“Well—you can’t go through the front door. They’ve likely got a club or two with your name on them.”

  “Then we go through the back, and hope the kitchens aren’t busy.” Tommy was already headed for the shadows and the narrow alleyway that marked the mews behind Dorring House. As they crept through the shadows, he asked, “How did you know I would be here?”

  “You’ll learn soon enough that Duchess has eyes and ears everywhere—including on Scotland Yard—so the moment that wagon rolled out, messages were spreading through the network.” Caleb paused, then added, sounding almost English, “But even if she didn’t—of course you would be here, Peck. You’d be here, because Imogen would need you. And that’s what we do, bruv. We go where they need us.”

  “You all say that,” Tommy said softly. At the other man’s questioning look, he clarified, “We. You bandy that we about as though you’ve never for a moment had to go it alone.”

  Calhoun’s face split in a wide grin—wide enough that it made Tommy angry, because there should be no amusement as long as Imogen was in danger. “When we are out of these particular woods, you’ll realize that it’s them who are one crew, and we who are lucky enough to be along for the ride.” He leaned in, like he was telling Tommy a secret. “But here’s the truth. Once they let you in, you’ll do everything you can to make sure the Belles never let you out.”

  Imogen’s ladies, in their bright silks and satins. What had she called them? Her Vigilante of Belles.

  And her, a damn queen.

  “She loves me.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Calhoun asked.

  “I told her it was a mistake,” he said. “I let her go.”

  “You cocked that up.”

  “Yes.”

  “Too good for you, hmm?” Caleb understood. Likely because he, too, was married to a woman so far above him he shouldn’t even attempt looking at her.

  “Better than I’ll ever deserve.”

  “God knows that’s true,” Caleb said. “But it’s funny how those women are . . . They don’t like it when you tell them that. In fact—they go out of their way to show you just how wrong you are.”

  “I’m not wrong,” Tommy said, full of rage and desperation and a wild kind of love that he feared would burn him up. “But I’d rather spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of looking at her.”

  “Like the damn sun, eh?”

  It was nice to have someone who understood.

  They turned up the street to access the mews, Tommy beginning to feel like he would lose his mind. “I have to get inside. To her. To fix it.”

  The words were barely out when a rumble sounded in the distance, from the direction of Dorring House. Both men stilled, immediately knowing what had happened. One didn’t spend any amount of time with Imogen Loveless and not know that sound.

  “Well. At least we know your girl is still in charge.”

  Tommy was already headed through the darkness at a clip, toward the sound, hiding in the shadows of the buildings even as anger and fear coiled tighter and tighter, until he feared he might rip the whole of Berkeley Square down if that’s what it took to get to her.

  There was a carriage sitting at the center of the lane, the horses unmoving despite the way the explosion had shaken the buildings around them. Horses trained by Scotland Yard to be unflappable.

  And that’s when he saw the man ahead, tucked into the shadows himself, so well that a less perceptive man would have missed him.

  A less perceptive man wouldn’t have recognized him, either.

  And definitely wouldn’t have taken such a blow with it.

  Tommy crouched low instantly, telling himself it was strategy and not shock, pressing himself to the flat stones of the house and taking a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

  Calhoun followed suit, quiet concern in his words. “What is it?”

  “It’s Wallace Adams.”

  “Wallace Adams, the superintendent of Whitehall?” Caleb’s brows rose in recognition. “You’re sure? Isn’t he . . .”

  “My superior.” Tommy trailed off, shock fading into disappointment. This was his mentor. His father’s closest friend. One of the only men in the world Tommy trusted. A man who was supposed to be decent. Just. Disappointment became rage. “The bastard wants to marry my mother.”

  The American stayed still and said nothing, which was for the best, as there was nothing to say.

  Tommy looked to him, jaw clenched. “If he touches her, I’ll kill him.”

  Caleb nodded. “And you’ll have a crew by your side.”

  Before they could move, the door to the Dorring House kitchens burst open and Imogen flew out, headed for the road. Tommy knew instantly that she was headed for help. But she was also headed straight for them. Straight for him.

  Eleven years of training stopped Tommy from revealing himself, from stepping into the alleyway to meet her. To be whatever she needed.

  “That’s right,” the American said softly. “Wait for—”

  As they watched, Adams came out of the darkness and caught Imogen by the arm, pulling her up short, wrenching her back toward him. Tommy sucked in a breath as Imogen cried out, the sound rending the night, and he barely bit back a wild roar as he made for them, ready to unleash punishment on Adams for touching Imogen. For daring to threaten her.

  Only Caleb’s quick reflexes stopped him, pulling Tommy back, holding him tight. “I know you want him. I know,” the American said with quiet force. “But they have the house, the girl, and the men. All we have is surprise.”

  Caleb was right, Tommy knew it. But he could not find control, his emotions raging as the woman he loved turned to her captor—a man he’d trusted for a decade. Her words rang in the night. “Tell me, Mr. Adams, how does this end?”

  “However it must,” he said. “And it will be your fault, as all you had to do was let Tommy play nursemaid for a few weeks, and instead, you got him tied up in a mess that wasn’t his concern.”

  Wasn’t his concern? It was corruption at all levels of Scotland Yard. Did Adams really think he’d never uncover it?

  “Where is he?” she asked, and he clung to the tiny hint of concern in the words.

  “We don’t know,” Adams said. “Another thing that’s your fault. But he’ll come running when he discovers we have his girl.”

  A low growl sounded at the threat in the words. They thought to use her as bait? They thought to threaten her? He would not rest until he’d ruined their lives.

  She met his gaze. “I’m not his girl.”

  Adams scoffed. “I’ve seen the way the boy looks at you.”

  Like she is the fucking sun.

  “As have I, Mr. Adams, and I assure you, Thomas Peck has made it quite clear he has no interest in my being anything close to his girl.”

  Tommy hadn’t imagined he could feel hotter rage than in that moment, as he heard the resignation in her voice and realized she was not bluffing—that she meant what she said—that she thought there would ever be a time when he did not come for her. When he did not fight for her.

  “Fucking hell,” Caleb said as he pushed Tommy back against the wall, sensing his frustration. His desire to tear the whole place apart. “Easy, Peck. Surprise.”

  In the distance, Adams had had enough. “That’s Superintendent Adams to you,” Adams sneered at Imogen.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it,” she said as he pulled her toward the carriage.

  Adams stopped at the words, turning back to her, his face—now visible in the light from the carriage lantern—full of malice. “I’ll teach you to disrespect me, gel,” Adams said, his backhand coming fast and furious, surprising everyone, and knocking her back hard enough that she would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her upright.

  That was it.

  Tommy detonated.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wallace Adams knew how to take a whack at someone.

  Imogen shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the fact that the man had been a Bow Street Runner and then a Peeler, and then the head of a whole lot of Peelers, but somehow, when the blow came, hard and fast—smack!—over her right cheek, she wasn’t prepared for how much it would hurt.

  Nor for how it sounded, a sharp crack followed by a shocking roar that echoed all around her, bouncing off the stones of the buildings above. She reeled back from the blow, but Adams still held her tight enough that she couldn’t escape, and she came back around with her free hand at her face, protecting it.

  He reached for the carriage door, jostling her into position so he could force her inside. “I hope he doesn’t come quickly. It will give me time to teach you to respect authority.”

  What she would not give for her brooch. Something more dangerous.

  Imogen forced a smile in his direction, refusing to show pain or fear, but knowing that if he got her into the carriage, she would lose all power. Her best bet was to keep this man talking. “I should tell you, far better men have tried it. And it has not turned out well for them.”

  He pushed her harshly toward the carriage, and she stumbled, using the movement to resist, her mind racing as she looked for a way out. That was when she heard the roar again—punctuated by heavy footsteps coming toward them.

  Tommy.

  Instantly, Adams was jerking her away from the carriage, whipping her around to place her in front of him like a shield, one arm across her neck, tight.

  “Get your fucking hands off her,” Tommy shouted, the words dark and threatening as he advanced, looking feral and furious.

  Like tinder about to blow.

  “Tommy, no—” There were men inside and God knew how many more on their way, and Tommy couldn’t be there. “You’re who they want!”

  He didn’t look at her, still advancing. “Let her go, and I might not kill you for touching her.”

  “Don’t come any closer, boy.” Imogen felt the kiss of steel at her throat and lifted her chin. Adams had a knife there. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  It seemed like a lie if you asked her.

  “You’ve already hurt her.” Tommy kept coming. He kept his eyes on Adams and Imogen realized that he was not tinder about to blow. He was the explosion in progress. About to take down half of Mayfair.

  Pure chaos.

  Later, she would marvel at the beauty of it—Thomas Peck out of control.

  But right now . . . if she didn’t defuse the situation, she feared Tommy was going to throw himself bodily at an armed and desperate man. “I’m right as rain, Tommy—though I sense the same isn’t the case for you. What have you done to your face?”

  Behind him, Caleb Calhoun snorted a laugh.

  “Hello, Caleb!”

  “Alright, Imogen?”

  “Perfectly! Though I do wonder if you might hurry inside and check on my brother? I exploded a roomful of corrupt policemen . . . and left him to deal with it, I’m afraid.” She paused, flinching as the tip of Adams’s blade pressed to her neck. “Too bad this one wasn’t with them, honestly!”

  “Fucking hell—” Tommy took another step toward them.

  “Uh-uh,” Adams said. “Keep your distance, my boy.”

  “I’m not your boy. Let her go.”

  “No, I don’t think I will. You see, this girl, she’s done you dirty, Tom. She got you into this mess with her running around all over the East End. If not for her, you’d still be clear of all this, which is what I wanted from the start.”

  What nonsense. Tommy was a superior detective and possibly the only decent man at Scotland Yard. “If not for me, he’d have sorted it all out sooner, you cabbagehead.”

  “Imogen—” Tommy said, sounding like he was coming undone.

  “You’d best keep your mouth shut, gel,” Adams said, his knife tightening on her throat. “You ain’t in a position for clever quips, and you’re out of your fancy concoctions.”

  “Stop,” Tommy barked.

  The blade stopped, but its bite did not ease. “I tried to keep you out of it, Tommy. I wanted you to be far from it, so you could rise in the ranks. How did you think the News heard of you? The pride of Whitehall! You’ve me to thank for it . . . and now this little”—he shook Imogen harshly—“bitch has gone and ruined everything.” He paused. “For what? To save a few unfortunates? Fucking women. This is what happens when you let them off the lead.”

  “Enough,” Tommy said, furious. “She’s not part of this.”

  “Of course she is!” He was growing more desperate. She could hear it in his voice. Feel it in his hold. In the way the blade shook at her throat.

  “You can’t kill me in a Mayfair alleyway, Adams,” she said, sucking in a breath as he gripped her tighter. “Even the monsters you’ve got paying you from the House of Lords won’t stand for that. Your work is in the East End, remember?”

  She could feel the stiff surprise that came over Adams. “How did you know the money was coming from—”

  “Parliament? There are only a few groups of people in London with the money and power to bring Scotland Yard to heel. Tell me,” she said, aiming for enough distraction that he might make a mistake, trying very hard not to think of the blade he held at her throat. “What do you think those men will do when given the opportunity . . . to take the blame? Or toss you and your men to the wolves?”

  He shifted behind her and Imogen was consumed with a tiny thread of triumph.

  Adams was not stupid. He understood her point—rich, powerful, evil men would never relinquish power, and they would never take responsibility. Not when there were working class, less powerful, equally evil men to take it for them.

  “Wallace,” Tommy said, seeing it too. Moving closer, “if you needed money—I could have helped you. You didn’t have to do this.”

  “I tried to keep you out of it. I had plans for you to run Whitehall. Out of the way. You’d take care of the Detective Branch and keep your hands clean. We’d see you commissioner of police, son.”

  Tommy’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t you ever call me that.”

  “Why not? I was your father.”

  “You were never my father. My father was a good man.”

  “Your father was an idiot!” Imogen flinched in Adams’s grasp at the sound of his high-pitched screech, and he let her shift her weight, giving her more freedom of movement in his own distraction. “Got your mother into trouble and married her with nothing. Not a farthing to offer. A street sweep,” he spat. “She could have married me!”

  Imogen could barely breathe at the last. There was something strange in the words. A meaning she couldn’t find.

  Perhaps because high above them, on the roof, a bell rang.

  There. On the other side of the carriage. Through the hazy window. There was someone there. Imogen’s gaze flew to Tommy, but he still wasn’t looking at her. Hadn’t looked at her from the moment he’d arrived.

  Adams was still talking. “I took you under my wing. I sent your brother to school, got your sister married. All I wanted was to have your family as my own. To grow old making your ma happy. That’s what the money was for. Enough to build a house. Live there with the woman I’ve wanted forever. It was a good plan.”

  It was a terrible plan. And not only because Esme Peck hadn’t agreed to it.

  Something dangerous flashed in Tommy’s gaze. “You’ll never get near my mother again.”

  “Your mother deserved better,” Adams said. “You think your da made your mother as happy as I would have?” There. Again. The comparison. “As I have done? A street sweep? Begging me to get him into underground fights so he could pay the rent in Shoreditch?”

  Understanding dawned for Imogen just as it clearly hit Tommy. This monster. “My father.” Tommy’s voice was hoarse, disbelieving. “You arranged the fights.”

  Imogen would have given anything for a weapon at that moment. For the means to punish this man the way he had punished Tommy.

  “Your father needed the money. I found a way to get it for him. He knew the risks.”

  “And you stood outside the ropes,” Tommy said. “You stood outside the ropes and watched him die and thought you’d win my mother in the balance.”

  “I wanted your mother from the start,” Adams said. “From the moment I set eyes on her. She made a bad choice. It should have been me.”

  Wanted. Like Esme was a prize, not a person. “Come now, Superintendent,” Imogen said, breaking her silence. “She chose not to marry you, which seems a top-notch choice, if you ask me.”

  “And you,” Adams scoffed, low and menacing in her ear. “He never put a foot wrong until you came along and ruined every plan I had for him.” He looked to Tommy. “You could have found another skirt to lift. There are plenty of plump ones with dark hair and wide mouths to be found.”

  Tommy’s gaze darkened. “When I take you down, Wallace, it will be for many reasons. But don’t for one moment think it won’t be because of the way you disrespected my lady.”

  Imogen’s heart pounded at the words.

  Adams backed toward the open door of the carriage. “Oho, disrespected your lady! The lady who wades about in the muck of the East End? I ain’t worried about her.”

  “You should have worried, Wallace,” Tommy said, the words thick with warning. With promise. “You should have worried when you put her in danger. When you threatened her life. When you touched her. That alone was enough for me to wreck you.”

  “Bold of you to be making threats, Tom,” Adams said. “As I’m the one with a knife to the bitch’s throat.”

  Though she ordinarily took great pleasure in the moments when stern, serious Thomas Peck went all dark and growly, it was difficult to do that just then . . . as she could suddenly smell what was coming.

  Gunpowder.

  And not the kind she kept in the library.

  “Tommy,” she said brightly, “I realize you’re in the midst of a whole to-do here . . . and I really do appreciate it, but . . . it is very, very warm out here.”

  Bless that brilliant man; he understood. He lunged for her at the exact moment the rear end of the carriage exploded.