It sounded like a man who wanted to finish what he’d started.

  It sounded perfect.

  Imogen turned and looked over her shoulder, through the darkness of the canopied bed to the room beyond, where a few candles lit the faces of two young men, no more than twenty. No doubt young Yardsmen convinced early to take money for thuggery.

  Two sets of eyes went wide as saucers. “Miss.” One cleared his throat. “Beg pardon. We’ve been told to search the place.”

  “Be quick about it then,” she said, holding her gaze as she rocked against Tommy and injected her very best South Bank accent into her words. “But no dallyin’. If you want to be watchin’, luvs, you’d best ’ave coin.”

  “Fuck that,” Tommy said like sin from beneath her. “They can’t watch. This is mine.”

  He punched his hips beneath her and she bounced with the force of it. His strength was coming back.

  She giggled. And somehow, impossibly, it wasn’t forced. “You ’eard the man,” she said, brazen as she could. “Get it done and gone, moppets.”

  She turned her back to them, staring down at Tommy as she kept her rhythm, rocking against him. “Alright then, love,” she said, loud enough for them to hear. “I can keep you entertained through the distraction. You ready for a good fucking?”

  Something flashed in his eyes at the words. A dark promise, like if they got out of there alive, he was going to take her up on the offer. “Untie me.”

  Warmth flooded through her at the demand and it was a heartbeat before she remembered that he wasn’t tied. Whatever this was, it was for show. She reached over his head and pulled the red tie.

  Was that—Oh, it was—his beard stroked over her nipple as it hung above his mouth. She gasped, pulling the ribbon from around his fists. Free, his arms moved, just enough to set his hands to her body. Barely there. He couldn’t lift her, so she gave him what he seemed to want, leaning down over him. Turning her head to watch the police open the nearby wardrobe and close it, turning to watch.

  “Go on, then,” she said, the words low in the dim light. Urging Tommy on. It was for show, after all.

  And then his mouth opened over her nipple and he licked at the straining tip, and she threw her head back. The Peelers weren’t doing anything like searching anymore. Now they were watching.

  Imogen made a show of holding Tommy’s head to her breast, trying not to let herself get distracted by the icy cold of his hair. “Like I said, boys,” she said, low and dark, “if you’re goin’ to stay, you’re goin’ to pay.”

  Tommy let go at that, and she couldn’t help the way she squirmed for more. “Like I said,” he replied in a low growl. “Get out. She ain’t for you.”

  The words were dark and nearly feral, and the young Yardsmen did not linger as they followed the instructions, leaving the room and slamming the door behind them.

  Imogen and Tommy froze, listening for their footsteps, not moving, not daring to speak, until they’d searched the next room, and the one after. And only then, when Tommy shivered beneath her, did Imogen pull the blanket over them both once more, pressing her body to his, willing him warm again.

  She took comfort in the fact that he could move his arms again when he slid them across her back and held her tight to him. “That was incredible,” he whispered at her ear. “And here I was, thinking you needed me to keep you safe.”

  “Don’t fret,” she whispered, unable to keep the relief from her voice even as she knew whatever was to come would be worse than what they’d faced. “I shall still write you a letter of reference.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “They’re gone.”

  He held her tight to him, his mouth at her ear. “Not yet.” She lifted her head, and he feared she’d move entirely away, and whether it was cold or fear or some kind of unbearable combination of both, she said, “They may do another sweep. If they don’t find us.”

  “Then we—”

  He didn’t have the strength to stand, let alone fight, and the knowledge that his body might betray him at a time when she was threatened was enough to make him wild. His hand moved of its own accord, and he reveled in the simple stroke of it over her back, in the feel of her against his fingers—fingers that had not been able to feel twenty minutes earlier. He pressed a kiss to her lips, desperate for the feel of her, trying to keep the animal inside him at bay.

  “Talk to me,” he said softly, when he released her.

  She pressed her cheek to his chest, the powdered hair of her wig rough against his shoulder. Another sensation to enjoy, even as he counted the minutes until he could toss the thing across the room and revel in the softness of her sable curls.

  “Are you . . .” She searched for the words. “Do you . . . believe me?” He took a deep breath, hating the sound of the question, small and urgent and full of worry. As though she still did not trust him.

  He could not blame her for it, of course. But still, he ached for her faith.

  Before he could speak, she was talking, the words coming at a clip, as though she was desperate to get them out. “I know you think I am mad. I know this . . . the names, the addresses, the uniforms, the medallion, the explosives. I know it seems like chaos. Like I’m bringing you a stack of files again, but this time, with very little proof. But Tommy—”

  “Stop. I believe you. Of course I believe you.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Imogen—I don’t think you’re mad.”

  She lifted her head. “You don’t?”

  “No.” His hand found her cheek, his thumb stroking across the soft skin there. “I think the world is mad. But you . . . I think you are the best of it—you are hope, and passion, and purpose, and justice. And sometimes you are vengeance, too, and it makes me want to fight by your side. For as long as you need me.” He shook his head. “For too long, I believed all of it was fleeting. Justice? Hope? Passion? It was all available in small doses only if I walked a narrow path. But now . . . I see there is another path. Another way. And it comes with all those things. And with joy, too.”

  And with love.

  He couldn’t say that bit. Even now, in this place, with her pressed against him, keeping him warm, hiding alongside him from what was in the world beyond. Especially now that he’d nearly gotten her killed and they had Scotland Yard searching for them. And so he would keep that . . . his final confession . . . his most important one . . . secret.

  So he gave her a different one. “I believed you,” he said into the darkness, “the moment you showed me the medallion. Before they came for me.”

  “You did?” She lifted her head and met his eyes, and he caught his breath at the hope he saw there.

  “In my experience, the Hell’s Belles rarely get things wrong.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

  The moment was punctuated by the ringing of a bell in the hallway beyond. A familiar sound, made more familiar by the way Imogen inhaled sharply and released a long, relieved breath. “Finally.”

  “Bells,” he said. “They follow you.”

  “They’re going to follow you, too, if you play your cards right.” He didn’t understand, but he didn’t have a chance to before she added, “She’s here.”

  Whoever it was, Tommy knew they would end this quiet, perfect moment, Imogen naked in his arms. And he didn’t want it to end. “Tell them to go away.”

  Imogen looked to him, a smile on her lips. “I’m afraid this particular visitor is not easily commanded.”

  A knock at the door, and it swung open.

  Dammit, didn’t bawdy houses have locks?

  “Are you decent?” The Duchess of Trevescan entered, followed by two footmen carrying a bathtub and what seemed like a battalion of housemaids hauling buckets of water.

  Tommy ripped off his mask. The woman, uncommonly tall and blond, was dressed head to toe in white—an ermine hat and a wool coat with fur trim over a white gown, finished with pristine white gloves and, he was certain, white boots. It was the kind of attire one did not see in London, because it was impossible to imagine it remaining white after thirty seconds in the city air.

  Not so for the Duchess of Trevescan, who apparently terrified dirt.

  Her gaze fell to the bed. “Ah. I see you are not decent.” A pause. “That’s a nice wig.”

  Imogen cut her friend a look and pulled off the wig in question, tossing it to the end of the bed as she moved off him, sitting up and holding the blankets to her chest. Tommy resisted the urge to pull her back to the spot where she’d been. “The river is like ice, Duchess,” she said to her friend. “He would have died of the cold if we had not done something.”

  Duchess raised a cool blond brow. “Well, now that that’s sorted, I fear he will die of the things in that river that are not cold if you do not get him into a bath. With soap.”

  “Are they gone?” Imogen asked.

  “For now,” Duchess said. “And truly stupid if that wig worked. Honestly, is it any wonder that Scotland Yard has taken up the yoke of The Bully Boys? Do they just have a team of imbeciles employed at Whitehall?” She paused. “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “I find I am quite happy being excepted from that particular group of villains, Your Grace.” It seemed odd to use the honorific here, in a bordello, while he was naked, but he didn’t imagine there was a place on earth where the Duchess of Trevescan did not look like a duchess.

  “Mmm,” Duchess said. “I understand you’ve had a run-in with your colleagues, Mr. Peck. And do you see now what we have known for a while? That whoever is part of this corruption, wherever the line begins, with boys just out of leading strings searching a brothel on the riverbank, it ends with someone much more dangerous?”

  Tommy nodded. “I do.”

  “But you do not have that name.”

  He shook his head. “Whatever this is, I have been kept from it.”

  There was a long silence before Duchess nodded. “So it seems. Which begs the question: Why?” Before anyone could answer, she looked to Imogen. “For what it’s worth, Imogen believed you were to be trusted from the start.” The woman, tall, blond, and cool as ice, did not hesitate when she looked back at him. “Considering Scotland Yard sent a collection of thugs to kill you today . . . I’m leaning toward believing her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do not thank me,” she said. “It gets more difficult now that you’re out from under their cover.”

  He swallowed at the words, a thrum of understanding exploding through him. Scotland Yard was no longer his dominion. He no longer knew whom to trust.

  The duchess seemed to understand the cacophony of thoughts that came with the realization, and her cool smile turned just a touch warmer. “I’ve guards on the roof and at both ends of the street, however, so they won’t come back without being seen. At least, not tonight.” She looked to Tommy. “I assume you don’t know the names of the men who tried to kill you?”

  Tommy shook his head. “No. They’re constables outside of the Detective Branch. But I intend to find them.”

  Duchess’s blond brows rose. “Planning to walk into Whitehall and ask the villains to step forward, are you?” A little smile played over her lips. “I don’t presume to tell you how to mete out justice, Mr. Peck, but I would suggest you rethink returning to a place where your death would make things much easier. I suggest you have a look at the gift I’ve brought you before you do anything rash.” Lifting Imogen’s bag in her hand, she said, “In here. Oh, and all the rest of your tinctures and tonics as well, Im.”

  A long exhale signaled Imogen’s gratitude, no doubt at having her arsenal returned.

  Duchess was not done with Tommy. “Should you require assistance with anything, I suggest coming to see me. I’ve an excellent relationship with the News.” Her gaze flickered to Imogen. “As you both have seen. Honest to God, it took the two of you long enough to . . .” She waved a hand toward the bed. “You may thank me when we are finished with this bit of work.”

  They looked at each other. Was the Duchess of Trevescan admitting to feeding the gossip columns and cartoonists? She brushed a speck of lint from the sleeve of her pristine white coat and stepped out of the way as the housemaids left, having filled the bathtub.

  “Imogen, I’ve sent word to your brother that you are a guest at my home tonight.” Her icy blue gaze flickered to Tommy in the bed behind them. “Though you do understand you are going to have to face that particular problem sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I’m sure Lorelei will find you a French letter should you require one.”

  “Duchess!” Imogen exclaimed.

  The duchess spread her hands wide in a sign of utter innocence. “I’m merely attempting to be a good friend!”

  “Start by leaving!”

  The other woman turned for the door. “You will all miss me when I am gone, you know.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Imogen retorted.

  “Not yet,” Duchess said, pausing to look over her shoulder and giving Tommy a wink. “We’ve far too much work to do. Do try to make good choices!”

  The door closed behind her, leaving Tommy feeling as though he’d just been through a hurricane. “Why do I feel like I’ve just been commandeered?”

  “Because you have been,” Imogen said, urging him out of bed, stopping only to pull on the red dressing gown Lorelei Wilde had left for her. “Be warned. Duchess does not care for taking no for an answer.”

  “Is that how she convinced you to join the Belles?” he said, following her lead, crossing the room and stepping into the bathtub, full of tepid water sure to finish the job of warming him.

  She reached for a length of linen and some soap, and moved behind him to wash his back. As though everything that had happened that day was perfectly normal. Including this—the two of them alone, sharing secrets in a bawdy house.

  Christ. He wanted it to be normal.

  He wanted it to be daily.

  Well, maybe not the bit where they were nearly killed . . . but everything else. And certainly the bit where she told him her stories.

  “Duchess collects people,” she said fondly. “She is the most loyal, honest, noble person I know, and when she decides she wishes someone in her orbit—and it does seem like orbit, like she is the sun and the rest of us simply gravitate toward her—she makes it impossible for you to say no.”

  “You, Sesily Calhoun, the Duchess of Clayborn . . .”

  She washed his skin in long, lingering strokes before saying, “It’s a far broader collection than that. Throughout London, across Britain.” A pause, and then, “A collection of misfits who, together, make sense. Thanks to Duchess.”

  He didn’t think Imogen was a misfit, but he held his tongue. “How did she find you?”

  “My mother died when I was six—too young to remember her—and so I was raised . . . differently.” He didn’t like the assessment, but he did not correct her, not wanting her to stop. “It’s possible I might have been raised differently anyway, but Charles turned out the way he turned out, so I doubt it.”

  Tommy thought her brother had turned out rather differently as well, but he held his tongue.

  “Everyone says my father loved my mother beyond comprehension. That he would have done anything for her, and when she took ill with fever and died, a bit of him died with her. He had always been a scientist, but after that, he threw himself into his studies. Spent most of his time with other scientists—chemists and physicists and astronomers and doctors.”

  “I understand that,” Tommy said. “Losing someone so important—all you can think to do is throw yourself into something that will distract from what you’ve lost.” It was how he had climbed the ranks at Scotland Yard so quickly—anything to keep from thinking of the life his father might have had.

  She nodded. “Charles was already away at school, and I think my father feared losing another, so he brought me with him wherever he went. And I adored it. I followed him about and learned what he would teach. I set off my first explosion at the age of eight.” Her pride was palpable, and he couldn’t help but feel it as well. “By the time I was ten, I was blowing things up in the cellars.”

  His brows shot up and he looked over his shoulder at her.

  “Nothing living,” she qualified.

  “That’s a relief.” He sank beneath the water, coming up for air and raising his hands to lather his hair and wash the last bits of the river from it. Silence fell, and he raised his eyes to Imogen’s where she stood now, at the end of the bathtub, staring.

  “My lady?”

  She swallowed. “It’s just . . . you’ve a great number of muscles.”

  “No more than the usual amount.” He’d never admit it, but he slowed his motions, flexing his biceps as he washed the rest of his body, enjoying her distraction. It served her right. He was in a constant state of distraction with her.

  Her gaze tracked the movements as he dipped back into the water and rinsed his hair, ignoring all the parts of him that had been restored by the bath. And by Imogen. She was in the middle of a story, and he intended to hear the whole thing.

  When he resurfaced, he came to his feet, stepping out of the bath and taking the towel she offered. “Go on.”

  “Hmm?”

  Pleasure and pride hummed through him. He knew he wasn’t a bad-looking man, but there was something remarkable in the idea that he could scramble her brilliant thoughts with a bath. “Explosions in the cellars.”

  “Oh!” she said, moving to her bag and rummaging inside before returning with a roll of bandage for his arm and making quick, efficient work of dressing his already healing wound—the stitches miraculously unbothered by his exertion that afternoon. “When we discussed experiments, it was the only time he paid attention to me.”

  His chest tightened at the words, and he reached for her, taking her hand and leading her back to the bed. She let him guide her beneath the sheets, turning toward him as he followed behind her. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure? You were—”