“—hurt?”

  Their hands raced over each other, searching for blood, for fresh wounds. “Christ . . .” Henry leaned down and kissed her, quick and hard. “Stay here.”

  And then he disappeared, back into the fray, where Alfie’s half-dozen brutes had descended from outside, summoned by the explosion along with a handful of others—who presumably banked on Danny’s triumph. Henry threw a punch and dodged a fist aimed for his broken rib.

  Adelaide was filled with indignation that someone would think to harm him. Her duke. “I absolutely am not staying here!” she pronounced, palming her blade and following him.

  “Dammit, Adelaide!” he shouted, knocking another one out with one punch. “There are weapons everywhere and your friend has exploded the church!”

  “Not really exploded,” Imogen called happily from a distance. “It’s not harmful. It’s just a little one that”—the smoke cleared and she brushed a thin layer of dust off her dress—“made quite a delightful mess!”

  “I look forward to debating the particulars of your explosives at another time, my lady,” Henry said, tossing a pew aside to get to another fight. “But at some point, these brutes are going to remember that, though this skirmish is between them, the war involves the Hell’s Belles.”

  That much was clear, and Imogen nodded. “They’re already going to be quite put out when they discover . . .”

  Henry’s attention snapped to her. “Discover what?”

  Adelaide was distracted from the answer by movement in her periphery—Alfie, using the melee to make his way toward the door. She met his eyes, as brown as hers, but far less honest, and said, “Plan for the fight, prepare for the flight, is it, Da?”

  He didn’t even look chagrined. “Not worth dyin’ for. That boy won’t stop till he marries you, so I get what I want, either way.”

  Two bruisers barreled into Adelaide from behind, pushing her into Alfie’s chest. Grabbing onto his coat, she righted herself. “Not if your bruisers take him out.”

  “Bah.” He waved a hand. “They’re on your side tonight.”

  Her brows rose. “Bully Boys, fighting for my girls?”

  “I said tonight, Adelaide. Call it a weddin’ gift.”

  A shout came from over her shoulder, and she turned to see Henry knock one of Danny’s men back. When she looked back . . . her father was gone. Of course.

  “Imogen!” They all turned toward Duchess’s sharp summons, to discover her crouched over Havistock, aiding Jack in binding the murdering marquess, who continued to bluster. Duchess looked down at her captive and said, “Any chance you brought some of that lovely concoction you use to stop men from talking?”

  “Oh, I don’t leave the house without it!” Imogen pronounced, and off she went to render the odious man unconscious.

  Henry raised a brow in Adelaide’s direction. “Should I worry?”

  “Only if you ever cross us,” she replied happily as he gave a little nod and returned to his fight.

  “Why would I cross you?” he asked. “I’m part of the crew now, aren’t I?”

  In that moment, as chaos reigned around her, and Henry’s words settled, lovely and honest, Adelaide realized that, brawl or no, she was really very happy with the way things were going. Lady Helene was safe, Lord Havistock was about to be quite captured, and somehow, impossibly, the Duke of Clayborn was by her side. A partner.

  And perhaps she could be a South Bank cutpurse and a duchess, all in one.

  Family was what you made it, she’d told Henry when he’d revealed the truth about his father. He’d chosen love, so why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she claim it as hers and hang the consequences?

  She’d found it, after all. Perhaps it would not be terrible to keep it.

  Odd to find peace like this in the midst of a melee, but somehow it seemed appropriate to a girl raised a princess among thieves.

  “Could do with another tie here!” Imogen said, and Adelaide started for her friends, already working to pull a ribbon from her skirts. She looked down, losing the room for a split second, no longer noticing the crowd or the location of everyone within it.

  A split second was all it took.

  A heavy arm banded across her stomach, pulling her tight to a tall, foul-smelling body.

  Danny.

  “Not so fast,” he said. “You should have stayed gone.”

  “Adelaide!” Henry’s shout came from across the room, and he was approaching, a newfound pistol in hand. “Let her go, Danny.”

  “Nah,” Danny said, “I don’t think I will. Do you know how long I had to listen to Alfie whinge about how he’d lost his best thief? His best cutpurse? How Addie was the only one who could pick a lock fast and clean? Do you know how many times some starry-eyed girl asks me if I knew Addie Trumbull?” His breath was hot and acrid in her ear, the blade of his knife at her throat. “I’m going to enjoy making sure that this time you’re gone for good.”

  Henry was approaching, eyes glittering with anger, and Danny didn’t care for it, pulling her tighter to him. “Lay down your weapon, Duke.”

  The blade tightened, biting into her skin, and Adelaide squeezed her eyes shut, bearing the sting. When she opened them, Henry was crouching several feet in front of them, his blue eyes on hers, lowering the firearm to the ground. “Lady Imogen?”

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Ever casual under pressure.

  “It is warm in here, don’t you think?”

  Adelaide’s breath caught in her chest.

  A wide grin passed over Imogen’s face. “Terribly so.”

  Adelaide turned her head, as Imogen punctuated the words with another brilliant flash and a smoky bang. Unable to see, Danny loosened his grip, and Adelaide pulled free, moving out of the way before—

  A gunshot rang out.

  “He shot me!” Danny cried from the floor as the smoke cleared, revealing Henry, pistol in hand. “The bastard shot me!”

  “It’s about time, if you ask me,” Duchess said, as though she were at a croquet match and not a church brawl.

  Henry caught Adelaide in his arms, a hand coming to her cheek. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not now that I am with you.”

  He kissed her, quick and firm. “I don’t believe you.” Worry furrowed his brow as his fingers traced down her neck to the spot where Danny’s blade had been tight to her skin. He scowled at whatever he saw there, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he made to set her aside. To go after him. To finish the job.

  Adelaide reached for him, holding him back. “No.”

  Henry didn’t like that—of course he didn’t, her warrior, pledging his sword. Instead, he looked to Danny, who writhed on the ground, hand to his thigh. “Give me a reason to let him live.”

  “Because the South Bank don’t like traitors, do it, Danno?” And then she pulled a long ribbon from her skirts, and offered it to Henry. “Instead, I suggest we leave my father a gift.”

  Danny was the last of the fights, and while Henry dealt with him, Adelaide considered the chaos they’d left in the chapel that day, pews upended, a candelabrum on its side, smoke still dissipating from Imogen’s explosion, a dozen men either knocked out cold or headed for a night wishing they had been.

  In the midst of it all, Duchess and Imogen were assuring the vicar that not only would they pay for the damage to the alcoves and pews, they would make a generous donation to repairing the stained-glass window that had been cracked for as long as Adelaide could remember.

  The vicar assuaged by this, and the promise that he could use the Duke of Trevescan’s finest carriage to visit his sister in the country that very day, Duchess turned to the rest of the group from her place at the end of the aisle, by the door, and said, “Considering Imogen has caused two rather loud noises, I think we ought to do our best to escape notice while we still can?”

  “I beg your pardon,” Imogen pointed out. “Those loud noises saved the day.”

  “So they did,” Henry said, softly, tucking Adelaide beneath his arm and pressing a kiss to her temple as they made their way up the aisle. “I’m very grateful to you for that, Lady Imogen. Would you allow me to purchase you a gift of some kind?”

  Imogen stepped over a fallen pew into the aisle herself. “I enjoy chemicals.”

  His brows shot up and Adelaide laughed, feeling light, her heart full of joy.

  Henry stopped at the sound, turning toward her and kissing her until she sighed and gave herself up to him. When the kiss broke, he pressed his forehead to hers and said, low and perfect, “I’m going to marry you, Adelaide Frampton. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life loving you.”

  She closed her eyes and whispered, “Tell me that last bit again.”

  Another soft kiss to her lips. “The bit where I love you for the rest of our lives?”

  She nodded, tears glistening. His breath caught. Would he ever grow used to those beautiful eyes? He’d have a lifetime to try.

  “I love you, Adelaide Trumbull.” He kissed her, quick and sweet. “Frampton.” Another kiss. “Carrington.” A final one. “Duchess of Clayborn.”

  She shook her head and gave him a small smile, her heart impossibly full. “Not those yet.”

  It wasn’t true. She bore the names already in his heart. In hers, as well.

  Henry took Adelaide’s hand, leading her from the church to find Imogen and Duchess piled into the carriage Sesily had summoned for them. Henry had other plans—a walk through the labyrinthine streets of Lambeth, slower than usual, for all the long lingering kisses he delivered as they made their way past the docklands and over Westminster Bridge, to the fourth turret from the Westminster side.

  “It’s not the morning,” he said, softly. “But I hope it will do.”

  The moon had risen and the river gleamed silver—a different kind of beauty to be wrapped in.

  “Tell me again what you would wish for,” he said, pulling her close.

  “You,” she said, lifting her face to his. “I wished for you.” He captured her face in his big, warm hands and tilted her up to stare into her eyes. “I wished for you, strong and noble and kind and standing by my side. Protecting me. Loving me.”

  He nodded, serious and stern in the moonlight. “What else?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing else. He would have loved me. That’s all I wanted then.”

  “And now? Now what do you want, Adelaide?”

  “Now . . .” She met his eyes, so blue. So honest. And gave him honesty in return. “Now, I just want you. However you come.” She shook her head. “But it seems impossible. That you might love me like this. Even knowing all my secrets. My past. What happens when the wide world knows you’ve married a thief from Lambeth? What would you get done then? What laws would you pass then?”

  He shook his head with a little smile. “Hang the wide world. If they won’t let me pass the laws, I’ll fight alongside you to change the world another way. You glorious, brilliant, strong woman—I will spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of standing at your side.”

  A single tear spilled down her cheek at the words, at the feeling of finally, finally believing him. She lifted herself up to his lips, kissing him thoroughly, and whispered her love.

  Catching her close, he spoke, the words rough in her ear. “You nearly destroyed me when you left me. No more leaving me.”

  “No more leaving you. I promise.”

  He nodded and slipped a hand into his pocket, extracting a small box—and Adelaide sucked in a breath when she recognized it, beautiful filigreed oak. The ring inside gleamed in the moonlight when he removed it and took her hand in his.

  “Marry me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He slipped the ring onto her finger. “When?”

  She smiled. “Now. Forever.”

  “Now,” he repeated. “Forever.” Another kiss. And then, “You once said my mother was my father’s sun.” He paused. “I think you were right. Until you—I did not know what light was.”

  It didn’t seem possible that this was her man. That they would marry and live and love and have a houseful of children and animals. That they would argue and laugh and love . . . and make a future together.

  Full hearts.

  “Take me home, Adelaide Frampton.”

  She shook her head. “My apartments—they’re not for dukes.”

  “As they belong to a future duchess, I must disagree.”

  She winced at the words. “I shall be a terrible duchess.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you shall be the kind of duchess who uses her power to hold a mirror to the world. I think you shall be the kind of duchess who changes what duchesses might be.”

  She looked down the bridge. “I would like that.”

  He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I shall like that.”

  Her eyes found his. “I like you.”

  The kiss he gave her was rich and dark and sinful. Like a stolen treasure. And when it ended, and he pressed his forehead to her and whispered her name, Adelaide could barely catch her breath.

  When she finally did, it was to say, “About my apartments . . . you should know . . . I’ve only one bed.”

  “Excellent. I’m considering throwing out all the extra beds in my house, too.” She laughed as he pulled her closer, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Chairs, as well, as we’ve demonstrated we only need one of those.” He pressed a kiss on her jaw, right below her ear, sending a shiver through her as he whispered, “And the carriage. There’s only one of those, now that you wrecked the other with your distracting beauty.”

  She laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck as he promised her the world—whatever she wished. As long as she married him. As soon as possible.

  And as she was no fool, she happily agreed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Detective Inspector Thomas Peck was having a bad day.

  It would not even be considered a full day at that point, but Tommy had experienced more than his fair share of bad days and knew, without question, when a morning began with a constable knocking at his rooms in Holborn, waking his landlady and setting her off on her favorite sermon—Why Decent People Do Not Call Before Breakfast—he was in for a bad day.

  It was confirmed when he walked into St. Stephen’s Chapel in Lambeth, where there had been multiple reports of a battle the night before. The only evidence of such a thing a few overturned pews, two of which revealed empty bunkers beneath, as though someone had cleared out storage below while in a hurry.

  The vicar assigned to the chapel was visiting his sister in Nottinghamshire, apparently, so Tommy had been left to inspect the place alone, only to find what looked to be a third hatch in the floor beneath a front pew, which had been left askew.

  He’d just leaned down to open it when someone called through the church, “Detective Inspector! Hello!”

  He knew before he turned what he would find: Lady Imogen Loveless—daughter to some earl, sister to far too many lords, and friend to several of the most powerful women in the aristocracy. Barely five feet tall, plump, pretty, and absolute pandemonium.

  He bit his tongue. Not this woman. Not today. He shook his head and pointed to the door, indicating she should leave.

  “No. Out.”

  Thoroughly ignoring him, she continued her approach, casting a curious look at the door in the floor at his feet. “Now that is a nice, well-hidden hole. Did you make it?”

  He gritted his teeth. “I did not.”

  “Ah. What is in it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Can you be sure if you haven’t opened it?”

  “Lady Imogen, isn’t there someone else you could call upon this morning?”

  A beat, and then, “In fact there is not.”

  He’d feared as much. “And I suppose it is too much to wonder how it is you knew precisely where to call upon me?”

  “Not too much at all, as a matter of fact,” she retorted. “I usually know where you are.”

  He did not like that. “And why is that?”

  “Why, so I might call upon you in a pinch, clearly.” She set her carpetbag on a nearby untouched pew and unzipped it. “Would you like to know what I did last week?”

  Absolutely not. “What did you do last week?”

  “I invented a new kind of explosive.”

  What on earth was this woman on about? And why was he unable to ignore her when she was around? “It occurs to me, Lady Imogen, that such a pronouncement might be taken as a confession.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I haven’t done anything with it yet.”

  He waited for a moment, then, “Yet.”

  “Well, unless you count covering my laboratory with unexpected shiny projectiles.”

  He blinked and tilted his head. “Unexpected projectiles.”

  “No, the projectiles were expected. Obviously, what with it being an explosive,” she said, waving one hand, gloved in intricate white lace. “It was unexpected that they were so shiny. I knew they would be very small, but this—it was a lovely surprise. Exceedingly difficult to clean up, but beautiful, really. More irritating than dangerous.”

  “I cannot imagine what it must be like to encounter such a thing.”

  She smiled at him, and he absolutely refused to be dazzled. “I’m very flattered that you would think so.”

  “I—” He was about to tell her he hadn’t meant to call her beautiful. Except she was beautiful. In the wild, terrifying way unpredictable storms and lionesses on the hunt were beautiful.

  Before he could find the words, she said, “However, you are incorrect. I am far more dangerous than I am irritating,” she said happily, supremely out of place here, in Lambeth, on Bully Boys turf.

  Why did this woman regularly make him feel as though he’d taken a blow to the head? She was close now, near enough that if he reached for her, he might touch her. Not that he would ever touch her. She might have doused her clothing in poison during some mad experiment. “Lady Imogen . . . what are you doing here?”

  She stopped and looked up at him, her pretty round face framed in a halo of black curls. “I’ve brought you a gift!”