“At any rate, the earl has a sister. Isobel or some such.”

  Imogen. He bit his tongue.

  He’d nearly ravished her in the uniform room, not ten minutes earlier.

  Battersea waved a dismissive hand, unaware of Thomas’s riot of thoughts. “No matter, Adams has a file.”

  “A file?” he asked, surprised. His attention flickered to Adams. “Has she committed a crime?”

  Besides defacing uniforms?

  “She’s missing,” Battersea replied.

  A beat. “Who’s missing?”

  “The girl,” Battersea said, as though it was all perfectly clear. “The sister.”

  “The earl’s sister,” Thomas clarified, disliking the words on his tongue. Disliking the reason he was required to speak them.

  “Isobel,” Battersea clarified.

  Imogen. Thomas tamped down any evidence of his confusion related to the conversation, which was beginning to feel more farce than anything else. How on earth had Imogen Loveless, who had been standing in Scotland Yard minutes ago, somehow convinced the home secretary, the commissioner of police, and the superintendent of Whitehall that she was missing?

  And more importantly . . . why was Thomas involved?

  Battersea sighed and turned to the superintendent. “I thought you said this was your best man?”

  Adams sputtered and said, “One of the finest detectives Scotland Yard has seen, sir.”

  “Well, he’s rather slow on the uptake.” The commissioner met Peck’s gaze. “Perhaps you’re exhausted from all the attention you received from the papers today.”

  Though the snide comment ignited a flame of anger, Thomas stayed quiet, knowing it best to keep any relationship to Imogen Loveless under wraps.

  The commissioner tamped out his cigar, obviously nearing the end of his patience with the discussion. “Point is, the earl wants the girl found, which is where we come in.”

  He had found her, Thomas wanted to say. She hadn’t been even close to lost mere minutes earlier. Indeed, she’d been in Scotland Yard. In his grasp.

  Literally.

  “Does Dorring have reason to believe she is in danger?”

  “That depends on one’s definition of danger,” Commissioner Battersea said.

  “I assumed we all had the same definition,” Thomas said, clenching his teeth, some of his anger slipping through his tight control as he stared down the commissioner and added in an unyielding tone, “Is the lady in danger?”

  The air in the room altered subtly, going taut and heavy long enough to make Battersea blanch around the eyes, before Thomas reined himself in.

  Control. It was the key to everything, in Thomas’s experience. He would not allow himself to lose it again, no matter the provocation.

  No matter the brief, petty satisfaction of seeing his so-called superior’s pupils widen in instinctual fear—before his bushy white brows lowered and his cheeks stained an even darker red.

  Sensing the tension, Adams rushed to clarify. “There is concern the lady’s reputation might be sullied if she is allowed to . . . cavort about.”

  Considering all the places the lady frequented on a normal Thursday evening, Thomas thought that waylaying her cavorting was an impossibility. Nevertheless, his brow furrowed and he said, “And so, they came to Scotland Yard to protect . . .”

  “Her virtue, my boy,” the commissioner blustered in a clear attempt to reclaim his own power before turning back to Adams. “Truly maybe you were wrong about this one.”

  Thomas, for his part, had trouble hearing anything after protecting her virtue. His fists clenched. Surely this was some kind of wild jest delivered by the universe, considering he’d been in a dark room alone with Imogen Loveless minutes earlier, and neither of them was thinking about her virtue.

  He met Battersea’s gaze impassively as the commissioner puffed himself up importantly. “I’ll make it plain for you, Peck. The Met is planning to assign a superintendent to the Detective Branch. Your name is at the top of the list, thanks to Adams, who swears you’ve a brain in your head and a fair bit of honor in the rest of you.”

  Thomas lifted his chin, the pride and satisfaction that burst through him making a small thing of allowing Battersea to feel he’d regained the upper hand. A promotion to superintendent of the Detective Branch would allow Thomas to implement a dozen new ideas—to think about crime in new ways, and not just in the places Whitehall prioritized. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Battersea sniffed. “Superintendents must be approved by the home secretary.”

  Everything clicked into place. He looked to Adams, who gave him a knowing smile—his mentor’s pride clear as day.

  “No one will deny you’re regularly making Whitehall look heroic,” Battersea was saying in a grudging tone. “Though we could do with more solving crime and less carting ladies about in the News, if you ask me.”

  Thomas resisted the urge to tell Battersea to shut his damn mouth—instead reminding himself that he could suffer the commissioner’s bluster if it meant the promotion and control over the Detective Branch. A far more important endgame than putting the man in his place.

  The man, who was still talking. “That . . . and I’m not sure the House of Lords is wild about your heroism—what with the fact that you’ve made something of a habit of sending aristocrats to prison.”

  “Only the aristocrats who make a habit of committing crimes,” Peck pointed out, avoiding the way the conversation continued to weave around Lady Imogen and her crew of chaos, who’d delivered him the evidence to send an earl and a marquess to Newgate in the last year.

  “Point is, if you’re going to become a superintendent,” Battersea intoned, coming to his feet, “it’s time you learn that aristocrats get what they want, my boy. And as the lady is causing her brother some worry, and her brother and the home secretary play carom together, her disappearance is now Whitehall’s worry. And seeing as you’re tempted by the idea of a promotion?” Battersea prompted.

  “Yes, sir.” More than tempted. Thomas had been aiming for this from the moment he’d begun working for the police eleven years earlier. A promotion would give him the funds and the freedom to secure his family’s status—to do what his father had been unable to do all those years ago, and set a new course.

  “Well, then . . . it seems the girl is your worry, Inspector.”

  Imogen. Not missing, whom he’d been planning to chase down as soon as possible anyway. Get the information she had relating to his investigation and secure a promotion in the balance? There was no way to lose. Thomas focused on the press of the fabric he’d found in her sleeve, warm in his palm. “Yes, sir.”

  Battersea clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.”

  Thomas stared down at the older man’s hand, where it lay pale and heavy. He did not move, except to return his gaze to the commissioner, full of disdain and steel.

  The commissioner removed his hand like it burned, and made a meal of exiting the room, leaving Thomas waiting, standing rod straight, until the door closed behind the man. He rounded on Adams, who was already heading to the table in the corner to pour himself his first drink of the day.

  Adams shook his head as he poured. “You’d better find the gel, Tom. Don’t give that man any reason to make good on the way he feels about you.”

  “I was perfectly respectful,” Thomas protested.

  “You were fucking terrifying. You always are,” Adams said. “Drink?”

  Thomas shook his head. “She won’t be difficult to find.”

  “You seem sure of yourself.” Adams turned an amused look on him. “Is she one of your acolytes? A lady with a penchant for a Peek of Peck?”

  Peck grimaced at the question—a reminder of both the fact that Adams did not know anything about his prior interactions with Lady Imogen, and the fact that Thomas’s embarrassing celebrity was becoming unavoidable. “She isn’t. But finding people is my job.”

  Adams made an affirming sound. “And how’s that bit of the job going? I understand you’re paying rather close attention to the explosions in the East End.”

  “Three in as many months,” Thomas said. “Someone ought to be paying attention.”

  “Probably some landlord looking for a way to build something new and raise rents,” Adams said. His gaze sharpened. “Do you have reason to believe they are connected?”

  Imogen has been at all three. Ordinarily, he would tell Adams just that—Adams was the man who had taught Thomas that coincidences were rarely coincidental. The Hell’s Belles turning up at sites of three explosions that already felt connected was enough to prove that there was something amiss.

  But there was a reason Imogen hadn’t revealed her findings to him.

  In the past, the lady had helped take down two separate aristocrats terrorizing their families, employees, and more. Perhaps she was into something now. Perhaps she was deeper than she was willing to admit.

  Perhaps she was in danger.

  Whatever it was, she hadn’t confided in Thomas. And so, for the first time in his long career, he found himself withholding information from Adams. “I think they’re connected, but I cannot prove it.”

  “No evidence?” Adams said. “That’s a surprise.”

  “I’m closer every day,” Thomas replied.

  “Well, don’t let it consume you. There are plenty of crimes west of the Garden that need solving.” Thomas didn’t care for the implication that the East End was less worthy of Scotland Yard’s investigation than the west of London, but he didn’t reply. Not even when Adams added, “And that’s how a man gets a promotion—not the other.” A pause. “Now for the interesting bit—who was your visitor?” Adams tilted his head toward the door. “The girl who came to see you?”

  Thomas’s fist tightened at his side, the only indication of the discomfort that flooded him at Adams’s mention of Lady Imogen. “No one.”

  Adams cut him a disbelieving look. “Was she? Funny that. I couldn’t help but notice the likeness to the illustration in the News. The curves and the curls . . .”

  “She’s no one,” Thomas said, more firmly than he intended, not liking that Adams noticed anything about Imogen. Especially not the curves. Or the curls.

  Imogen Loveless was a lady from Mayfair, and she wasn’t for noticing by men who came from the gutter.

  A pause, and Adams lifted a file from his desk. “Fair enough. You worry about finding this girl then. The earl’s sister.”

  “I’m already making plans.” He had been since he’d seen the edge of her dress disappear down the corridor. Even without the assignment, he would have sought her out. To uncover her purpose. To divine her games and how Scotland Yard played into them.

  “Take heart. Finding one girl can’t be more difficult than robbers and murderers,” Adams allowed.

  Adams didn’t know that Imogen Loveless was just as dangerous as robbers and murderers when she wanted to be. Thomas had no doubt she kept myriad weapons in her carpetbag full of mayhem.

  Adams extended the file to Thomas, who stared at it for a long while, a single name taunting him from the corner closest to him: Loveless, Lady Imogen.

  “This is it, Tom,” Adams said. “Think of how proud your da would be.”

  The words tightened Thomas’s chest, welcome and bittersweet. David Peck and Wallace Adams had come up alongside each other on the streets of the East End, picking and scraping to make ends meet. When Adams had become a Bow Street Runner and then joined the police, Thomas’s father had been a street sweeper, working all hours of the day and taking extra work wherever he could to care for his wife and three children.

  From the moment Thomas had been old enough to hear it, David Peck had made sure his son knew that every sweep of his broom was to ensure a better life for his children. Thomas would learn to read. He’d get a good job—one that paid well for food and heat and a wife and children. And he’d live better than his parents.

  Longer, too, it turned out. David had died when Thomas was nineteen, leaving his best friend, Wallace Adams, who promised to care for the wife and children he left.

  Adams had done just that, becoming a new kind of father—bringing Thomas into Scotland Yard, making sure Rose met and married a decent man, and paving the way for Stanley to become a vicar. Without their father, they might not have learned to work and love, but without Adams, they wouldn’t have survived.

  “He would have been so proud, Tom,” Adams said.

  Thomas nodded. His father. Who’d done all he could to lift his children out of the gutter. Whom Thomas tried to make proud every day. And it wasn’t just David Peck’s memory Thomas made proud with the promise of a promotion. It was Adams, too, his mentor and friend.

  “You make it sound like a hero’s quest,” Thomas replied, taking Lady Imogen’s file.

  Adams gave a little chuckle. “When it comes to the aristocracy, hero’s quests come in various shapes.”

  He opened the file to read. A thin dossier. A few aristocratic acquaintances, a handful of sweets shops and haberdasheries that she frequented, the name and age of the lady’s maid. None of the important bits. No reference to files inked with blue bells, to a carpetbag full of explosives, to vigilante justice.

  Either Dorring didn’t know much about his sister or he didn’t care much about her. If he did, he’d have already found the lady—whom Thomas expected to find before sunup—along with all she knew about the explosions in the East End.

  He looked to his superior. “And when I find her?”

  “Deliver the chit home and collect your accolades from the toffs. And your promotion from Battersea.” Adams paused, and for a moment, let their personal history into the room. “You’re the best detective in the Yard, Tom, and you’re this close to getting what we’ve always wanted for you. What we’ve always known was for you.”

  Thomas did not misunderstand that we—Adams, yes. But his family, too. And most of all, his father, no longer here to see it.

  “All you have to do is bring the girl to heel. How difficult can it be?”

  Peck nearly laughed at the words—the easy suggestion that Imogen was meek and biddable. That he might turn up wherever she’d decided to hide and she’d follow him directly home. Wallace Adams did not know that Lady Imogen Loveless was not the kind of woman who was easily brought to heel. Indeed, she was the kind of woman who might bite if she was given the chance.

  He’d be doing the rest of Scotland Yard a favor taking this project. If it went to someone else, someone who was not familiar with the lady’s particular brand of chaos . . . Well, if she did bite, Thomas would be prepared.

  He might just like it.

  He tried to tell himself the thought was unwelcome. Tried to push it away. But the idea of Imogen Loveless coming for him with her smart mouth . . . Well, it made a man wonder about that mouth . . . what it would feel like. What it would taste like. What it would take to stop it . . . and turn all her clever little retorts into pretty little sighs.

  It made a man wonder how Imogen sounded when she sighed.

  Lady Imogen. She was not for wondering.

  She was for finding. Quickly. And without spectacle.

  For purely occupational reasons.

  Chapter Seven

  “To freedom!” Imogen announced happily that evening, lifting a pint of ale with gusto and toasting her friends.

  “To freedom!” The women around her—Sesily, Adelaide, and Duchess—matched the toast . . . and Imogen’s excitement.

  In the three days since she’d left her brother’s home, Imogen had made herself comfortable in her friend’s enormous and mostly empty town house on South Audley Street. Duchess had suggested that Imogen select one of the dozen guest rooms in the house for herself, as well as providing her free rein of the cellars for a new laboratory should she desire. Which of course she did.

  Truly, there were benefits to being dear friends with someone rich, powerful, beautiful, and married to a long absent husband who paid his wife’s bills and never came to town.

  That night, the quartet of women, along with Sesily and Adelaide’s husbands, were ensconced around the large table in the rear corner of the large central room of The Place, a tavern for women and others for whom the rest of the world could be a danger, tucked away in Covent Garden—difficult to find if one wasn’t searching for it in the tangled web of streets between Bedford Street and St. Martin’s Lane.

  Over the years, The Place had become their place—a safe haven from the wide world where they could meet beyond the censorious gaze of society . . . without worry of discovery or disdain. They’d begun meeting there several years earlier, when Duchess had gathered them together for a common purpose—to help those whom society ignored, or worse, injured.

  It had begun simply—helping women who came to them with a wish to change their fate. Wives looking to escape abusive husbands. Daughters and sisters seeking a way out from cruel fathers and brothers looking to trade them for power and money. Women looking to marry as they wished, to stand up to their employers, to escape their lot, to live their lives on their own terms.

  Women from all walks. The daughter of a duke who’d found herself with child. The wife of a butcher who was a violent drunk. A shopgirl who’d witnessed a crime and needed protection. A rich merchant’s daughter looking to escape a loveless aristocratic marriage.

  But soon, word was out. And their work became more complicated. Assisting a brothel full of girls out from under the thumb of their vicious employer. Rescuing children from workhouses. Providing safe havens for powerless workers. Sending aristocrats to prison for embezzling funds from orphanages. Sending others to prison for murder. Sending still more to . . . well, to other places entirely. In only a handful of years, the Hell’s Belles had become legendary.

  They did their best to help as many who needed them as could find them . . . and they did it more often than not from the corner table at The Place, where people went not to be seen, but to live. There, those who were rarely welcomed in the rest of London could drink and dance and laugh and be welcomed freely, and no one cared that Sesily Calhoun had once been Mayfair’s brightest scandal, or that Adelaide was daughter to one of London’s greatest crime lords, or that Duchess spent her absent husband’s money like it was water. Nor did they care that Imogen was odd . . . or in hiding from her brother.