Though Imogen could have headed to Trevescan House after leaving Lorelei’s bordello, she saw no reason to put off the inevitable, so she returned home to Dorring House, hoping that she would find her brother in residence.
He was not, because of course he was not. But his valet insisted that he was expected back that evening, so Imogen washed and dressed and waited in the library by a fire that had been stoked to roaring, just off the main foyer of the house, doing her very best to forget that she had come embarrassingly, dangerously close to begging for Tommy Peck to love her, to choose her, to believe her when she said she chose him.
The old adage was right, it seemed. Beggars could not, in fact, be choosers.
She’d begged. She’d chosen.
And she’d been rejected.
So, in the wake of it, Imogen sat in her brother’s library, recommitting to the life she’d already committed to—the one she’d been perfectly happy with before he’d come along and ruined everything. She would be a vigilante with a penchant for chemistry and explosives, and a lifelong spinster. Perhaps she’d get herself a dog to carry about in her carpetbag. She could call it something delightful. Like Pyroglycerine.
The main door to the house opened and closed, and within seconds, Charles appeared in the doorway to the library. “What on earth are you doing in here at this hour?”
She looked up from the fire and decided not to reply, Moping in the dark, as Charles had never indicated even an ounce of empathy and she did not expect him to find any just then. Instead she said, “As it happens, I was thinking about the name for my dog.”
He made a face. “You’ve a dog?”
“No, but I am thinking of getting one.”
There was a beat of silence before he entered the room. “What’s wrong with you?”
She’d had her heart broken.
Was it possible Charles was more interested in her than she thought? “Why would you ask such a thing?”
“Well, for one, you’re wearing a normal color.”
She looked down at the muted rose gown. She hadn’t worn orange. Or purple or green or yellow or blue. She’d stood in front of her wardrobe, staring at a rainbow of colors, Tommy’s words filling her thoughts like the buzzing of bees, and she’d chosen this in an act of rebellion. Though Tommy wouldn’t see it.
But the fact that her brother had noticed it was a shock.
He was still talking. “Nor are you in the cellars with your laboratory—”
“You told me the cellars are off limits.”
“Oh, and was I also to believe you would listen?” She didn’t reply as he continued. “Nor are you with your friends in Covent Garden, or with your Peeler doing whatever it is you think I have not been told you are doing.”
She opened her mouth to deny the truth and he raised his hand. “Whatever you are about to say, Imogen, I would remind you that you are not the only brilliant child in this family.”
Her brows rose. “I thought you thought I was odd.”
“I absolutely think you are odd. In part because you are so brilliant. Why do you think I want you married?”
She shook her head. “Charles, I—”
“I know,” he said, crossing the room to pour a drink. “I assume you drink this?”
“I do,” she said.
“Of course you do.” He poured a second glass of whisky and crossed the room to deliver it before taking the chair opposite her in front of the fire. “Tell me. Do you expect me to let you ruin yourself for a Peeler from . . . God knows where?”
“Shoreditch.”
“Where in hell is Shoreditch?” He waved the question away. “I don’t care. If you think doing whatever you’ve done with him is enough to convince me to let you marry him, you might not be brilliant. You might just be madder than everyone thinks.”
I don’t think you’re chaos. I don’t think you’re mad.
She sucked in a deep breath, resisting the sting that came instantly, shockingly, to the spot behind her nose at the words and the memory. Tears? Because of something Charles said? What an indignity. Absolutely not.
Her brother clearly felt similarly. “Dear God, Imogen,” he said, horrified. “Surely that’s not necessary?”
“Even if you could let me marry him,” she argued, ignoring the question, “he won’t marry me. He thinks I’m too good for him.”
A beat. “Well. At least one of you has sense.”
“He’s wrong though. He’s wonderful. I would be very lucky to call him my—”
Oh, no. She was going to cry.
“Oh, for God’s—” Charles shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Stop this right now. You cannot weep in the library.”
“That’s a strange rule. I have no intention of weeping. Here or anywhere else,” she lied. She would very likely weep later. Alone. But she wasn’t about to admit it.
“Good,” he said, taking a drink.
She tilted a head in his direction. “May I ask something?”
He slid her a look. “Do I have a choice?”
“Do you really think me brilliant?”
“It’s not a matter of opinion,” he said, flatly. “You’ve always been so. Since you were a babe. A natural head for maths and science and languages and logic and about a dozen other things that the rest of the world must work for . . . and all of it coming so easily to you. You think I have not seen what you’re up to in the cellars?”
She shook her head, unable to keep the surprise from her tone at her brother’s kindness. “You never seemed to care . . .”
“Of course I cared.” He sighed. “But I do not know how to be a father to you. Especially not like our father was.”
“I had a father, Charles. I do not require another. But I would not have minded you deciding to be my brother.”
He did not reply, which did not surprise her, considering Charles was not the kind of person who said things that would be considered in any way emotional. Instead, they sat in silence for a long moment before he said, “May I ask you something now?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He did not laugh at the jest. “How ruined are you?”
She didn’t hesitate. “I hate that word.”
“Yes, well, we can discuss issues with verbiage at a later time.”
She met his gaze—bright blue and serious. “Some might say I am thoroughly ruined.”
He sighed again.
“Don’t sigh at me, Charles. You have an entire mistress. Probably more than one.”
“That’s different.” A pause before he added, “And only one.”
“It really isn’t,” she said. “At least, it shouldn’t be. The only reason why you’re not also ruined is because you are rich. And male.”
“That kind of thinking is why you’ll never find a husband.”
“That kind of thinking is why I have no interest in a husband,” she retorted. But the lie of the words crashed through her even as they still hung in the air. Because there was a man she would marry. There was a husband she would choose.
Except he had made it clear he was not for choosing.
“I could force him to the altar, you know,” Charles said.
Imogen recoiled, instantly. “No.”
“Why not? You wish him yours?”
Desperately so. She wished him her husband, her partner, the father of her children, her friend, her guard, the man who would stand by her side as they fought for justice. But more than all that, “Because he must wish me his, as well.”
Something flashed on her brother’s face, and for a moment, she wondered if he might have something to say that was not cool or unyielding. And for a moment, she wondered if she might like it.
But before he could, a shout sounded in the hallway.
Charles extracted his pocket watch. Imogen looked to the clock in the corner of the library. Half-past twelve. No one should be shouting in the hallway.
As one, they stood, perhaps the only time they’d done anything in step, ever.
The door to the library opened, and a footman rushed in. “My lord—”
But before he could finish, he was pushed out of the way by three men of varying heights and builds and ages, all in uniforms of navy wool—a fabric Imogen knew well.
The police had arrived.
Charles immediately stepped between Imogen and the men, in a movement that surprised her with its easy, instinctive protection. “Gentlemen,” he said, Mayfair clear and smooth in his voice. “You seem to have lost your way.”
One stepped forward, his gaze already settled on Imogen, angry and mercenary, and she instantly recognized him. Or, rather, she recognized the raspberry across his cheek—the result of the blast from her obsidian brooch that afternoon.
A brooch she was no longer wearing, unfortunately. She made a note to replace it with more than one the moment she was out of this particular situation.
Imogen’s brows rose and she said, trying for her most charming, “Look at you! Barely a scratch. And with friends.”
He scowled and returned his attention to Charles. “Lord Dorring. By order of the commissioner of police, we are here to arrest your sister, Lady Imogen Loveless.”
Bless her brother for his unflappable poise. “I beg your pardon? Arrest my sister? A lady?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve instructions to search the premises for evidence relating to a series of explosions across the East End of London.”
Charles’s laugh was full of aristocratic superiority. “I assure you, that’s not going to happen. Not ever, but certainly not in the dead of night.”
So this was how it was to end, Imogen thought. They were going to do it in front of all of London. Aboveboard. They’d find her laboratory in the cellars. All her experiments with the explosive liquids from the blast sites. The strips of uniform from Scotland Yard—where she’d been inside the uniform closet.
And whatever they did not find, they would make sure was found anyway.
And they would be believed when they blamed Imogen for everything. Because of the uniforms. And the power. And the will of those who paid handsomely to keep them on the leash.
The proof was right there—three policemen, fanned out in the library belonging to one of the most powerful men in Britain, as though they had every right to be there.
“If there is reason for my sister to be taken in for questioning at Whitehall,” Charles was saying, “I shall deliver her there, tomorrow. But you must be mad if you think I will turn her over to you lot in the dead of night. And even madder still if you think I’ll entertain this intrusion in the dead of night.”
“Commissioner Battersea believes the lady is at risk of fleeing the city,” the man she should have exploded a bit more said. A pause. “She’s gone missing before, by your own testament. And this afternoon, she assaulted two members of the Metropolitan Police.”
“My sister, assaulting the police!” Charles laughed. “Really, gentlemen. Have you seen my sister? She’s half your size. What kind of policemen are you keeping over there at Whitehall?” He turned to Imogen. “Sister, have you been assaulting policemen?”
“In my defense, only one of these policemen,” she said happily, lifting her chin and staring down raspberry-cheek. “And I assure you, he deserved it.”
Charles’s brows rose as he followed her gaze to the man who had been speaking. “I have no trouble believing that.”
The retort seemed to bring the Peeler to the end of his tether. “Grab him,” he said, indicating the earl, even as he headed for Imogen. She eased sideways, toward the mantelpiece, where a ceramic vessel sat long forgotten.
Three men attempted to subdue a now struggling Charles as raspberry-cheek came for her.
She let him push her back, toward the fire. “You really didn’t learn your lesson this afternoon, did you?”
Confusion flashed across his face. “And what lesson’s that?”
“Never assume a lady is unarmed.”
His gaze skated over her dress and still, he pressed toward her. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Alright, but I will warn you . . . taking your chances that I won’t hurt you is about as good an idea as my taking the chances that you’ll actually be delivering me to Scotland Yard if I go with you.”
He was almost close enough to touch. She didn’t have more time.
Imogen pivoted and grabbed the vase on the mantel, praying that the housemaids weren’t thorough. Without hesitating, she shouted, “Eyes closed, Charles!” And tossed the vase into the fire.
Pow!
The noise that shook the house paled in comparison to the bright flash of light that crackled through the room, leaving the villains instinctively throwing their hands up.
“Shit!”
“Aargh!”
“What in—!” The last was from Charles.
Imogen didn’t have time to savor the responses, or the beauty of that particular explosion. She was too busy grabbing her brother’s hand and pulling him through the smoke and out into the hallway, slamming the door to the library behind them.
Charles proved immediately resourceful, sweeping one arm off the top of a heavy mahogany credenza in the hallway and pushing it in front of the door. “Tell me, sister,” he said as Imogen leaned in to hold it firm—the men within were already attempting to escape. “Are there explosives all over the house? Or just in the rooms with the most flammable items?”
“Now why would I ruin that surprise?” she quipped, turning to find a group of sleepy-eyed servants converging on them. She looked to her brother. “Charles—I will explain everything. But right now . . . this is the Police. We need help.”
The words were barely out when his valet, a man Imogen had never realized was as young and strong as he now seemed, shouldered her aside to hold the villains at bay. “How many within?”
“Three,” Charles replied. “Easily taken, if you ask me.” He looked to Imogen, who was shocked at the very idea of her brother taking down a trio of bruisers. “Where there are three, there are more, sister. It’s time for you to return to hiding.”
“No,” she said. “No more hiding. It’s time for us to end this.”
“Then you’d best fetch that help you mentioned.”
She needed her crew.
Holding tight to that thought she flew through the dark hallway and down the rear stairs to the quiet, uninhabited kitchens . . . out the back door into the mews behind Dorring House.
She was two steps into the alley, already headed to the street, when a hand grasped her arm, firm and painful, and she cried out, spinning back toward her captor.
Her eyes went instantly wide in recognition when the man spoke.
“It turns out they’re right: If you want something done properly, you must do it yourself.”
Three things occurred at once: First, Wallace Adams, Tommy’s mentor, was running the corruption at Scotland Yard.
Second, Imogen was about to be kidnapped.
And third, she didn’t have her bag.
Dammit.
