He followed her, unbothered by his own nudity, reaching for her, pulling her to face him. “Imogen.”

  “No. Whatever this”—she waved a hand in the air between them—“misguided nobility is for, don’t make the mistake in thinking it is for me. Not when I’ve been very clear about what I want. Who I want.”

  She paused, her throat tight, wishing it were not. Dammit. She would not cry. Why did women always cry when what they should do was rage?

  “It is for you,” Tommy was saying, and if she was less consumed with her own aching sadness, she might have heard his. “It is for you, because I am not.”

  Instead, she heard the words themselves, and felt their sting. “I see.” She turned away, her chest tight, her throat tight, a hum in her ears. “I see.”

  “I don’t think you do,” he said. “For God’s sake, Imogen. Think of it! I am the son of a street sweeper . . . was to be a sweeper myself until I was plucked from the gutter and sent to Scotland Yard, which has turned out to be dirtier than the cobblestones of Shoreditch. So now I’m a man with nothing. No title, no future. A rented flat in Holborn, and I nearly got you killed today!”

  She blinked. “So?”

  “So?! Are you mad?” He seemed headed there. “So, that’s not how it should be for you. You shouldn’t be running from men with clubs and knives! And now, beside me, you’ll always be in danger. You think the Yard will stop coming for us? They won’t.”

  “Let them come,” she said, raising her chin. “We meet them together.”

  “No.” His reply was full of frustration. “You should be somewhere far from me. Somewhere—”

  “Dancing and doing needlepoint?” she asked. “How many times must I tell you—I don’t want that. You think that if you are not with me, I will not face down men with clubs and knives?” She shook her head. “You say you want to keep me safe? Keep me safe, then. But you’re right. Whatever you think marriage is, Tommy—it is not for me. I am not going to wait at home for you to fight your battles and then tell me about your day. I want my day. I want my battles. And I want us to come home together.

  “You have severely misread my interest in men with name and fortune, Thomas Peck. So today, for one terrifying minute, when I thought I had lost you to the river before I’d even had a chance to have you, you weren’t my guard. You weren’t my blade. It didn’t matter.”

  She was hot with anger, and she couldn’t bear it. “It didn’t matter because you were my—”

  Don’t say it.

  She bit back the word. She didn’t want it to be like this. In anger. In pain. In the waning minutes of whatever they might have been, before he ended it before it could begin.

  But Tommy saw it, anyway. And when he asked for it, when he said, “Say it,” she couldn’t resist giving it to him.

  “. . . you were my love.”

  The words slammed through him. She saw them land, sending him back on his heels. He fisted one hand at his side and shoved the other through his hair.

  “It’s not enough, though, is it?” she asked. Knowing the answer even as he pulled her into his arms, curling his huge body around her.

  “When I said I’d never take a penny from your brother . . . it wasn’t because we’re even,” he said reverently, into her hair. “Imogen . . . we’ll never be even. I’ll always owe you for deigning to look at me. But you . . .” His words came ragged, like they were torn from his chest. From hers.

  “You will meet someone better than me. Someone worthy of you. Not because your brother decrees it, but because you choose it. You’ll go to some dinner or some ball a month from now, and you’ll wear a dress the color of sunset because you look beautiful in orange.”

  “I do?”

  He ignored her. “Or purple or green or yellow or blue. Because you look beautiful in all of them, like a jewel in a crown.”

  She caught her breath at the words, more than she’d ever imagined anyone ever saying to her . . . let alone Thomas Peck. So why did they hurt so much?

  “You’re wrong. I will never marry, Tommy.” Her eyes met his and she willed him to understand. “Not if I cannot marry you.”

  She wanted to fight. To scream and yell and do her best to convince him that he was wrong. She wanted to explode his nonsensical logic. She wanted chaos. Mayhem. All the things in which she so regularly found comfort.

  But it would change nothing. And even if it could, even if she could convince him, it was not what she wanted. It was not, as he had said, what she deserved.

  And so, Imogen nodded and chose stillness. “I once told you that heroines captain their own fate,” she said softly, straightening her dressing gown and pulling the sash tight.

  He nodded, seeming to sense the shift in the room. “Yes.”

  “Then I shall begin doing so here. Now. With you.”

  His beautiful blue gaze went wary.

  “I am tired of asking for people to love me. Just once, I’d like someone to love me freely, in all my truth, without my having to ask for it.”

  “Imogen—” Her name was broken on his lips, and she turned away from it, knowing that if he touched her again, she wouldn’t be strong enough to leave.

  “I’m going home. To my brother’s.”

  A lie. She’d called that place in Mayfair home for her whole life, and it had never felt like his mother’s flat in Shoreditch. Had never felt like Tommy’s rooms in Holborn. Had never felt like this dockside bordello on Dirty Lane. It had never felt like Tommy’s arms.

  “I’ll take you,” Tommy said, already moving to follow her. “You’re not safe.”

  She shook her head. “No. You’re not safe.” He was a danger to her heart.

  He sucked in a breath, understanding what she meant. The words landing like a blow. Good. Later, she’d regret the wound. But right now, she wanted it. Wanted him to hurt like she did.

  Imogen pulled the dressing gown around her and made for the door, knowing that when she opened the carpetbag that Duchess had delivered, she would find a fresh change of clothes—Duchess was always prepared. She would beg Lorelei for another room in which to change, but first . . .

  She extracted a stack of blue files from within the bag. They were copies of the original files held at Trevescan House, each one about one of the names on the list Imogen had given Tommy on the riverbank earlier that day.

  She lifted them out and set them on a nearby stool. “For you.”

  He stared at the files for a moment, knowing instantly what they were. “Imogen.”

  “They’re not from me,” she said, knowing she sounded petulant, and still wanting him to know that though she was the messenger of these files, she had not chosen to be as she had so many times before. That game was over.

  He’d made sure of it.

  She turned to the door. Spoke to it, and not him. “Goodbye, Tommy.”

  “Goodbye, Lady Imogen.”

  The reply might have broken her heart, if he hadn’t already done that so well.

  Chapter Thirty

  Though Imogen could have headed to Trevescan House after leaving Lorelei’s bordello, she saw no reason to put off the inevitable, so she returned home to Dorring House, hoping that she would find her brother in residence.

  He was not, because of course he was not. But his valet insisted that he was expected back that evening, so Imogen washed and dressed and waited in the library by a fire that had been stoked to roaring, just off the main foyer of the house, doing her very best to forget that she had come embarrassingly, dangerously close to begging for Tommy Peck to love her, to choose her, to believe her when she said she chose him.

  The old adage was right, it seemed. Beggars could not, in fact, be choosers.

  She’d begged. She’d chosen.

  And she’d been rejected.

  So, in the wake of it, Imogen sat in her brother’s library, recommitting to the life she’d already committed to—the one she’d been perfectly happy with before he’d come along and ruined everything. She would be a vigilante with a penchant for chemistry and explosives, and a lifelong spinster. Perhaps she’d get herself a dog to carry about in her carpetbag. She could call it something delightful. Like Pyroglycerine.

  The main door to the house opened and closed, and within seconds, Charles appeared in the doorway to the library. “What on earth are you doing in here at this hour?”

  She looked up from the fire and decided not to reply, Moping in the dark, as Charles had never indicated even an ounce of empathy and she did not expect him to find any just then. Instead she said, “As it happens, I was thinking about the name for my dog.”

  He made a face. “You’ve a dog?”

  “No, but I am thinking of getting one.”

  There was a beat of silence before he entered the room. “What’s wrong with you?”

  She’d had her heart broken.

  Was it possible Charles was more interested in her than she thought? “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Well, for one, you’re wearing a normal color.”

  She looked down at the muted rose gown. She hadn’t worn orange. Or purple or green or yellow or blue. She’d stood in front of her wardrobe, staring at a rainbow of colors, Tommy’s words filling her thoughts like the buzzing of bees, and she’d chosen this in an act of rebellion. Though Tommy wouldn’t see it.

  But the fact that her brother had noticed it was a shock.

  He was still talking. “Nor are you in the cellars with your laboratory—”

  “You told me the cellars are off limits.”

  “Oh, and was I also to believe you would listen?” She didn’t reply as he continued. “Nor are you with your friends in Covent Garden, or with your Peeler doing whatever it is you think I have not been told you are doing.”

  She opened her mouth to deny the truth and he raised his hand. “Whatever you are about to say, Imogen, I would remind you that you are not the only brilliant child in this family.”

  Her brows rose. “I thought you thought I was odd.”

  “I absolutely think you are odd. In part because you are so brilliant. Why do you think I want you married?”

  She shook her head. “Charles, I—”

  “I know,” he said, crossing the room to pour a drink. “I assume you drink this?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Of course you do.” He poured a second glass of whisky and crossed the room to deliver it before taking the chair opposite her in front of the fire. “Tell me. Do you expect me to let you ruin yourself for a Peeler from . . . God knows where?”

  “Shoreditch.”

  “Where in hell is Shoreditch?” He waved the question away. “I don’t care. If you think doing whatever you’ve done with him is enough to convince me to let you marry him, you might not be brilliant. You might just be madder than everyone thinks.”

  I don’t think you’re chaos. I don’t think you’re mad.

  She sucked in a deep breath, resisting the sting that came instantly, shockingly, to the spot behind her nose at the words and the memory. Tears? Because of something Charles said? What an indignity. Absolutely not.

  Her brother clearly felt similarly. “Dear God, Imogen,” he said, horrified. “Surely that’s not necessary?”

  “Even if you could let me marry him,” she argued, ignoring the question, “he won’t marry me. He thinks I’m too good for him.”

  A beat. “Well. At least one of you has sense.”

  “He’s wrong though. He’s wonderful. I would be very lucky to call him my—”

  Oh, no. She was going to cry.

  “Oh, for God’s—” Charles shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Stop this right now. You cannot weep in the library.”

  “That’s a strange rule. I have no intention of weeping. Here or anywhere else,” she lied. She would very likely weep later. Alone. But she wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Good,” he said, taking a drink.

  She tilted a head in his direction. “May I ask something?”

  He slid her a look. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Do you really think me brilliant?”

  “It’s not a matter of opinion,” he said, flatly. “You’ve always been so. Since you were a babe. A natural head for maths and science and languages and logic and about a dozen other things that the rest of the world must work for . . . and all of it coming so easily to you. You think I have not seen what you’re up to in the cellars?”

  She shook her head, unable to keep the surprise from her tone at her brother’s kindness. “You never seemed to care . . .”

  “Of course I cared.” He sighed. “But I do not know how to be a father to you. Especially not like our father was.”

  “I had a father, Charles. I do not require another. But I would not have minded you deciding to be my brother.”

  He did not reply, which did not surprise her, considering Charles was not the kind of person who said things that would be considered in any way emotional. Instead, they sat in silence for a long moment before he said, “May I ask you something now?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  He did not laugh at the jest. “How ruined are you?”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I hate that word.”

  “Yes, well, we can discuss issues with verbiage at a later time.”

  She met his gaze—bright blue and serious. “Some might say I am thoroughly ruined.”

  He sighed again.

  “Don’t sigh at me, Charles. You have an entire mistress. Probably more than one.”

  “That’s different.” A pause before he added, “And only one.”

  “It really isn’t,” she said. “At least, it shouldn’t be. The only reason why you’re not also ruined is because you are rich. And male.”

  “That kind of thinking is why you’ll never find a husband.”

  “That kind of thinking is why I have no interest in a husband,” she retorted. But the lie of the words crashed through her even as they still hung in the air. Because there was a man she would marry. There was a husband she would choose.

  Except he had made it clear he was not for choosing.

  “I could force him to the altar, you know,” Charles said.

  Imogen recoiled, instantly. “No.”

  “Why not? You wish him yours?”

  Desperately so. She wished him her husband, her partner, the father of her children, her friend, her guard, the man who would stand by her side as they fought for justice. But more than all that, “Because he must wish me his, as well.”

  Something flashed on her brother’s face, and for a moment, she wondered if he might have something to say that was not cool or unyielding. And for a moment, she wondered if she might like it.

  But before he could, a shout sounded in the hallway.

  Charles extracted his pocket watch. Imogen looked to the clock in the corner of the library. Half-past twelve. No one should be shouting in the hallway.

  As one, they stood, perhaps the only time they’d done anything in step, ever.

  The door to the library opened, and a footman rushed in. “My lord—”

  But before he could finish, he was pushed out of the way by three men of varying heights and builds and ages, all in uniforms of navy wool—a fabric Imogen knew well.

  The police had arrived.

  Charles immediately stepped between Imogen and the men, in a movement that surprised her with its easy, instinctive protection. “Gentlemen,” he said, Mayfair clear and smooth in his voice. “You seem to have lost your way.”

  One stepped forward, his gaze already settled on Imogen, angry and mercenary, and she instantly recognized him. Or, rather, she recognized the raspberry across his cheek—the result of the blast from her obsidian brooch that afternoon.

  A brooch she was no longer wearing, unfortunately. She made a note to replace it with more than one the moment she was out of this particular situation.

  Imogen’s brows rose and she said, trying for her most charming, “Look at you! Barely a scratch. And with friends.”

  He scowled and returned his attention to Charles. “Lord Dorring. By order of the commissioner of police, we are here to arrest your sister, Lady Imogen Loveless.”

  Bless her brother for his unflappable poise. “I beg your pardon? Arrest my sister? A lady?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ve instructions to search the premises for evidence relating to a series of explosions across the East End of London.”

  Charles’s laugh was full of aristocratic superiority. “I assure you, that’s not going to happen. Not ever, but certainly not in the dead of night.”

  So this was how it was to end, Imogen thought. They were going to do it in front of all of London. Aboveboard. They’d find her laboratory in the cellars. All her experiments with the explosive liquids from the blast sites. The strips of uniform from Scotland Yard—where she’d been inside the uniform closet.

  And whatever they did not find, they would make sure was found anyway.

  And they would be believed when they blamed Imogen for everything. Because of the uniforms. And the power. And the will of those who paid handsomely to keep them on the leash.

  The proof was right there—three policemen, fanned out in the library belonging to one of the most powerful men in Britain, as though they had every right to be there.

  “If there is reason for my sister to be taken in for questioning at Whitehall,” Charles was saying, “I shall deliver her there, tomorrow. But you must be mad if you think I will turn her over to you lot in the dead of night. And even madder still if you think I’ll entertain this intrusion in the dead of night.”

  “Commissioner Battersea believes the lady is at risk of fleeing the city,” the man she should have exploded a bit more said. A pause. “She’s gone missing before, by your own testament. And this afternoon, she assaulted two members of the Metropolitan Police.”

  “My sister, assaulting the police!” Charles laughed. “Really, gentlemen. Have you seen my sister? She’s half your size. What kind of policemen are you keeping over there at Whitehall?” He turned to Imogen. “Sister, have you been assaulting policemen?”