Well. Maybe a little disappointed.

  “As I said”—Tommy cut his mother a pointed look—“we are . . . friendly . . . through work.”

  Rose scoffed. “Work.”

  “Not work?” Imogen asked.

  “Not work,” Rose said. “Tommy hates bringing work home. You wouldn’t be here if it was work.”

  Tommy nodded. “Sometimes, a particular case requires a more personal touch.” He met Imogen’s eyes. “This investigation happens to cover the East End, and we were nearby.”

  They’d been in Mayfair. But she understood what he was reminding her. She was there for work. She was there because he was attempting to show her that he did care for more than money and power and privilege and Parliament. That he had come from here. Wasn’t that what he’d said in the hack?

  But he’d intended a drive, and now it was dinner.

  And his lovely family.

  And it was delicious.

  “Well, if you’re in the East End at dusk, it’s a good thing you’ve Tommy with you. The boy knows every nook and cranny out here, and will keep you out of trouble.”

  Imogen looked to him, perfectly straight, perfectly groomed, perfectly serious. Perfect. “I imagine he was the kind of child who was always out of trouble.”

  “I imagine you were the opposite.”

  She grinned. “I remain the opposite.”

  He gave a tiny exhale of laughter, as though he couldn’t help but like her reply. But like her. “Oh, I know.”

  Rose and Esme shared a look before Esme said, “In fact, Tommy wasn’t always out of trouble.”

  It was as though Imogen had won a prize. “He wasn’t?”

  “Mother.” The word was a gruff warning.

  It did not work on Esme, whose blue eyes gleamed. “No. Indeed, I recall one particular knock at the door one afternoon when he was about fourteen . . .”

  “Mother . . .” Now it was a growl.

  Imogen thought she might perish of curiosity. “Who was it?”

  Tommy’s ears were turning red. “It’s not important. Where’s Annabelle?”

  Rose was already snickering. “You want Annabelle to hear this story?”

  He bit back a curse and turned away, the red now coloring his cheeks.

  “At the time, the house had a laundry line that was shared between our place and the facing building at the rear,” Esme said, delighting in the story. “A building that housed . . . a number of ladies.”

  A bawdy house.

  It was decided. This was the best dinner party she’d ever attended. No one ever talked about bawdy houses at dinners in Mayfair. “Go on . . .”

  “This is not appropriate.”

  “It most certainly was not appropriate, Thomas Peck,” his mother retorted. “I opened the door, and the lady of the house was standing there, primped and painted. And very concerned because several pieces of the girls’ laundry had gone missing from the line over the past few weeks. A stocking. A petticoat. That morning, one of the girls had seen a corset go in through our window.”

  Imogen turned wide eyes on Tommy, who looked as though he might throw himself into the fire. “Oh,” she said, feeling for the young boy, tempted by all those underthings on the line. And now, for the man, horrified by the story of his childhood antics.

  “My boy, a thief!” Esme said. “And not just a thief—an unmentionables thief!”

  “Funny how you are able to mention it now,” he said dryly, heading for a bottle on a nearby shelf.

  “The important thing is, for all the stealing he’d done, when the poor thing took one look at Mrs. Farrell, he confessed immediately. The missing clothing was returned the moment the interrogation began.” Esme reached for him and patted his cheek, red above the smooth line of his beard. “And thus ended his misguided life of crime.”

  Rose laughed. “Wasn’t his punishment having to sweep the front and rear of that particular building for the better part of a year? Not the worst punishment one could cook up for a boy with a fascination for the ladies inside.”

  “It wasn’t, as a matter of fact,” Tommy agreed, and they all laughed, Imogen filled with a warm pleasure that she was here and she was welcome, and not simply by Rose and Esme, but now by Tommy, as well.

  He didn’t dislike her.

  Indeed, as his blue eyes found hers, sheepish and sweet, it occurred to her that, perhaps, he liked her. Though surely that wasn’t possible, was it?

  Or maybe it wasn’t possible that he like her as much as she liked him.

  Their gazes locked for long enough that she had to tear hers away, clearing her throat and reminding herself of their positions. Of his role. “And after that? The straight and narrow?”

  It was Rose’s turn to speak with a little groan at the ceiling. “So straight! The most narrow!”

  “What’s that mean?” Tommy asked, affronted.

  “Tommy.” His sister leveled him with a firm look. “He was always on time, always immaculate, perfect manners, never snuck an apple from the fruit stand, never let us out of his sight, not even when we got older. Do you know how difficult it is to court with that following you everywhere you go?” She waved a hand in his direction.

  “I wanted you to be safe!” He looked properly offended. “Truly, this is the only family that can make following the rules sound like a bad thing. It’s a miracle Stanley is a vicar.”

  “A shock, to be sure, considering that he did not find the straight and narrow so easily,” Esme agreed, looking back to Imogen. “I’ve another son, Stanley. He’s a vicar in Croydon. He’s often here for Sunday supper—Tommy will bring you back to meet him.” She paused. “He is also unmarried.”

  Imogen laughed at the obvious suggestion, no small amount because of the laughable idea that she would be the appropriate match for a vicar. “I would enjoy meeting him very much.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  Everyone turned to look at Tommy when he spoke the words a bit too low and a bit too rough for the company. Imogen blinked. “I wouldn’t?”

  He took a visible breath. “It’s just that . . . Sunday dinner is usually lamb.”

  “Oh?” she said, because it seemed she should say something, even though it was difficult to find anything at all to say in the wake of what felt like such a dismissal.

  Tommy looked to his mother. “Miss Loveless does not care for lamb.”

  Rose’s eyes were so wide, they threatened to come right out of their sockets, but Esme simply smiled a warm, welcoming smile. “Then we’ll have something else.”

  A heavy knock sounded outside the door, and Rose went to the window to look down on the street below. “It’s Wallace.”

  She was out the door as Tommy froze, casting a strange look at Imogen. She raised her brows in his direction. “Is there something wrong?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She didn’t believe him for a moment. “Is there something I should know?”

  He could not answer, as the door swung open and his sister reentered, a look on her face that was equal parts anticipation and something Imogen could not name. Following behind her was a tall, older, portly man—one she immediately recognized. The superintendent of Whitehall, whom she’d met in the hallway outside the uniform closet.

  He carried a small box in hand. Once inside, he removed his hat instantly and addressed the room with a boisterous “Aren’t you all a refuge for a cold winter’s night!”

  “Come in, Wallace,” Esme said, crossing the room to him, letting him claim her hand for an exaggerated kiss before taking his hat and the box he offered as he removed his coat, revealing a very simple navy blue wool suit with a flat gold medallion pinned to his lapel. Imogen’s heart hammered with recognition in her chest. She’d seen the medallion before.

  She had a matching one in the carpetbag she’d left by the door.

  Her mind began to race as she started to connect the dots . . . dots she’d feared were connected for months.

  Without thinking, she looked to Tommy, who immediately noticed the way she spun around. Concern in his gaze, he took a step closer to her. “Are you—”

  His mother interrupted whatever he was going to ask with a too bright, “Look who is joining us for supper!”

  “I say! It’s been a tick since I’ve seen you at the Yard, Tommy.” Wallace Adams made to step forward, but stopped midstride, the moment he saw Imogen. “Oh,” he said, recognition flashing across his face. “Hello.”

  Imogen smiled.

  “Introductions!” Rose insisted. “Miss Imogen Loveless, this is Wallace Adams. Wallace, Miss Loveless is Tommy’s . . .” Rose paused. “Well, we’re not sure. Something to do with work, apparently, so you likely know more than we do.”

  Mr. Adams’s brows shot up at the words. “Work, is it?”

  Tommy let out a sigh. “Adams is my superintendent.”

  The head of Whitehall. She pasted a smile on and dipped a little curtsy. “Mr. Adams.”

  Adams’s attention flew to Tommy, then back to Imogen. Something flashed in the older man’s eyes, so fast Imogen couldn’t name it.

  He knew who she was, of course. If he was Tommy’s superior, he surely knew she was his assignment. Adams had likely been the person to assign Tommy the task of finding her that night in Covent Garden. And what’s more, Adams knew she’d been with Tommy in Scotland Yard the morning of that assignment. When she was supposed to be missing.

  It was a proper mess.

  Imogen waited for him to reveal her identity and change the evening. Except he didn’t. Instead, he smiled and said, “Miss Imogen Loveless. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Within minutes, Tommy’s mother had waved them all to dinner and they’d squeezed around the small, scarred table to one side of the main room of the flat.

  Tommy couldn’t keep his eyes off Imogen, seated across from him, eyes bright and curious as she fell into the evening as though she’d eaten a thousand meals in cramped flats in Shoreditch. As though she regularly scooped stew out of chipped earthenware bowls and tore hunks of freshly baked brown bread from a shared loaf passed round the table.

  But she didn’t do those things. They could lie to his mother all he liked—he could call her miss and she could hold back the truth of her birth—but Imogen Loveless was a titled lady, daughter to an earl. Sister to one. And every minute she sat in this house, at this table, their legs so close together beneath the table that he could feel her skirts against him, he had to remind himself that she didn’t belong there.

  Because every minute that passed made him imagine what it would be like if she did belong.

  Which was impossible.

  And even as he tried to keep that truth in his mind, he knew he was actively avoiding looking at Adams, who, despite calling Imogen miss, knew the truth, and would have more than a few somethings to say about her presence at dinner in Tommy’s family home.

  Tommy was certain that Adams would be the first to point out that traipsing all around London with an aristocratic lady was the fastest way to ensure that Tommy never got his promotion.

  All that, and Imogen seemed to fit in perfectly, laughing at Annabelle’s silly jests, making conversation with Rose, asking questions that revealed more about Tommy than he would ever share on his own.

  Questions like, “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Peck?”

  “David—that was Tommy’s father—and I moved here the day we were married.” She smiled at the door, far away for a moment before she laughed. “He nearly toppled me down the stairs when he carried me over the threshold.”

  Tommy’s chest tightened at the words. At the way Imogen smiled, small and wistful, as though she understood how the memory of his father remained so large and present despite the distance of time.

  She met Tommy’s eyes. “How long ago did he—”

  “Eleven years,” he answered, even as he knew it would make everything more complicated. “Rose was fourteen, and Stanley was twelve.”

  Imogen nodded with a frank understanding that came with having lost someone of her own. “I’m sorry. My father has been gone for eight,” she said. “It seems both an open wound and a long healed one.”

  “We were lucky to have Tommy,” his mother said, reaching to squeeze his arm. “Stepped into his father’s shoes instantly.”

  It wasn’t true. David Peck’s loss had been keen. “We were lucky to have Wallace,” he said, turning to look at his mentor at the end of the table. “He pulled me off the streets and gave me honest work.”

  “Nah. I just did what David would’ve wanted.” Wallace’s eyes filled with something like pride as he looked to Imogen. “Tommy’s father and I came up together. When we lost him, I did all I could to bring Tommy to the Yard. And we’ve never seen his equal.” The superintendent turned back to Tommy. “And now look at you. Detective inspector and on your way to superintendent of the branch. Your da would’ve been bursting with it.”

  Around the table, everyone looked to Tommy, surprise and delight in their eyes. Everyone but Imogen, who had returned her attention to her bowl. Knowing how he was to get the promotion. Knowing that it would come on the back of doing her brother’s bidding.

  He couldn’t look away from her as Esme said, “Head of the Detective Branch!”

  “I expect so, if he’s careful,” Wallace replied, and Tommy’s attention snapped to the other man, who was watching him with a gleam in his eye. A warning gleam as he slid his gaze to Imogen and back to Tommy. “But he’s never been anything but careful.”

  Tommy didn’t misunderstand. Imogen shouldn’t be here. She was too close. And he liked it too much. And ruining the woman was not an option.

  “So, soon, then?” Rose prodded, looking to Adams. “Come on, Wallace. You’ve got the ear of the commissioner.”

  “You’ve never met a question you wouldn’t ask, have you?” Tommy said to his sister.

  Rose grinned. “Not yet, but there’s hope!”

  “I expect Mr. Peck will receive his promotion just as soon as our work together is complete,” Imogen said, drawing all attention. She smiled, and he was impressed with how real it appeared, considering it was forced.

  “That’s wonderful news!” Esme said.

  “Even better if it means that the two of you will stop talking as though work is all that brought you here tonight,” his sister whispered in his ear as she got up to clear the table.

  Imogen stood to help, and Rose waved her back, as though she could sense the truth—that Imogen Loveless had likely never cleared a table in her life. That she was simply visiting their world for a time.

  “It was a lovely dinner, Mrs. Peck,” she said to Esme. “Thank you very much for having me.”

  Tommy heard the unspoken preparation for goodbye in the words and he bit back a curse. The reminder of their arrangement—of his place in the world and at Scotland Yard—had returned her doubt. And now, he would have to take her home.

  It was for the best, he knew. He knew it. He knew it.

  “A bit rough and ready,” his mother was replying with a laugh. “I imagine your meals are less chaotic than this group’s.”

  “Not by choice,” Imogen said. “I confess, when I am at home, I often eat alone.”

  Esme grew serious. That meals were to be shared was the most serious of her maternal commandments. “Your mother?”

  “She passed when I was six.”

  Tommy wanted to reach for her. He knew what it was to lose one parent, but to lose both, and so early—no one deserved it. And he wanted to tell her so. Of course, he couldn’t.

  “So it is you and your brother, now?” Rose asked.

  “In a sense.” Imogen gave a little shrug. “He’s ten years older. We haven’t much in common . . .” Her eyes found Tommy’s, and it was impossible to look away from her. He wanted to drink it all in, every bit of information she was willing to share. That, and he’d met her brother. They were nothing alike. She was legions brighter than him. Better than him.

  “Suffice to say, our dinners are not as enjoyable as this one.” She tossed a knowing smile at Tommy. “He adores lamb.”

  He laughed. “Well. I can’t guarantee this dinner won’t still go south,” Tommy said, sliding a look to his sister. “Rose hasn’t even begun her interrogations.”

  Imogen laughed. “I am more than happy to be interrogated.”

  Rose clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent! I’ve a list of questions!”

  So did Tommy, if he was honest. There were a dozen of them he should be asking as he rifled through her carpetbag to find all the evidence she’d collected over the past few weeks.

  But instead, the only questions that came to mind were dangerous ones.

  Would you like to have dinner with me every night?

  “It seems a fair payment for that delicious stew,” Imogen offered.

  May I kiss you senseless in the carriage on the way home?

  “And there’s cake, too!” Annabelle announced.

  “I suppose I shall have to answer an extra one for that!”

  Would you let me carry you to bed?

  Imogen met his eyes, and must have seen something of his thoughts, as she flushed almost immediately and looked away before adding, “I have questions, as well!”

  “Excellent! Let’s go around then,” Rose said, from where she was stacking the bowls on a table near a washbasin. “It shall be a game of sorts.”

  “I want to play a game!” Annabelle announced. “I have a question!”

  Imogen included the little girl without hesitation. “And what is it?”

  Annabelle hesitated for an endless amount of time. “I don’t remember.”

  Where half the world, Tommy included, would have laughed or grown frustrated with the reply, Imogen nodded seriously and said, “Would you like to see a trick instead?”

  The table went quiet as Annabelle fairly shouted, “Yes!”

  Imogen pointed in the direction of the door. “Do you see my bag over there? On the floor?”

  Annabelle went up on her knees and craned to look. “It’s very big.”

  Tommy gave a little laugh at that, and Imogen gave him a tiny smile before saying, simply, “Of course it is. Where else am I to keep my tricks? Would you be a dear and fetch it for me? Do you think you are strong enough?”