“No! Don’t!”

  He turned at the shout—too loud to have come from a lady and yet . . . Lady Imogen was there, leaping from the carriage into the street below, without waiting for the coachman to deliver a step. Into the mud. Not caring that she was ruining her skirts. Proving his point.

  Except she didn’t seem to be uncaring in that moment. There was something in her eyes—something like . . . concern? He shifted his movement, reversing his course, heading toward her.

  Another creak sounded from above, this one louder—more like a rumble.

  “Imogen!” The Duchess of Trevescan was leaping down from the carriage, reaching for her friend. “Wait!”

  Another rumble. Louder. Closer. He looked up at the stairs.

  “Tommy! Don’t get too close to the—”

  Christ, they were coming down.

  And Imogen Loveless was running toward him.

  He moved without thinking, heading directly for her, lifting her clear off her feet, barely registering her little “Eep!” as he made for the street, where her trio of friends stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes wide, as the staircase collapsed with a thunder, sending up a cloud of soot and ash behind them.

  He turned once he was outside the footprint of the building, looking back at the place where, not ten seconds earlier, he’d been standing. Where she’d been heading. The stairs had collapsed into a heap of wood and brick—enough to have killed a man. And a woman. An emotion he did not care for flared and he looked to the lady in his arms, unable to stop himself from asking, loud and irritated, “Do you see now? That you have no place inside exploded buildings? That you might be hurt?”

  Imogen’s eyes were wide, and for a heartbeat, he saw something there. Something like fear. And he loathed it—the way it muted her.

  Her fire returned, hotter than before. “I wouldn’t have been in there if you had taken more care!”

  He barely contained a roar of frustration. He should put her down. Put her down and leave her there, on the street in Spitalfields. The madwoman.

  And he would. In just a moment.

  Just as soon as he was certain she was out of trouble.

  “Oh, my,” Sesily Calhoun interjected from afar. “Would you look at the muscles on him?”

  “I wonder if I could convince Henry to grow a beard again?” the Duchess of Clayborn said. “It is so exciting when they let you shave them off.”

  Thomas looked to the women watching them. “Aren’t you married, ladies?”

  “Ah, but not dead,” Mrs. Calhoun replied as the Duchess of Clayborn nodded happily. “We’re simply admiring the fine way you saved our friend.”

  Their friend, still in his arms, the soft, lush weight of her a perfect reminder that she was safe. That they were alive. That his heart thrummed in his chest.

  “Not that I needed saving,” Imogen said softly. “Or, rather, not that I would have needed saving if you hadn’t ventured so close to the stairs.”

  He could not stop the growl that came from deep in his chest at the words.

  Her brows rose. “Of course, since you did get so close to the stairs, and I did come back inside, thank goodness you were there to save me, Tommy.”

  He ignored the way the diminutive—one only his mother and sister used—sounded in her soft, aristocratic voice, and corrected her. “Detective Inspector.”

  Christ, she was so soft, and she smelled so sweet, like tarts in a shop window, like pears and cream. And as he held her and told himself to set her down, dammit, the feel and scent of her took control of the situation. Making it impossible to do anything but feel her. Smell her. Look at her—all pink cheeks and dark, sparkling eyes and a smile he should not commit to memory.

  When she put a hand to his chest, he couldn’t help his flinch. For a single, wild moment, Thomas Peck was out of control. And he did not like it.

  “That’s a lovely sound,” she said. “A harumble.” She was talking about him. About the sound he’d made.

  He put her down. Immediately.

  Chapter Three

  That evening, just before dinner was served, Imogen received a missive from her brother. That she lived in the same house as her brother—the sixth Earl Dorring—and had done since their father was the fifth Earl Dorring, was no matter. In the eight years since their father died and her brother had assumed the title, Charles Edward Loveless had done all he could to avoid having to interact with his younger sister.

  Nine years older in body and what Imogen calculated as approximately ninety years older in soul, when their father died, Charles had left the care and feeding of his younger sister to well-paid governesses, cooks, and housekeepers—a battalion of servants who were more than happy to leave Imogen to her own devices in the upper levels of the east wing of Dorring House and in the depths of the stone cellars beneath the house.

  Periodically, it occurred to Imogen that her brother simply might not know where to find her—but whether or not Charles was able to find the east wing or the cellars, he hadn’t attempted it before, so it was no surprise that he did not begin doing so that evening.

  Instead, he sent a note.

  Sister, it read. Come and see me.

  “Charming,” Imogen said under her breath at the summons, which signified two things: first, something serious was afoot, as her brother never initiated their interactions; and second, he was in residence for dinner, a rare occasion, as Dorring had little interest in dining with his sister and often took the meal unsentimentally at his club or with his mistress.

  It should be said that Imogen was perfectly happy with such an arrangement, as she’d much prefer eating whatever was warm and delicious in the kitchens than sit in the cold dining room at opposite ends of the enormous gleaming table there, doing her best to pretend her relationship with her brother was anything other than nonexistent.

  That, and when Charles was in residence for dinner, they always had lamb.

  She made a face and pushed the heavy protective spectacles she wore to her forehead, sliding back from her workbench in the Dorring House cellars. She looked to the footman who’d delivered the note. “Please tell my brother I’ll be happy to join him just as soon as I am finished here. I am in the middle of something, as you can see.”

  Geoffrey, the red-cheeked young footman in question, who could not seem to look away from the bubbling pot on the makeshift stove nearby, spoke in the direction of the fire, worry clear in his voice. “Yes, I see that, my lady, but the earl, he was quite insistent . . .”

  Imogen sighed. “I see. It is urgent.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Fetching a rag, Imogen lifted the pot from the fire and set it on a large, flat stone in the corner of the cavernous space. Wiping her hands on her apron, she waved in the direction of the stairs. “By all means, then. Let’s hear what the earl has to say.”

  The footman did not reply, except to cast a skeptical eye in the direction of the pot, still steaming. He swallowed, his large Adam’s apple bobbing in his long, thin throat. “Is it . . .”

  “Perfectly safe.” Imogen smiled. “I’ve only ever accidentally exploded it once.”

  “What is it?” he asked, relief palpable.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just a bit of light gunpowder.”

  His eyes went wide. “My lady—”

  She waved away his concern. “No need to worry, Geoffrey. It’s not nearly as dangerous as the ordinary stuff. This is more for exploding small things. Locks and safes and whatnot.”

  He did not look convinced.

  She smiled. “Perhaps let’s keep it a secret between us, though, hmm? Shall we find my brother?”

  After a heartbeat of consideration, the young man seemed to decide that keeping the earl waiting was a more serious infraction than allowing the earl’s sister to explode the house, and so Imogen followed the footman up the stairs and down the long hallway to her brother’s study, a place she rarely visited.

  The footman opened the door to the imposing room appointed with high ceilings, dark wood, and the rich smell of leather and tobacco—a room that had been inhabited by generations of earls prior to the one who currently claimed it—and announced, “Lady Imogen, my lord.”

  Imogen rolled her eyes and stepped past the young man. “Thank you, Geoffrey. Though my brother and I do not often cross paths, I feel confident he will recognize me.”

  “Ma’am.” Geoffrey offered a tiny, perfect bow and left. At a clip.

  Imogen couldn’t blame him. She rather wished she could do the same.

  Seated at the great Dorring desk—carved from the hull of a sunken Spanish galleon that some distant Dorring had attacked on the high seas—her brother did not look up from the letter he was reading. “Sit.”

  Imogen did not sit. She waited, taking in her brother’s pristine aristocratic perfection.

  If a traveler from the past somehow turned up and said, “Do please point me in the direction of a modern gentleman,” all of London would lead them directly to Dorring House. Charles was thirty-three, tall and slim with hair the color of a sandy beach and eyes the color of the sea belonging to that sandy beach. He had a long straight nose that would send portrait painters running for a brush, and in her lifetime, Imogen had never seen him with even a thread out of place.

  As for Imogen, she was eight inches shorter, and a fair bit rounder, with unruly dark curls and deeply ordinary brown eyes and a face that, should it send painters running for their brushes, would serve as an excellent template for a perfect circle.

  All this, even before they opened their mouths, and Charles revealed himself to be deeply proper and miles-deeply boring. Imogen, though she was many things, was neither of those.

  That they were siblings was a testament to the Lord’s sense of humor.

  She grew tired of waiting. “Do you ever wrinkle?”

  Silence. Unsurprising, really. Charles did not make unexpected noise. There was nothing even near explosive about him.

  “Have you ever stained a sleeve with ink?”

  He turned his letter over and continued to read, as though she was not speaking.

  Imogen tossed herself into one of the chairs facing his desk. “How often do you require a haircut?”

  Charles sighed and raised a hand, indicating she should wait.

  “You summoned me, Charles. If you are otherwise occupied I can return to—”

  He lowered the letter to the desk and looked up. “You were— Good God, what are you wearing?”

  She looked down. “An apron.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “For the same reason most people wear aprons, I imagine—protection.”

  “Most people wear cloth aprons to protect their clothing from being stained with soup. You are wearing a leather apron.”

  “Am I to praise you for your powers of perception?”

  He set both hands to his desk. “Why are you wearing a leather apron?”

  “To protect myself from soup?”

  He did not rise. “Imogen.”

  “Charles.”

  They stared each other down for a long moment, as he seemed to weigh the length of the conversation if he pressed her on her attire against the length of it if he simply got to the point . . . and chose the shorter course of action. “Alright.”

  “Are you staying for dinner?”

  “I had planned on it.”

  “Lamb.”

  “I expect so.” He lifted his letter. “If I may?”

  She sighed. “Go on.”

  “You were seen.”

  “I am seen in a great many places, Charles. Where?”

  He looked down at the paper. “Spitalfields.” He shuddered. “What a ghastly name for a place.”

  Imogen froze. She’d been seen at O’Dwyer and Leafe’s. Honestly, it should not have come as a surprise. A building had been exploded in the night—people were bound to take notice of it in the morning. But she had not been simply seen—she had been identified. And more than that, named. Which meant . . . a number of things. Including the possibility that someone who did not belong in Spitalfields had been there with them that morning.

  “Who told you that?”

  “As your response confirms it, I see no reason why it matters.”

  It mattered quite a bit, in fact.

  Had it been Tommy?

  It wasn’t an impossibility. He might be an absolute bear of a man with dark hair and blue eyes and an ability to verbally spar and carry her all over Christendom, but all those excellent characteristics did not change the fact that he was exactly the kind of man who would decide to follow some sort of idiotic code after saving her from a falling building, and hie off to tell her brother to put her under lock and key.

  “And when was I allegedly in Spitalfields?”

  Charles looked her straight in the eye. “This morning.”

  She tilted her head. “It’s not ringing a bell.”

  Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Imogen, this conversation is beneath us both.” If there was one thing Charles disliked, it was nonsense. “You were seen in Spitalfields at the”—he read from the paper—“former site of O’Dwyer and Leafe’s Dressmakers.”

  She sighed. “Fine. I was there.”

  “Why?”

  “I was having a dress made. Obviously.”

  “Difficult to do when the building had been exploded, I imagine.” They stared at each other in silence until finally, he stood. “Right. I blame myself, really.”

  “For the explosion? You really ought not to say that aloud if you expect to get away with it, Charles.”

  “Especially considering the friendship you appear to have struck up with some Peeler.” The last came with dripping disdain.

  Well. With an attitude like that, Imogen highly doubted Tommy Peck had told her brother anything about the morning. Which was heartening. Somewhat. At least in the sense that she could return to thinking about Tommy’s legs and his eyes and the way he carried her to and fro.

  She wondered if he was the strongest man she’d ever known.

  He certainly was the handsomest.

  Ugh. She shouldn’t be thinking about how handsome he was. Or strong. Or the color of his eyes. “He’s a detective inspector at Scotland Yard,” she corrected her brother and reminded herself. “We are not friends.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you are,” Charles replied. “Considering you’re practically feral.”

  It took a great deal to insult Imogen, but even she had her limits. “I beg your pardon?”

  “As I said, I blame myself, as I understand this is one of any number of places considered inappropriate for ladies at which you’ve been seen recently.”

  “For example?”

  “One would think I should not have to enumerate them beyond a demolished building, but I shall. I have heard news of you at a ladies’ gaming hell in Covent Garden—”

  Seventy-Two Shelton Street was much more scandalous than a gaming hell, but she wasn’t about to correct him. “Alongside half of Mayfair.”

  He ignored her. “I’m told you were seen swanning about in Lambeth—”

  “At the Duke and Duchess of Clayborn’s wedding,” she interjected.

  “I’m to believe the duke and duchess were married in Lambeth?”

  They had been. Well. Close enough. “Yes.”

  Her brother waved away the discussion. “Alright. As I understand it, you’ve been carousing in a ladies’ only tavern somewhere on the South Bank.”

  It was in Covent Garden, but she wasn’t about to tell him that either. As it was, he knew far too much about her whereabouts. “It’s ladies only, Charles. How much trouble do you think I can get into there?”

  “Frankly, there’s a difference between ladies and Ladies, sister, and I think it’s time you start behaving like the correct one.”

  She wondered how he’d respond if she chloroformed him.

  “Father let you roam about and hired you science teachers and God knows what else instead of governesses and . . . dance instructors and whatever else proper young ladies require.”

  “Whomever,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Not whatever. Whomever,” she repeated. “Dance instructors and whomever else proper ladies require are people, you know.” In his shocked silence at having his grammar corrected, she added, “And I know how to dance.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. I took lessons for many years.”

  “Not do you know how, Imogen. I know you learned. I paid the bills. Do you dance?”

  “I—” She didn’t. “Well, not for lack of knowing, is my point.”

  “Because you were too busy with your damn laboratory. Mrs. Madewell informed me not three hours ago that she believes you’re keeping gunpowder in the cellars.”

  “I am not!” She was making the gunpowder in the cellars. She knew better than to keep it there. It was good to know the housekeeper was a spy for her brother, however.

  “Of course you’re not,” he said.

  “I’m not?”

  He was already moving forward. “But you are far too wild for your own good.”

  She supposed wild was better than feral. “I’m perfectly happy, Charles.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No. You are four and twenty, and it is well past time to shorten the lead I’ve allowed you since our father died.”

  Feral, wild, and now leashed. “That’s the third time you’ve referred to me as though I am an animal of some sort, Charles. I’m beginning to take offense.”

  “You’ve soot on your face, and your hair . . .” He trailed off and slid his gaze up to her hair, where her curls were no doubt doing what her curls did. Which he would not understand, as he had perfectly straight hair. She wondered if he even combed it. Perhaps it just fell into place at all times for fear of being criticized.

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “If you’re quite through, brother.”

  “I’m not, as a matter of fact. I’ve made a decision.”

  “About what?”

  “You require a husband.”

  “A what?”

  “A man. To take you in hand.”

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Charles. I do not require a husband.”