“Nothing happened,” she said again, trying to make it sound as insistent as possible. “It’s just that I . . . ran into . . . Tommy.”

  The ladies around the table shared knowing looks.

  “You needn’t look so amused,” Imogen grumbled.

  “Where did you run into Tommy?” Duchess asked.

  “In the uniform room.” She paused. “It was dark. We were alone.”

  “That sounds like the kind of place where something absolutely happened,” Sesily said.

  “Nothing happened!” Imogen said for the third time. “He discovered one of the strips of fabric in my sleeve.”

  “In your sleeve,” Duchess said. “How did he find it?”

  “He tricked me.”

  “How?” Adelaide said.

  “The way men trick women, I imagine,” Imogen said, frustrated. “He leaned in and he was warm and big and broad and he smelled like sunshine and darkness altogether, and his beard was against my cheek, and the next thing I knew, he’d stolen my sewing scissors and a strip of the fabric I’d cut from a pair of trousers.”

  There was a beat of silence as the words landed around the table, and Imogen decided that if she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound. And then she said, “But he didn’t kiss me, the wretched man. In fact, he told me he had no intention of even attempting to kiss me.”

  “Awful,” Adelaide replied.

  “Monstrous,” Sesily agreed.

  Their husbands shared a look of confusion. Caleb started. “Wait. He was to kiss her?”

  “He made a tacit promise to,” Sesily said. “With the warmth and the delicious smells.”

  “And the beard,” Adelaide said. “Once it touches you, there must be kissing. It’s a rule.”

  “Perhaps he was attempting to remain a gentleman,” Clayborn offered.

  The women around the table scoffed, and Sesily said, “Awful.”

  Imogen had never felt more vindicated. “Thank you.”

  “And what happened?” Adelaide said.

  “I left,” she said.

  “And he didn’t follow you?” Sesily asked, all affront.

  “No!”

  “Monstrous,” Sesily announced dramatically.

  “Thank you,” Imogen said, immensely grateful for good friends.

  “As much as all this is fascinating,” Duchess interjected, “may I point out, Imogen, that Thomas Peck is a high-ranking member of the Detective Branch at Scotland Yard and, as I understand it, the only viable name on a list of potential superintendents for that branch?”

  Imogen’s gaze flew to Duchess’s. “Really?”

  Duchess tilted her head, blond hair gleaming in the candlelight. “Really. If I had to wager, he’s looking for a way to secure that promotion.”

  Imogen did not misunderstand. If the Belles were right—and they were right, she knew it—and the police were being paid by members of the House of Lords to lay waste to places in the East End that kept women and others who fought for power safe . . . every policeman in London was suspect.

  Including Tommy Peck—especially him, if he was looking to a promotion.

  No matter how noble he seemed.

  Imogen’s gaze dropped to the sketch again. They really had drawn him beautifully—his sleek beard and his dark hair and his muscular arms . . . He’d been wearing an overcoat, but she could distinctly remember how easily he’d held her—and she was not exactly light as a feather. His arms were likely just as they were in the sketch. Bulging muscles the size of small linden trees.

  She wouldn’t dwell on his thighs—despite the way they tempted her, even in an illustrated format.

  “In that case,” Sesily said with a laugh, “I cannot imagine serious Mr. Peck enjoyed this illustration even half as much as we did.”

  He must have loathed it.

  Imogen met Duchess’s glacially blue gaze as she said, soft warning—soft understanding—in her tone, “Once a Peeler, always a Peeler, Imogen.”

  She nodded. The police couldn’t be trusted. “I know.”

  And besides, it didn’t matter. He hadn’t even kissed her.

  “Imogen.” Maggie returned, a welcome interruption, blessedly plonking an ale in front of her. “Warm in here, don’t you think?”

  Everyone around the table stiffened at the words. It was January in London, and the table where they sat was up against an outside wall. While it wasn’t cold, it also wasn’t warm. And even if it had been warm . . . Maggie wasn’t talking about the weather.

  Caleb and Clayborn were out of their chairs, a wall of shoulders flanking Maggie, considering the room beyond.

  “I shall never grow tired of that response,” Maggie said with a wink at Duchess. “Stand down, lads. My bruisers have someone outside; they say he’s been asking for Lady Imogen.” She met Imogen’s gaze. “There’s a back door.”

  Charles had found her. And to add insult to injury . . . he’d found her here. In this place she loved. Disappointment flared. “Maggie—don’t let him in. His censure will turn the whole place cold. I’ll meet him outside.”

  “Oh, I’m not letting him in,” Maggie replied. “His kind ain’t welcome here and he knows that. All they do is cause trouble.”

  His kind? Charles was subtle. He had never caused trouble in his life. Suspicion threaded through Imogen. Suspicion, and something like excitement. “Who is it?”

  “Well, he’s wearing more clothes.” Maggie tipped a chin in the direction of the paper on the table. “But I know that Peeler when I see ’im.”

  Chapter Eight

  Peck stood on the far side of Bedford Court, back against the brick front facade of the building that overlooked The Place, and waited for Lady Imogen to exit the tavern. She couldn’t stay inside forever.

  He rubbed his hands together and bounced twice on the balls of his feet. It was past ten and growing bitterly cold, but The Place was bustling. Every time the door to the tavern opened, music and raucous laughter poured into the street along with groups of happy women and a handful of others Miss O’Tiernen had deemed worthy of entrance.

  More worthy than he was, clearly. Since the Detective Branch had been formed, he’d had several occasions to turn up at the tavern deep in the winding streets of Covent Garden, but he’d rarely been allowed inside, and even less often been given a welcome of any warmth.

  The last time he was in Maggie O’Tiernen’s pub, he’d been trying to get information on a street gang that, by all accounts, had tossed it over several times. Miss O’Tiernen had poured him a pint, patted him on his head, and sent him on his way as though he were an errant child.

  But another thing had happened on that evening, fourteen months earlier, before Miss O’Tiernen had declined his offer of help.

  He’d met Lady Imogen.

  He could still remember it, the way she’d appeared in front of him, her round face tilted up to his from where she stood, five feet if she was an inch. Standing a foot taller than her, he shouldn’t have even noticed her.

  Except she was not a woman who went unnoticed; she was a woman who was impossible to miss.

  Plump, pixie-sized, and pure pandemonium, she’d sized him up immediately and placed a wager on him to win in a bout . . . one she was attempting to arrange. And if he was honest, in that moment, he’d almost been willing to fight . . . just to prove to her that absolutely, he would win.

  Luckily, sanity had reigned that evening, and he’d escaped whatever sway she’d had over him. The same would happen tonight, he vowed.

  If she’d come out.

  Perhaps he had miscalculated the situation—he could have skulked about in the darkness, entered through the rear entrance. But two things had kept him from that. First, he didn’t like the idea of breaching the perimeter of The Place without permission. He appreciated the value of security for those inside—a value that could not be overstated considering how frequently the tavern was threatened by outsiders who resented its unconventional power.

  Second, he didn’t want to have to find her, or collect her. He didn’t want to play at being her keeper. The lady was clever and bright, and when he interacted with her, he wanted her to trust him. Yes, he wanted her to share what she knew about the explosions in the East End . . . but he also wanted her to meet him on equal footing.

  When they played, he did not imagine them cat and mouse, but cat and cat, and he never wanted her to doubt it.

  So he’d asked the bruiser at the door to tell her he was there.

  The downside? He had to wait in the damn cold.

  And then the door opened and the enormous man guarding it stepped aside, and she appeared, and he wasn’t cold anymore.

  Thomas stilled, surprised for a moment by the strange calm he felt when she appeared. She wasn’t wearing the green from earlier in the day any longer. She was now in a bright ruby red dress and a black overcoat the color of the night sky and the obsidian brooch she always wore at the line of her dress. There were no colors in which she was not beautiful, and his calm slid into deep satisfaction . . . the kind that came with looking at a beautiful painting, or a perfect flower, or a sunset.

  Whatever her idiot brother had told the home secretary—whatever he believed—Imogen wasn’t missing. She was barely even hiding. If one paid even a modicum of attention to her, they’d have known exactly where she would be.

  Peck was not interested in analyzing how much attention he paid to the lady. That way lay danger.

  Instead, he relaxed against the wall, motionless. He did not signal to her or call out, instead using the moment to take her in when she paused beneath a lantern that marked the unassuming door to The Place. The small fixture cast a barely-there circle of glowing candlelight on the street below—just enough for him to drink her in.

  The golden light that gleamed on her glossy curls did nothing to hide her red cheeks—a product of the warmth inside the pub. Perhaps she’d been dancing within. Or maybe just laughing and drinking and enjoying a respite from the rigid world into which she’d been born. God knew Peck was exhausted every time he had to stand on ceremony with aristocrats; who could blame the woman for relishing a day or two of freedom?

  She pulled her coat tighter around her—was that a shiver?—and looked down the street, where it curved back around to Bedfordbury. Looking for him? A trio of giggling women tumbled out of a hack just at the bend and Imogen smiled in their direction, stepping out of their path, into the street. Heading straight for him.

  She’d known where he was from the start. “Really, Detective Inspector. If you wish to see me, you are welcome to call at normal hours.”

  “The question is not when to call, my lady,” he said, coming off the wall and standing straight, feeling as though he was to submit for inspection. “But where.” He paused. “Unless you plan to toss over Scotland Yard again on an upcoming morning?”

  brown eyes lit with delight, as though they played her favorite game. “All you have to do is ask.”

  She stopped, close enough to touch if he reached for her. Not that he had any intention of reaching for her. She was not for touching.

  This morning had been a special case. He’d been working. She’d been suspicious.

  “Why were you in the uniform room?”

  Her pretty lips curved in a tiny, secret smile, like she had a hundred secrets that she’d share if only he said the right words. “I told you, it was a wrong turn.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Her dark eyes twinkled. “I have ideas for a new uniform design.”

  He scowled.

  “I think you’ll like how it fits in the thighs.”

  He should have kissed her that morning. It would have been a mistake, but he would not have regretted it. Not like he regretted how the morning had gone.

  Because now he had to face the truth. That women like Lady Imogen Loveless, no matter the way they took hold of the world and flouted convention, were not for men like Thomas Peck, born in the streets of Shoreditch, without money or title or power to recommend them.

  “Your brother is looking for you.”

  If he weren’t watching her so intently, he would have missed the little flutter of her lashes as the words landed.

  “So you have uncovered my hiding place.”

  “Does it count as a hiding place if it is simply your place?”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Detective Inspector,” she said, lifting her pert little chin—turning her round face into a heart. “Perhaps I’m excellent at hiding, and you’re just a very good detective?”

  “I am an exceedingly good detective,” he agreed. “But you are in no way hiding.” He indicated The Place. “Half of London is in that room, my lady. You think they have not seen you?”

  “Certainly, but none of them are looking the way you do.”

  The air shifted between them, the silence and darkness growing heavier in their wake. He knew what she meant, of course. Knew she referenced his detective skills. And still, it felt as though she was saying something else entirely. Something that he could never acknowledge was true.

  Thank God, the chatterbox continued. “Why are you, anyway?” she asked.

  “Why am I . . . what?”

  “Looking? For me?” She paused. “Is it about the News?”

  He didn’t like the way her tone softened with the question, as though this woman who was always so certain of her next move suddenly did not know what to do. The damn gossip rags. No wonder she’d gone into hiding. Christ. “No,” he said quickly. “Hang the News.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” she offered, “Duchess thinks it’s a very flattering likeness.”

  “I prefer you conscious,” he said without thinking, immediately regretting it when her brows shot up.

  “Do you?”

  He scowled and ignored the question. “They made me the size of a small house.”

  “But in a good way.”

  “I shall take your word for it, my lady.” A pause, and then, “Did you report the incident to the News?”

  The horror in her voice was answer enough. “Absolutely not!”

  “I am here because your brother has reported you missing.”

  “And is it possible for me to report him cabbageheaded?”

  He couldn’t help his own huff of laughter. “I’m not sure I could arrest him for it.”

  “A pity,” she said. “No chance of a slow ship to New Zealand?”

  “Not for earls who have committed the crime of looking for their sisters, no.”

  “Ah, but he is not looking for me,” she said. “He asked you to look for me.”

  He looked down at the top of her head. At her sooty black lashes on her round, rosy cheeks. “Not me. He asked the home secretary, who asked the commissioner of police, who asked me.”

  “An impressive chain of command, and all to find me? Who is in no way hiding?”

  “You are one of the easier missing persons I have been assigned to find, I’ll be honest, considering I saw you not ten minutes before I was asked to seek you out.”

  He’d seen her. And he’d touched her. And he’d breathed her in. And he’d seriously considered kissing her before somehow, impossibly, finding his nobility.

  Like an imbecile.

  “Next time I shall endeavor to make it more difficult for you,” she quipped, and her smile returned—the one he liked. She patted his chest. “I will admit, Inspector, exciting as this has been, as you can see, I am not missing.”

  He really ought to let her go. “Your brother says otherwise.”

  “My brother will think otherwise when I am in my bed tomorrow morning.”

  An image of Imogen Loveless in bed flashed, her dark curls against white linen, her pretty, soft curves like pure temptation against the counterpane. One soft, lush arm beckoning to him.

  Thomas swallowed, pushing the image away. “You are going home?”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “As it turns out,” she said, pulling her black coat tight around her and ducking into the collar to avoid the wind, “I am to be married.”

  “To whom?” The question came quicker and harsher than he’d intended. He hadn’t intended to ask it at all.

  “Someone my brother no doubt believes is perfectly suited for me. I expect someone titled, or wealthy, or with some kind of family estate that makes people desperate for a country house party.”

  “I’m not sure your brother knows anything about what will suit you.”

  Her eyes went wide with surprise. “And you do?”

  “I don’t think it’s a country house party, that’s for certain.”

  She grinned. “Don’t be so sure. You’d be surprised by how many murders happen in the country.”

  “I assure you, I would not be surprised by that at all. But your delight at the statistics is not a small amount concerning.”

  “If there were a murder at my country house party, Detective Inspector, would it be alright if I summoned you to investigate?”

  She could summon him wherever she liked, he feared. He ignored the question. “If you intended to go home and let your brother matchmake you . . . why did you leave home to begin with?”

  “I am ungovernable.”

  “Would you believe I’ve noticed that?”

  She smiled. “If you must know . . . we were having lamb.”

  “An excellent reason to leave home.”

  “Lamb means that my brother is home for dinner. And when my brother is home for dinner, he tends to be . . . aggressively dictatorial.” She paused. “As though I am an errant child who needs a firm hand.”

  Thomas wasn’t so certain she did not need a firm hand, but he knew better than to say so.

  “Usually it’s something silly.” She waved a hand. “Admonishing me not to explode the library, or not to take the carriage to the South Bank after dark. Not to wager on bareknuckle fights in Covent Garden.”

  “Mmm. Callous overreaching.”

  “Precisely. I usually smile and agree and force down a bit of mint jelly”—she made a face—“and then we both go about our business. But this time someone told him about the explosion in Spitalfields. Before the illustration.” Thomas did not imagine that an earl would care for his sister being found at the scene of the crime. “And that was, as he put it, the last straw. And he threatened me.”