Imogen ducked out of Adams’s hold as he was knocked back from the blast, instinct sending her turning away from the explosion as pieces of wood splintered through the alleyway and Tommy collected her in his arms before they were both blown off their feet.

  The horses, it turned out, were able to be shocked by something, and they tore down the alleyway . . . without the carriage attached. Thanks surely to Caleb, as once a stable boy, always a stable boy.

  Then Imogen wasn’t paying attention, because Tommy was there, crouching over her, blue gaze flashing with worry and fury and frustration and something wild that she might have been afraid of if she didn’t feel it, too. He reached for her, wrapping one strong hand around the back of her neck and pulling her to him, tilting her face up to his. “Are you hurt?”

  Ears ringing, she shook her head. “You?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he was kissing her, deep and lush—a wicked, wonderful kiss that stole her thoughts, save one.

  He was growling.

  When he broke the kiss, he pulled back to look at her, fury in his eyes. “Hear me, Imogen Loveless. You are mine. And I will always, always come for you.”

  “You could have decided that a bit sooner, Tommy Peck.”

  One of his dark brows rose just slightly—just enough to promise that they’d be discussing this at length later. “Stay right here. I’m coming back to tell you how much I love you.”

  Her eyes went wide. Yes, please.

  He turned to restrain Adams, who had pushed himself to his feet, knife gone from his grip, lost in the blast.

  “That was excellent!” Sesily announced happily from the other side of the wreckage, where Caleb had her pinned protectively against the stone wall. “No wonder Imogen is so mad for explosions!”

  “Fucking hell, Sesily,” Caleb grumbled from his position. “You nearly got everyone killed.”

  “But I didn’t. Instead, I did the job!”

  Just then, the Duke of Clayborn burst through the door, brow furrowed, stopping immediately, blocking Adelaide and Duchess from any danger that might still be afoot.

  Her crew. Arrived like cavalry.

  Duchess came up on her toes to look over his shoulder. “A pity. We’ve missed the fun.”

  “Sesily nearly blew us up,” Imogen said. “I wouldn’t call it fun.”

  “You’ve nearly blown us up dozens of times,” Sesily said.

  “Yes, well, I use a bit less gunpowder, generally. But well done, Ses. It certainly got the job done.”

  And then Tommy was back, pulling her to his side, away from the chattering crowd and into the darkness as they headed back into the house for whatever was to come next—who did one summon to handle a gang of corrupt policemen and the powerful men who paid them to commit crimes?

  The News, it turned out.

  Because the only thing more powerful than Parliament . . . was the public.

  The Belles would sort it that night, because that was what they did. And Imogen wouldn’t mind missing it, because she was with Tommy instead.

  He pulled her into the darkness, holding her tight, staring down at her, his hands running over her body as if to ensure that she was safe.

  Which she was. Because she was his.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked again.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Christ, Imogen. You almost died tonight. Multiple times.”

  She smiled. “Nonsense. I didn’t even lose consciousness.”

  He gave a little laugh. “Love, if you had lost consciousness, I think I would have torn down Mayfair.”

  “I had no intention of dying until you told me all the reasons you came back for me.” She shivered in his arms, and he immediately moved to shuck his coat, draping it over her shoulders.

  “You’re cold. We should go inside.”

  “No—” she protested. “The world is inside and we will have to face it soon enough. I want to stay here, with you. A little longer.” She tipped her face up to his and he kissed her, lingering on her sweetness until they both sighed their pleasure. When the kiss broke she said, “You came back.”

  He nodded. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  “Why not?”

  “Only one reason,” he said. “I love you.”

  “Did you not love me earlier when you let me go?”

  His chest grew tight at the words. “I thought you would do better without me.”

  “And look what happened,” she teased. “I was nearly kidnapped.”

  He pulled her tight to him, giving her a stern look, turning her face to the distant light and running a thumb over the bruise blooming across her face from where Adams had struck her. “I’m not ready to laugh about it. I still want to kill him.”

  She reached up to hold his hand to her cheek. “Instead of killing him, I’d rather you’d kiss me.”

  He did, slow and deep, turning her out of the wind, pressing her to the wall behind them and blocking her from everything but him—his warmth, his scent, the sound of his breath in her ear as he whispered his love.

  “I love you.” A stroke down her neck. “I love you.” One warm hand sliding into his coat, wrapping around her waist. A dark curse, full of passion and promise. “I don’t deserve you. I’ll never understand why the universe delivered you to me. But I’ll be damned if I let you go.”

  She turned to catch his lips, to drink in the sweet words. “I’ll never leave you.”

  “Promise me,” he said.

  “Better than a promise,” she replied, pressing herself tight to him. “A prophecy.”

  “My oracle,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her lips. “My heroine.” To her jaw. “My love.” To the soft skin at her neck.

  Another shiver, full of desire. “Tommy . . .”

  “Captain of your own fate,” he whispered. “What course do you wish to set, my love?”

  “One with you,” she said. “Together.”

  And so it was decided.

  Thomas Peck was having a very good day.

  Epilogue

  South Audley Street, Mayfair

  Trevescan House

  The second Tuesday in April 1840

  As it turned out, Imogen Loveless was wrong about her future. She did marry, and her brother found he had no choice but to approve of her husband. After all, on that night in January there was only one man in all of Britain—possibly in all the world—who could be trusted to keep Imogen safe from the chaos of the world.

  And so it was that Charles, Earl Dorring, happily announced the marriage of his sister, Lady Imogen, to Mr. Thomas Peck, former pride of Whitehall, now thorn in the side of it. And on the first Saturday in April, the two were married at St. George’s, Hanover Square.

  The ceremony was performed by the groom’s brother and followed with a lavish luncheon at Dorring House attended by a small group of the couple’s closest friends and family, including the Belles, Maggie O’Tiernen, Mithra Singh, the proprietors of O’Dwyer and Leafe’s Seamstress’s, and John Phillips, the newly appointed superintendent of Whitehall.

  A vast exposé, inspired by dozens of dossiers delivered by late night messenger from an anonymous informant to Duncan West, owner and editor of the News, brought corruption at Scotland Yard to public light. The color of the files in which the evidence was delivered? Blue, of course.

  Londoners of all ilk began questioning the aristocracy’s inappropriate use of the police for personal criminal gain, and the home secretary, commissioner of police, and superintendent of Whitehall were relieved of their positions on the same day they were named subjects—along with a marquess, two earls, and dozens of others—of both a criminal investigation and a far-reaching parliamentary inquiry, helmed by the Duke of Clayborn and other reformers . . . and Earl Dorring, who was beginning to sound like a reformer himself now that he was spending more time with his sister . . . and warming to her marriage.

  On the Tuesday following the serious aristocratic ceremony and reception, Tommy and Imogen’s marriage was celebrated in a very different way, with a raucous, exclusive ball at Trevescan House, filled with wild laughter and loud conversation and dancing and rich wine and lush food and a bride and groom who, even then, months after they’d professed their love to each other in the dead of night in a Mayfair alleyway, only had eyes for each other.

  They even danced together, much to the pride of his mother (who was happily toured around the room by half a dozen eligible young—and not so young—bachelors), and the satisfaction of her brother (who was happy to see that at least one of the myriad lessons for which he had paid had, in fact, stuck).

  And when the happy couple paused at the refreshment table, Imogen feeding gougères and tartlets to Tommy, the Duchess of Trevescan appeared at their side. “I confess, I wasn’t certain about you, Peck, but now that I’ve witnessed your devotion to our Imogen . . . I find myself warming to you. Are you certain you are not interested in running a security detail?”

  Since leaving Whitehall, Tommy had hung out a shingle in Holborn, committed to continuing his work as a detective beyond the purview of Scotland Yard.

  Imogen believed his private investigation firm should have been called Peck Peeks, and while Tommy was more than willing to give his wife whatever she wished in all things, he’d drawn the line at that particular suggestion. Peck Investigations was already doing a brisk business outside the purview of the police.

  He lifted his brows in Duchess’s direction. “What kind of security does a duchess need that requires an entire detail?”

  “Come now, Tommy,” she said with a wink. “You can’t think the Hell’s Belles are stopping now . . . we’re just getting to the good bit.”

  With that, the Duchess turned away, dancing into the crowd of revelers, leaving the newlyweds to do the same, lost in each other and their friends and the music until Tommy finally danced his bride out the doors to the ballroom and onto the great stone balcony beyond, twirling her into his embrace to kiss her, deep and lingering, in the darkness.

  “I love it when you carry me about,” Imogen said, wrapping her arms around him as he lifted her to sit on the stone balustrade, bringing their faces nearly even. She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his arms. “It makes me feel like you’ve won me in a wager.”

  He laughed, the sound doing deep, sinful things to her insides. “Carried you out of a gaming hell to lay claim to you?”

  “Mmm,” she said. “Yes. That. Tell me more.”

  Tommy leaned in, kissing her again, then sliding his lips down the side of her neck, his beard—returned, thank goodness—making her sigh with pleasure. “I would like very much to show you how well I lay claim to you, wife.”

  “Wife,” she whispered, shivering at the word. At his touch. “Say it again.”

  “My wife,” he rumbled, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “My heart.” Another kiss, at her breast.

  “My love.” He caught her ankle, sliding his fingers over the smooth skin there, beneath the hem of her dress, in the same peacock blue she’d been wearing that afternoon when he’d discovered her in the dressmaker shop on Bond Street.

  “You love me,” she said, breaking the kiss, her fingers trailing down his chest.

  “More every day.”

  She warmed with the words, even as his touch slid higher beneath her skirts, up her calf, leaving flame in its wake. “I feel like it is I who won you, you know,” she said. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you. In The Place.” She set a finger to his brow, smoothing the furrow there. “Entirely made of muscle and control.”

  “No control at all.” He snatched her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Not from the moment I saw you, pure temptation, all fire and chaos.” Lacing his fingers through hers, he said, “I still remember how wild I felt that night, like if I wasn’t careful, I would lift you up, set you on the bar, and make love to you in front of the whole world.”

  Imogen gasped at the words even as he pressed her palm to his chest, where she could feel his heart thundering. “I still feel it. Every minute I’m with you, love. Out of control.”

  “I know.” She reached for his hand, pressing it to her breast, where her heart thundered in the same, wild rhythm. “I feel it, too.”

  She leaned forward and met his kiss, a long, lush caress that consumed them both until the party and the gardens and the world fell away, and all they knew was the scent and taste and sound and the feel of each other.

  Perfection.

  He broke the kiss on a growl—a sound in which Imogen delighted, because it meant her steady, stern husband was coming undone. She smiled up at him and teased, “Why husband, you look like you’re about to explode.”

  “Mmm,” he said, reaching for her. “Good thing I have an expert in the field at hand.”

  She squealed as he pulled her from the balustrade and lifted her into his arms. “Tommy! We cannot! People will wonder what happened to us!”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “I’m certain they’ll read all about how I ravished you in the Trevescan gardens at our wedding party in the next issue of the News.”

  She wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek before whispering in his ear, “I hope they forgo the illustration this time.”

  He looked to her, and she caught her breath at the wicked intent in his eyes. “Then we’ll have to make sure its unprintable.”

  And they did just that.

  * * *

  Hours after Tommy and Imogen disappeared into the gardens and then to their new home, Duchess stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching the remaining guests—none of whom showed any intention of leaving—and attempting to unravel her emotions. It should be said, this particular task was not something that Duchess generally enjoyed doing. Indeed, in the years since she’d become the Duchess of Trevescan, she’d attempted at all turns to avoid emotions. Especially the complicated ones.

  That evening, however, the emotions were complicated.

  Of course, there was happiness. She’d seen three of her closest friends married to men who loved them beyond reason.

  But there was also concern. The more who joined their crew, the more likely they would be discovered. And she would do anything to keep her friends safe.

  And then there was the other emotion. The one that never seemed to dissipate, even when she was in a ballroom full of triumphant delight.

  Maggie O’Tiernen appeared at her shoulder, two glasses of champagne in hand. Accepting the drink, Duchess said, “I’m surprised to see you so far from Covent Garden, Maggie.”

  “I never miss a wedding,” Maggie replied. “Especially when it’s a love match. Those are the most entertaining.”

  The friends toasted and drank, looking out over the revelry for a long moment, Duchess considering what was to come. She took a deep breath. Exhaled.

  “There’s a man here,” Maggie said.

  Duchess turned. “There are many men here.”

  “Not like this one.”

  “Who is it?” Duchess’s brow furrowed.

  “No one knows. He says he’ll only speak to you.”

  She sighed. They never seemed to know when they were not welcome. “Where?”

  “There.” Maggie tipped her chin toward the entry to the ballroom.

  Duchess followed her friend’s gaze and froze. To describe the figure crossing the ballroom as a man felt like a grave error. Like describing a lion as a cat, or a hurricane as a rain shower. This was not a man. He was a force—tall and strong, and pure, unadulterated power.

  And he was coming straight for her.

  “Shit,” Duchess said softly.

  “You know him?” Maggie asked.

  Duchess shook her head. “No. But when a man looks like that, he cannot be good news.”

  Tearing her gaze away, she looked up to the second level of the Trevescan ballroom, where an observation hallway ran the entire length of the room. There Rahul Singh, her man of affairs, stood watch as he always did when the ballroom was in use.

  He shook his head. He did not recognize the newcomer, either.

  Duchess knocked back the last of her champagne and turned her brightest smile on Maggie. “Well. Whoever he is, it is time to show him that one does not simply turn up to see the Duchess of Trevescan.”

  Maggie laughed. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  The intruder was still looking at her, approaching not around the perimeter of the dancers, but straight through them. Who did he think he was? This was a wedding reception. Had the man been raised by wolves?

  She stepped onto the dance floor and headed for him, refusing to show curiosity, or uncertainty, or the way her heart thundered in her chest as they came closer together.

  They stopped inches from each other, orchestra swelling and dancers swirling around them, simultaneously attempting to look and not look.

  “Sir?” she asked, lifting her chin and giving him nothing but cool disdain.

  “I am told you are the Duchess of Trevescan,” he said, the words low and smooth. Like the finest scotch whisky.

  She raised a brow, ignoring the ice in his steely gaze. “I am.”

  “Fascinating,” he replied. “As I am the Duke of Trevescan, one would think we would have met.”

  Author’s Note

  In all the years I’ve been writing historicals, I’ve never once had an idea that I could not find at least a glimmer of evidence for in history, and the Hell’s Belles are no different.

  They are based on the Forty Elephants, an all-women Victorian crime ring that operated for more than a century. Alice Diamond, the Forties’ most famous queen, was an explosives expert herself—arrested for falsifying documents with the intention of stealing product from a London munitions factory. We don’t know what she intended to explode, but I’m fairly certain Imogen would have some ideas. For more on the Forty Elephants, do not miss Brian McDonald’s terrific resource, Alice Diamond and the Forty Elephants.

  Regarding Imogen’s literal bag of tricks: Readers of Bombshell will remember that she invented chloroform prior to that book—at the same time two other scientists were inventing it in Germany and the United States. Gunpowder, or black-powder, had been in use for centuries before Imogen started making it in her cellars, but in this book her use of mercury fulminate and other wildly explosive concoctions is simultaneous to the creation of blasting-oil (what we call nitroglycerin) now. I could not have filled her carpetbag without the help of Elena Armas, who is not only a superstar romance novelist, but also a brilliant chemical engineer who happily went down the research rabbit hole with me on nineteenth century explosives.