Within minutes, Tommy’s mother had waved them all to dinner and they’d squeezed around the small, scarred table to one side of the main room of the flat.
Tommy couldn’t keep his eyes off Imogen, seated across from him, eyes bright and curious as she fell into the evening as though she’d eaten a thousand meals in cramped flats in Shoreditch. As though she regularly scooped stew out of chipped earthenware bowls and tore hunks of freshly baked brown bread from a shared loaf passed round the table.
But she didn’t do those things. They could lie to his mother all he liked—he could call her miss and she could hold back the truth of her birth—but Imogen Loveless was a titled lady, daughter to an earl. Sister to one. And every minute she sat in this house, at this table, their legs so close together beneath the table that he could feel her skirts against him, he had to remind himself that she didn’t belong there.
Because every minute that passed made him imagine what it would be like if she did belong.
Which was impossible.
And even as he tried to keep that truth in his mind, he knew he was actively avoiding looking at Adams, who, despite calling Imogen miss, knew the truth, and would have more than a few somethings to say about her presence at dinner in Tommy’s family home.
Tommy was certain that Adams would be the first to point out that traipsing all around London with an aristocratic lady was the fastest way to ensure that Tommy never got his promotion.
All that, and Imogen seemed to fit in perfectly, laughing at Annabelle’s silly jests, making conversation with Rose, asking questions that revealed more about Tommy than he would ever share on his own.
Questions like, “How long have you lived here, Mrs. Peck?”
“David—that was Tommy’s father—and I moved here the day we were married.” She smiled at the door, far away for a moment before she laughed. “He nearly toppled me down the stairs when he carried me over the threshold.”
Tommy’s chest tightened at the words. At the way Imogen smiled, small and wistful, as though she understood how the memory of his father remained so large and present despite the distance of time.
She met Tommy’s eyes. “How long ago did he—”
“Eleven years,” he answered, even as he knew it would make everything more complicated. “Rose was fourteen, and Stanley was twelve.”
Imogen nodded with a frank understanding that came with having lost someone of her own. “I’m sorry. My father has been gone for eight,” she said. “It seems both an open wound and a long healed one.”
“We were lucky to have Tommy,” his mother said, reaching to squeeze his arm. “Stepped into his father’s shoes instantly.”
It wasn’t true. David Peck’s loss had been keen. “We were lucky to have Wallace,” he said, turning to look at his mentor at the end of the table. “He pulled me off the streets and gave me honest work.”
“Nah. I just did what David would’ve wanted.” Wallace’s eyes filled with something like pride as he looked to Imogen. “Tommy’s father and I came up together. When we lost him, I did all I could to bring Tommy to the Yard. And we’ve never seen his equal.” The superintendent turned back to Tommy. “And now look at you. Detective inspector and on your way to superintendent of the branch. Your da would’ve been bursting with it.”
Around the table, everyone looked to Tommy, surprise and delight in their eyes. Everyone but Imogen, who had returned her attention to her bowl. Knowing how he was to get the promotion. Knowing that it would come on the back of doing her brother’s bidding.
He couldn’t look away from her as Esme said, “Head of the Detective Branch!”
“I expect so, if he’s careful,” Wallace replied, and Tommy’s attention snapped to the other man, who was watching him with a gleam in his eye. A warning gleam as he slid his gaze to Imogen and back to Tommy. “But he’s never been anything but careful.”
Tommy didn’t misunderstand. Imogen shouldn’t be here. She was too close. And he liked it too much. And ruining the woman was not an option.
“So, soon, then?” Rose prodded, looking to Adams. “Come on, Wallace. You’ve got the ear of the commissioner.”
“You’ve never met a question you wouldn’t ask, have you?” Tommy said to his sister.
Rose grinned. “Not yet, but there’s hope!”
“I expect Mr. Peck will receive his promotion just as soon as our work together is complete,” Imogen said, drawing all attention. She smiled, and he was impressed with how real it appeared, considering it was forced.
“That’s wonderful news!” Esme said.
“Even better if it means that the two of you will stop talking as though work is all that brought you here tonight,” his sister whispered in his ear as she got up to clear the table.
Imogen stood to help, and Rose waved her back, as though she could sense the truth—that Imogen Loveless had likely never cleared a table in her life. That she was simply visiting their world for a time.
“It was a lovely dinner, Mrs. Peck,” she said to Esme. “Thank you very much for having me.”
Tommy heard the unspoken preparation for goodbye in the words and he bit back a curse. The reminder of their arrangement—of his place in the world and at Scotland Yard—had returned her doubt. And now, he would have to take her home.
It was for the best, he knew. He knew it. He knew it.
“A bit rough and ready,” his mother was replying with a laugh. “I imagine your meals are less chaotic than this group’s.”
“Not by choice,” Imogen said. “I confess, when I am at home, I often eat alone.”
Esme grew serious. That meals were to be shared was the most serious of her maternal commandments. “Your mother?”
“She passed when I was six.”
Tommy wanted to reach for her. He knew what it was to lose one parent, but to lose both, and so early—no one deserved it. And he wanted to tell her so. Of course, he couldn’t.
“So it is you and your brother, now?” Rose asked.
“In a sense.” Imogen gave a little shrug. “He’s ten years older. We haven’t much in common . . .” Her eyes found Tommy’s, and it was impossible to look away from her. He wanted to drink it all in, every bit of information she was willing to share. That, and he’d met her brother. They were nothing alike. She was legions brighter than him. Better than him.
“Suffice to say, our dinners are not as enjoyable as this one.” She tossed a knowing smile at Tommy. “He adores lamb.”
He laughed. “Well. I can’t guarantee this dinner won’t still go south,” Tommy said, sliding a look to his sister. “Rose hasn’t even begun her interrogations.”
Imogen laughed. “I am more than happy to be interrogated.”
Rose clapped her hands. “Oh, excellent! I’ve a list of questions!”
So did Tommy, if he was honest. There were a dozen of them he should be asking as he rifled through her carpetbag to find all the evidence she’d collected over the past few weeks.
But instead, the only questions that came to mind were dangerous ones.
Would you like to have dinner with me every night?
“It seems a fair payment for that delicious stew,” Imogen offered.
May I kiss you senseless in the carriage on the way home?
“And there’s cake, too!” Annabelle announced.
“I suppose I shall have to answer an extra one for that!”
Would you let me carry you to bed?
Imogen met his eyes, and must have seen something of his thoughts, as she flushed almost immediately and looked away before adding, “I have questions, as well!”
“Excellent! Let’s go around then,” Rose said, from where she was stacking the bowls on a table near a washbasin. “It shall be a game of sorts.”
“I want to play a game!” Annabelle announced. “I have a question!”
Imogen included the little girl without hesitation. “And what is it?”
Annabelle hesitated for an endless amount of time. “I don’t remember.”
Where half the world, Tommy included, would have laughed or grown frustrated with the reply, Imogen nodded seriously and said, “Would you like to see a trick instead?”
The table went quiet as Annabelle fairly shouted, “Yes!”
Imogen pointed in the direction of the door. “Do you see my bag over there? On the floor?”
Annabelle went up on her knees and craned to look. “It’s very big.”
Tommy gave a little laugh at that, and Imogen gave him a tiny smile before saying, simply, “Of course it is. Where else am I to keep my tricks? Would you be a dear and fetch it for me? Do you think you are strong enough?”
What? That bag was filled with God knew what—but Tommy would wager at least half a dozen things that would kill a grown man.
“Hang on,” Tommy said, coming out of his chair as Annabelle leapt over the back of her own to do as she was bidden. “I shall get it for you.”
“No!” Annabelle was moving with the inelegant speed that belonged to all children under ten. “She asked me!”
He squeezed behind Adams’s chair, but his niece was already there. “Careful! Something inside may”—he couldn’t say explode—“break.”
Imogen laughed from her place, the tinkling sound drawing his attention like a siren’s call. He was turning toward her before he could stop himself. Her big brown eyes glittered with amusement as she said, sounding like she’d sent his niece for an embroidery basket, “I think she will be fine, Mr. Peck.”
He frowned, but Annabelle delivered the bag without event. Imogen set it on her lap and opened it, and Tommy lifted himself up in his seat to attempt to see its contents, an impossible task as the woman had her head practically inside the thing, extracting two pieces of paper, a small sharpened stick that looked like a leadless pencil, and a jar of white liquid that looked like milk but could easily have been poison.
This was Imogen Loveless, after all.
He returned to the table, watching, along with everyone else.
“I understand there is a cat in this house,” Imogen said.
Annabelle nodded. “His name is Cat.”
“An excellent name,” Imogen said seriously.
“Uncle Tommy found him in the garbage and gave him to Grandma.”
“With the name already attached, I imagine.” Imogen slid an admiring look at Tommy, and he resisted the urge to preen. There wasn’t anything heroic about finding the damn cat. Anyone would have saved him.
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, and not because he wanted to reach across the table and push a curl from where it had fallen across Imogen’s brow. “It was a perfectly serviceable name.”
“I do not disagree,” she said, and he heard the laugh in the words. Enjoyed it more than he should as she offered her hand to Annabelle, who immediately took it. Imogen turned it in her grasp and lifted the wooden tool from the table. With a quick look at Rose, she said, “It’s goat’s-lettuce juice. Perfectly safe.”
Rose nodded her approval, and Imogen looked to Annabelle. “I understand Cat is too busy to visit with us this evening.”
Annabelle nodded, but said nothing, too riveted to Imogen’s actions as she dipped the pencil into the milky liquid and then began to draw on the back of the little girl’s hand—the liquid clear as it hit skin.
The rest of the table watched Annabelle’s hand, but Tommy knew better. He watched Imogen. Her pretty pink lips curved in a perfect smile, the hint of a dimple in the cheek facing him, the way her breasts rose and fell above the yellow wool of her dress.
The way her throat moved as she broke the watchful silence. “Mr. Adams, I could not help but notice the lovely pin you wear. It’s very unique. Is it a saint?”
Tommy settled in, grateful for the turn to one of Wallace’s favorite topics, giving him a chance to catalogue this woman who was more fascinating than any woman he’d ever met before. Whom he feared might be more fascinating than any woman he’d ever meet in the future.
Wallace leaned back in his chair and spread his hands wide over his torso. “It is, indeed. St. Michael.”
“The archangel?” she asked, looking up at the older man’s nod before dipping her pencil in the liquid again and returning to Annabelle’s hand. “I confess, I don’t know much more than that, as I am woefully unknowledgeable of Scripture.” She paused and said to Annabelle, “Please don’t tell your uncle Stanley.”
Annabelle giggled, and Tommy’s chest tightened with pleasure.
“Aye,” Wallace said. “Michael, the archangel who sent Satan back to hell. Protector of warriors. Bringer of good luck. And so all the men at Scotland Yard get the medallion when they pass the five-year mark.”
Imogen leaned forward. “And what does it say?”
“Quis ut Deus. Who is like God?” A gleam slid into the other man’s eyes. “No one, of course. But St. Michael weighed souls for judgment, so he came the closest, I think.”
Imogen’s brows rose. “A heavy burden, weighing souls.”
Wallace nodded with a grunt of agreement. “Luckily, he’s the boys at Whitehall to help him.”
“The long arm of justice,” she said, her gaze flickering to Tommy, then back to Annabelle’s hand, as though everything were perfectly ordinary.
“Exactly.”
Tommy was watching Imogen carefully, thinking of the things she’d said in the hack about punishment and justice. About how it was meted out in the world. And suddenly, Wallace’s tale of St. Michael rang differently than it had done all the times he’d told it before.
“Tell me, Superintendent Adams,” Imogen said, and Tommy knew what she was about to do. “When you weigh souls, do you find a difference between those in Shoreditch and those in Mayfair?”
The room went still, heavy with the question, everyone hearing the censure in the question. But Wallace did not blink. “No, Miss Loveless. A crime is a crime no matter the address.”
She set the pencil down on the table with a little click. “Fascinating.” She looked at Tommy, and their conversation from earlier rang in his ears. “You do not wear your medallion, Mr. Peck.”
“Detectives do not wear any markings of the police,” he said. “We’re meant to blend in.”
She lifted Annabelle’s hand and blew a slow stream of air over the liquid, drying it before she said, “And how well it works,” she quipped. “No one has ever recognized you.”
“Certainly not the News,” Rose added, picking up the jest. “That must be the reason for a Peek of Peck—you’re practically invisible.”
Tommy scowled as everyone around the table laughed.
“He’s not invisible,” Annabelle protested. “I see him quite well.”
He looked to his niece. “Thank you, Annabelle.”
“You’re very big, Uncle Tommy,” the little girl said, looking to comfort him.
“Well, either way, it’s a lovely medallion,” Imogen said, releasing Annabelle’s hand. “And I’m happy to have learned of it tonight.”
“Wallace is always happy to regale people with the legend of St. Michael,” Esme said, and Tommy could hear something small and tight in his mother’s voice, something that might have been akin to exasperation if she weren’t so embracing.
“St. Michael brings me luck,” Wallace said, leaning back in his chair and spreading his hands over his well-fed stomach. “I wear him every time I come to dinner—hoping that he’ll help me convince Esme to marry me.”
Though Imogen’s jaw dropped at the words, they were not a shock to anyone else at the table. Rose waved away her surprise. “Don’t fret, Wallace asks Mama to marry him at least once a visit.”
“One day, she’s going to say yes,” he said, turning a desiring gaze on Esme. One Tommy had seen a thousand times before. One he feared would never be returned. “I’ve even bought her a house.”
Esme reached out to pat Wallace’s hand where it lay on the table. “It’s too much.”
“Nonsense,” Wallace replied, and Tommy found he understood the words more than he had before. He looked to Imogen as Wallace repeated himself. “It’s where you should be, Esme. A nice little house in Brixton, with a garden and kitchens and a fire ready to warm you whenever you like.” He looked about the room, assessing. “Bigger than this place. Nicer, too.”
Esme smiled, and for the first time, Tommy noticed the tightness in the expression as she stood from the table.
Wallace spread his hands wide and looked to the rest of the table. “She says she doesn’t want me to feel like I have to take care of her.”
“You don’t have to take care of me,” Esme said from where she pulled a cake down from a shelf and unwrapped it, and Tommy heard a thread of irritation in her voice. As though she were tired of this conversation.
Which of course she would be.
He looked to Imogen, taking it all in.
They stared at each other for a beat, and he marveled at her in stillness. Like a hummingbird alighted on a flower—paused for a heartbeat to be seen by only the luckiest of men. Stunning.
And then she returned to motion, changing the room the way she changed the world, and turned to Annabelle. “Is your hand dry?”
Annabelle looked. “There’s nothing there.”
“Hmm.” Imogen put a finger to her lips. “Are you quite sure?”
Annabelle lifted her hand to look more closely. “Yuh.”
“Words, Annabelle,” Rose said, coming to stand behind her daughter. “It’s rude to grunt.”
Annabelle gave a little irritated huff. “There’s nothing.”
Tommy leaned over the table, curious.
“That doesn’t seem right,” Imogen said, feigning confusion. “Thank goodness we have a detective inspector here.” She turned to Tommy, a gleam in her eye that made him want to lift her up and thoroughly kiss her. “Uncle Tommy, would you mind very much . . . inspecting?”
Playing his part, Tommy very seriously looked over the little girl’s hand before telling the truth. “There’s nothing there, I’m afraid.”
“That sneaky cat must have come and taken it,” Imogen said to Annabelle. “Did you see him?”
“No! He didn’t come!”
“Hmm. Well then. Let’s see.” She plucked a cake plate from the pile in Rose’s hand and pointed to the candle at the center of the table. “Would you mind very much passing that candle over here, Detective Inspector?”
He did as he was told, and she set one of the pieces of paper she’d placed on the table aflame, setting it on the plate. As they all watched it burn, she said, “Did you know, Annabelle, that cats often leave their signature when they steal something? They can’t help it. Some think they’re not very clever, but I think it’s something else entirely.”
Annabelle was riveted.
So was Tommy.
This woman . . . she was perfect.
“What do you think?” Annabelle asked.
Imogen looked to Tommy. “I think they are extremely proud of themselves.” He thought of the women she worked with. Of the way they marched themselves into crime scenes and did as they pleased. Of the way they took justice into their own hands.
The embers had faded, leaving only the paper’s ash, and Imogen put out her hand, palm up, and Annabelle immediately put her hand atop it. “Now, I don’t know if the cat did steal my work, but if he did, he won’t have been able to keep quiet about it . . .” She pinched up some ash and then rubbed it on the little girl’s hand.
Everyone leaned forward, watching.
Rose gasped.
Wallace said, “I say!”
Esme chuckled.
And Annabelle announced, “A cat!”
There, on the girl’s hand, in ash, was the face of a perfectly drawn cat. Ears and whiskers and all. Imogen sat back with a satisfied smile, and winked at Tommy before offering a teasing “And you call yourself a detective inspector.”
She was magnificent.
“Mama! Do you see?” Annabelle brandished her hand.
“I do, love,” Rose said, running a hand over her daughter’s hair and looking directly at Tommy. “Miss Loveless is terribly clever, is she not?”
Captivatingly clever.
Imogen was blushing now, and he couldn’t stop looking at her. Marveling at her. He wanted to take her somewhere and have her teach him every trick she knew. And teach her some of the tricks he knew.
“How did you do it?” Annabelle asked. “Was it there the whole time?”
At the question, Imogen tore her gaze from Tommy’s and sat forward, lifting the other piece of paper and tearing it cleanly in two. She handed half to Annabelle. “Would you like to try?”
“Yes!”
If he wasn’t careful, she’d captivate him for longer than a dinner.
And Imogen Loveless did not belong here, in Shoreditch. She belonged in Mayfair with her duchess friends and her earl brother and the rest of that world. It didn’t matter that she fit perfectly at his mother’s table, or that his sister looked as though she wanted to invite her to tea immediately. Or that his niece was now, officially, in love with her.
It didn’t matter that he was coming to like this woman and her particular brand of delight a great deal.
It couldn’t matter.
She was work. He had brought her here for a reason. To show her that he was worthy of her trust. To encourage her to share what she knew. To help him bring those terrorizing the East End to justice.
She wasn’t for him.
“Excuse us, ladies,” Wallace said, drawing Tommy’s attention. “A moment, if you will, Tommy?”
And Wallace was about to remind him so, Tommy told himself as he pushed back from the table and followed his mentor out into the hallway, closing the door—and their chatter—behind him with a quiet snick.
The other man spun on Tommy as the door closed. “What in hell are you doing bringing that girl here?”
Tommy lifted his chin, not liking the sneer that came when Wallace said that girl. “It wasn’t intentional.”
“I hope not.” Adams looked away for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Goddammit, Tom. A lady? What happens if she tells her brother that you brought her to fuckin’ Shoreditch in the dead of damn night?”
“First, it isn’t the dead of night, Wallace. It’s suppertime.”
“Something could happen to her. Then what?”
“I’d never let anything happen to her,” Tommy said instantly, the words like a whip, out faster than he could think them, and he knew instantly he’d said the wrong thing.
Adams froze, leveling him with a stern look. “Christ, Tom. You can’t be thinkin’ . . . Jaysus.”
“I’m thinking of keeping her safe.”
“Yeah, safe in your bed.” The other man closed in on him, raising one long finger in Tommy’s face. “Listen here, Tom. I can’t protect you if you touch her.”
“I don’t need you to protect me anymore, Wallace,” he said. “I’m perfectly capable of doing the job. On my own.”
“Are you?” Wallace hissed. “Because this ain’t how you please a toff.”
Tommy hated the words. Not because he was keeping Imogen safe—God knew she required it. But because they made him feel dirty, as though he was only doing it because some rich member of Parliament needed a hound from Scotland Yard to do his bidding. “I shouldn’t have to please a toff, Wallace. I should be good enough for the job, or not.”
Wallace scoffed. “You’re just like your father. He never took the easy way.”
Tommy looked at the man who’d taken care of everything in the wake of his father’s death—the man who’d been his mentor and trusted friend for years, and said, “I’d rather earn it. The lady knows things about a case that should earn it for me.”
Adams’s icy blue gaze narrowed on him. “What case?”
“The explosions in the East End.”
A beat. “Och. Those damn explosions. I told you to wave off them. They ain’t nothing. And now, what, you’ve got some lady detective filling your head with nonsense?”
“That’s the thing,” Tommy said, willing this man who’d taught him everything about investigations to hear him. “I don’t think it is nonsense.”
“It is,” Adams said, unexpectedly firm enough to startle Tommy. “You’re this close to being a superintendent, Tom. Stay out of the East End and close to Mayfair, where the titles can see you. Stay on this path. Get the girl home, and for God’s sake—I don’t care if the gel’s writhing with it. Don’t fuck her.”
The way Wallace said the words, dripping with disdain and disrespect, made Tommy want to put a fist through something. Preferably his mentor’s face. Every muscle in Tommy’s body tightened as he took a step toward his superior, teeth clenched. “You don’t talk about her that way.”
Adams’s brows shot up. “What are you going to do? Hit me?” He gave a little laugh. “In your mother’s flat? Shit, Tom. You’re in it, aren’t you?” He shook his head. “That girl . . . she ain’t just a girl, Tom. She’s a lady. And you’re a Peeler from Shoreditch. How do you think this ends? With her doin’ the washing up in your mother’s basin every Sunday night, wearin’ a frock that costs more than the rent?”
Obviously not. Tommy knew the score.
Adams looked to the ceiling and cursed. “Do I need to take over watching the girl?”
No. She’s mine.
No one was guarding her but Tommy. Not while he breathed air.
He stilled as the response coursed through him, barely keeping it in. Terrified of what it meant. He took a deep breath. Forced himself to relax. To loosen his fists. To rock back on his heels. “No.”
Adams watched him carefully. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said.
“Uncle Tommy!” Annabelle called from inside. “Come look!”
Tommy didn’t move, letting a long moment pass until Adams exhaled harshly. “Alright. You take the girl home now. And you never bring her back. Jesus, Tom. Use your head.”
The door burst open, Annabelle on the other side of it, waving a piece of paper in her hand. “Uncle Tommy! Come see! I wrote you a note!”
Tommy took it from her and forced a smile, stepping from the dark hallway into the warm golden light of the flat, his gaze immediately finding Imogen, who stood on the far side of the table, an expectant light in her eyes. As though she’d been waiting for him.
What would it be like to have this woman always waiting for him?
You’re a Peeler from Shoreditch.
He swallowed and tore his gaze from her, looking down at the blank paper in his hands. “What’s this? Did the cat steal my message?”
Annabelle shook her head, an enormous grin on her face. “I wrote you a letter in invisible ink!”
“Did you? I don’t think so.”
“Miss Loveless! Bring it here!”
“I’m coming.” She laughed, lifting a candle from the table and crossing toward them, so plump and pretty in her yellow dress, looking like a lemon sweet. Something tightened in his chest.
No. Don’t come here. Don’t come closer.
But she did, closer and closer, until she was right in front of him, a carefree smile on her face. She extended the candle between them, low enough so Annabelle could watch. “Hold it over the candle.”
He did, looking down. “Nothing.”
“Patience, Detective,” she teased, and it took all he had to watch the paper and not her. Not her silky curls, or her rosy cheeks, or her beautiful skin, or those breasts that would haunt him forever.
She’s a lady.
You’re a Peeler from Shoreditch.
And then he saw it. Words, appearing on the paper.
Annabelle clapped, delighted, and Imogen grinned up at him. “Do you see, Uncle?”
He did see. I love you. Written in the unmistakably messy, sloping scrawl of a seven-year-old.
“Isn’t it wonderful?”
He sucked in a breath. “It is. It’s wonderful.” Ignoring the concern in Imogen’s eyes, he turned to pull Annabelle close. “I love it. And I love you, too.”
Annabelle beamed, and Tommy willed his heart to stop the pounding that had started the moment he’d seen the message and he’d imagined, unbidden, for a wild moment, how it might be to get that message from a different little girl . . . one with big brown eyes and a riot of beautiful black curls and a sweet round face.
Just like her mother.
Shit.
He had to get away from her.
