Tell me—”

  “No,” she said firmly, holding up a hand, and did not look in his direction. “Don’t move. If you knock the bag—”

  He stilled at the words, wanting to take her by the shoulders and shake her and carry her out of this building and off the docks and out of fucking Britain until he was sure she was safe.

  But he did as she asked, and did not move.

  Instead, he watched her, silent sentry, ready to carry her from yet another building if it was required. She stood and moved to the bag, fussing within before snapping it closed.

  Tommy held his breath when she lifted it, even as she moved toward him with smooth purpose, as though she were carrying a basket of baked goods for a church tea and not a bag full of explosives.

  She lifted the lantern when she drew close, and he fought the urge to rub at the tightness in his chest once more as she smiled, bright and beautiful and unconcerned.

  With a little head tilt, she inspected him. He knew what she found—the opposite of her own demeanor. Frozen in place, fists clenched, every muscle in his body strung tight like a bow. Ready to fight any villain if it meant keeping her safe.

  His jaw ached with tension.

  “You are angry with me.”

  He shook his head. “Angry does not begin to describe how I feel about you right now.”

  Something softened in her gaze and it made him come even further unstitched. “You were concerned.”

  “Am. Am concerned. Present tense,” he said, the words tight in his throat.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I shan’t tell my brother I gave you the slip.”

  He released a harsh breath. “You think I care about what your fucking brother thinks right now?”

  Her brows rose at his foul language. “Do you not?”

  His throat worked, and her gaze flickered to it. He hated what she saw there. How it revealed more than he would ever admit. “I want you out of this building. Now.”

  She waved the lantern in the direction of the door. “I am not the one blocking the exit, Detective Inspector.”

  The words were punctuated with a creak from above—a sound Tommy did not like, all things considered.

  He stepped aside to let her pass. “Down, Imogen.”

  “And here I was thinking the street was up,” she quipped.

  Swallowing his irritated growl, Tommy followed close behind her as she descended the narrow staircase, keeping his gaze on the carpetbag that was the most serious threat to her person.

  At the base of the stairs, ten yards from the entrance to the warehouse, with a straight shot to the outside, Tommy could see Mithra Singh standing, wringing her hands. Inside, the great, cavernous warehouse was circled with stairs, circling up to the top of the building, allowing for access to the windows and a wide open view to the roof, but Tommy didn’t look to where the fire brigade was doing their best to keep the flames at bay—all he could look at was Imogen, curls bouncing, hips swaying and carrying that infernal bag containing a deadly explosive device, as though everything were perfectly normal.