Knockout: A Hell’s Belles Novel

In all the time Imogen had imagined Tommy Peck outside of Scotland Yard—and Lord knew that was a great deal of time—it had never occurred to her that he might have a family.

She’d imagined him at a pub in Marylebone after work with the men from Whitehall, drinking a pint and mulling his next case. She’d imagined him at home, in the small apartments she knew he let in Holborn, reading by candlelight, a whisky at his elbow.

Once, while on a walk in Hyde Park, she’d imagined him swimming alone in the Serpentine lake, his broad body cutting through the water, rivulets of water sluicing over his muscles.

Imogen liked that one very much.

From time to time she’d imagined him with a woman. Nameless and faceless, but tall and graceful and stunning—with endlessly long locks that defied gravity and a level of sophisticated understanding of the mechanics of intercourse that made her all any man desired.

Imogen didn’t like that one at all.

But she’d never imagined that there might be a flat in Shoreditch where his mother lived, a beautiful white woman—tall and lithe and lovely, who looked impossibly young, as though there was simply no way she had a son Tommy’s age—who greeted them with a warm hello and an even warmer smile, then opened the door to their flat and welcomed her son in from the cold, along with the total stranger with whom he’d arrived.

Perhaps it was the bizarre, unexpected discovery that made Imogen so happy to accept his mother’s invitation inside. Curiosity was a quality Imogen was rarely able to control.

He stepped to the side to let her enter before him, the little girl—his niece, Annabelle, who proudly announced she was seven—in his arms. As she passed, he said quietly, “We’re not staying.”

Imogen nodded, ignoring the disappointment that came at his words, and his clear discomfort with her being there. Whatever coincidence had brought her here, following his mother up the stairs to the small flat, her gaze focused on the striped broadcloth of her workaday skirts, he didn’t want Imogen there. But she couldn’t stop herself from stealing this glimpse of him—a glimpse she’d never get again.

At the top of the stairs, a door stood ajar, and Mrs. Peck pushed through. Imogen hesitated on the threshold, suddenly nervous. She paused and looked back over her shoulder, to where Tommy stood two steps below her, Annabelle in arms, his eyes level with hers.

One of his dark brows rose in a silent question. This whole thing was unsettling and unexpected—the last thing he’d done was kiss her senseless and then leave her alone in a carriage to ride up with the driver. And now she was standing in his mother’s flat. But she couldn’t find the words to say all that, so instead she settled for “Is it alright?”

Hesitation flashed across his face, and she held her breath. If he told her no, she would leave. The whole world might think Imogen Loveless lacking in grace or tact or an ability to understand her place, but she did not want him to think those things. She did not want him to think of her as chaos or mayhem or anything embarrassing at all right now.

Right now, for some reason she would consider later, it was important that he chose for her to be there. That he be just a touch impressed with her. Just as he would be for that nameless, faceless, graceful, sophisticated woman with whom Imogen sometimes imagined he kept company.

He nodded. Tiny. Barely there. And paired it with a low, rumbling “Go on.”

Imogen stepped over the threshold.

The flat was as warm and welcoming as Tommy’s mother had been outside, a glowing fire in the hearth, several heavy pots arranged within, three chairs placed around the fire, each covered with a brightly colored knitted blanket. Next to the chair closest to the fire was a basket full of a smoky grey yarn, a project in progress. Small carpets overlapped all throughout the space, keeping the floor warm; the multicolored patchwork headed away from the room, down a small hallway to another room, where, through the open door, Imogen could see an iron bed, carefully made and adorned with another homemade blanket.

Tommy set Annabelle down, and she went racing down the hallway, shouting their arrival. Imogen couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s rare I get such an excited introduction.”

Mrs. Peck shook her head with a laugh. “Please, come in! Coats, Tommy!”

Imogen passed her coat to be hung on a peg by the door.

The centerpiece of the front room was a wooden table large enough to dwarf the space, scraped and scarred and stained from what looked like years of use, set carefully with four places.

The sun was setting and tomorrow Shoreditch would have to work, so it was nearly time for dinner, which explained the delicious smell. Heavenly. Like bread and ale and a mix of delicious things bubbling away in pots on the stove, where Tommy’s mother paused to stir whatever was in the largest before covering it once more, and turning to level her son with a curious look. “What a treat, Tommy. It’s not every day you bring a guest to supper—”

“We’re not staying for supper.”

His mother continued as though he had not spoken. “Are you going to introduce us?”

There was a horrifying beat in the wake of the question—one Imogen immediately understood. Tommy did not wish to introduce her—for no doubt a dozen reasons. But the truth was, there was no easy way for him to explain her presence there. A lady he was to be watching because the home secretary played cards with her brother, who wished her to stay out of trouble long enough to be married off, but also a lady who happened to have taken evidence from the scene of a rather serious crime . . . and worse, an aristocrat! Imogen was not ordinary dinner guest material.

But she was in his mother’s house, so he cleared his throat and said, “This is L—”

“Loveless!” Imogen interrupted, dropping into a small curtsy. Knowing what would happen if he said lady. Not wanting this woman, in her perfect, wonderful, immaculate home, to have to feel she was required to stand on any ceremony whatsoever. “Imogen Loveless,” she added, realizing that a given name was important in moments such as this. “Please. Call me Imogen. I’m so very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Peck.”

There was a beat as the older woman took her in—women weren’t supposed to interrupt men in the East End, either, Imogen imagined—and then her beautiful face broke into a smile. “Well. If I’m to call you Imogen, you must call me Esme.”

“Oh, no,” Imogen said, turning a wide-eyed look on Tommy. “I couldn’t.”

“Then Miss Loveless it is,” Esme said, turning away and waving a hand at the table. “Tommy, we’ll need the bench from the other room if you are staying for supper.”

“We’re not staying for supper!”

“Why did you come here at suppertime then?” His mother tossed him a look that even Imogen, who did not remember her mother, knew was best described as maternal certainty.

“We didn’t—” He bit back the retort, seeming to know, with the keen instincts of a child, when a battle with a mother was simply unwinnable.

They were staying for supper, apparently, which suited Imogen quite well.

Any further argument from Tommy was interrupted by a loud scream of “Uncle Tommy!” Annabelle was back, propelling herself down the hallway and directly into Tommy’s outstretched arms.

Imogen watched, eyes wide, as Tommy Peck, pride of Scotland Yard, feigned weakness and cried out an exaggerated, “Aarghhh-oof!” before lifting a little girl into his arms once more, making a meal of it.

The girl patted Tommy’s beard and laughed with unrestrained glee. “Higher!”

He laughed and did as he was told, lifting her again in his strong arms, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made Imogen wish she could draw closer and get a better look.

“Annabelle!” A dark-haired white woman was coming down the hallway now. “Stop yelling in Uncle Tommy’s ear. So sorry,” she added, brushing at her skirts. “We were attempting to get the cat out from under the bed.”

Annabelle yelled directly into Tommy’s ear. “Did you bring me something?”

“Let’s see,” Tommy said, reaching into his pocket and extracting a small round tin.

“Peppermints!” the little girl shouted, snatching them from her uncle’s hand, squirming to get down, and thundering past her mother.

“Don’t spoil your supper!” the woman called after her. “It’s hard to believe that the cat doesn’t wish to come out from under the bed, with all this quiet calm, isn’t it?” She reached out to shake Imogen’s hand as she tipped her head in Tommy’s direction. “Rose Lowry.”

“My sister,” Tommy added, seeming to understand that introductions remained in order.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lowry,” Imogen said. “Imogen Loveless.”

“That’s a beautiful color.” Rose’s gaze tracked over Imogen’s yellow dress, lingering on the brooch pinned to the neck. “And that brooch is gorgeous.”

Imogen lifted a hand and brushed her fingers over the obsidian design, but before she could thank her, Rose pressed a kiss to Tommy’s cheek. “Alright, brother mine? I saw the News made you famous!” She looked to Imogen with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Dark curls are en vogue I see.”

It was decided. Imogen liked this woman.

“Don’t you have other things to do than read the News?” Tommy grumbled.

“Difficult to do those other things when every lady I know is finding time to bring baskets of teacakes over in the hopes that she might get a Peek of Peck!”

Imogen couldn’t hold in her laughter, and Rose tossed her a grin. “I see you know of the game.”

“Not only do I know it,” Imogen said, “I very much enjoy teasing your brother about it.”

“Excellent!” Rose laughed. “Now. How did you and Tommy meet, Miss Loveless?”

Imogen looked to Tommy, wondering what to say. She couldn’t tell his family the truth—that they’d met any number of times in the course of his investigations into crimes across London. And she couldn’t tell them the rest of it, either . . . that the moment they’d met, it had been Imogen who wanted a Peek of Peck. That she’d wanted a Peek of Peck for fourteen months. And the affliction was growing worse. Not better.

Luckily, Tommy answered for her. “We are work colleagues.”

Imogen barely held back her grimace. Work colleagues?

Rose’s eyes went wide. “They’ve women working at Scotland Yard now?”

“No,” Tommy said.

Everyone waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, Rose looked to Imogen. “Do you have brothers, Imogen?”

“One,” she said.

“And is he as insufferable as mine?”

Imogen had been in this room with Rose and Tommy for less than ten minutes, and she knew that there was nothing remotely similar in their circumstances when it came to their siblings. Even if it didn’t seem like they properly adored each other, in his lifetime, Tommy would never dream of marrying Rose to the highest bidder.

Nevertheless, Imogen played along with a grin, ignoring the way her throat tightened at the thought. “Oh, absolutely.”

Rose laughed and Imogen was consumed with eagerness—a desire to stay in this warm room full of food and family and charm, so different than the home that awaited her when Tommy brought her back to Mayfair.

“Go into the bedroom and get the bench by the window, Tommy. And Rose, set two more places.”

He moved instantly, but not to do his mother’s bidding. Instead, he came for Imogen, bearing down on her with a look that was part concern and part desperation. He placed a hand at her elbow and pulled her aside.

“We do not have to stay,” he said quietly, bending close to her ear. “You are not obligated to be here.”

The words were soft—more breath than sound—and they sent a shiver through her as she looked past his shoulder to the other women in the room, who were doing their very best to pretend they were not noticing how close Tommy and Imogen stood to each other.

And it occurred to her that in all her years in the house in Mayfair, occupied by generations of Earls of Dorring, Imogen had never experienced this kind of kinship. And she couldn’t help a heartbeat of nearly unbearable envy.

She looked up at him, meeting his beautiful blue eyes—eyes she now knew he shared with his sister and mother—and realized that she wanted, for just a moment, to pretend that she was welcome here. That he wanted her here. That she might belong here.

“I want to stay,” she said softly. “Very much.”

With a wary look—did he think she was going to steal the silverware?—he nodded once and turned away, heading to do his mother’s bidding.

The moment he left the room, Esme pounced. “So Imogen, how long have you and Tommy been . . .”

“Mother!” Rose said with an apologetic laugh as she fetched two additional bowls from a high shelf. “Leave it!”

“Och, leave it.” Esme waved a hand in the air. “The boy has never brought a woman into this house before. A mother’s allowed to be curious!”

Imogen couldn’t help the little hum of pleasure that came at the revelation that, whomever Tommy Peck spent his nights with, there was no one particular. At least, no one he brought to family dinner. He didn’t bring you either. She cleared her throat. “Oh, I am not a woman.”

Rose and Esme turned curious eyes on her, and Imogen wrinkled her nose in frustration. “I mean, I am a woman. Of course. But I am not . . . Tommy’s . . . Mr. Peck’s . . . woman. That is—he is not—I do not—” She let out a little sigh and brushed a curl from her forehead. “You understand.”

“Understand what?” Tommy asked as he reentered, carrying a long wooden bench to the end of the table, where Rose had set the bowls.

“That we are not—” She waved a hand between them. “You know.”

He looked up from where he was straightening the bench but did not speak.

“Lovers,” she said pointedly, before clapping her hand over her mouth as though she might belatedly keep the word in. “I didn’t mean that, either! I meant . . . you know . . . lovers in the poetical sense. The point is—”

“You are not a woman, you and Tommy are not lovers—in any sense—and there is no reason for our mother to make meaning of you joining us for a perfectly normal Thursday night dinner,” Rose said.

Imogen nodded, feeling very relieved. “Yes. Precisely.”

Tommy’s lips twitched in amusement. “I missed quite a bit in the forty-five seconds I was away.”

“Life moves quickly,” Imogen said, flustered and frustrated. Because it was a lie, was it not? They were, in fact, if not lovers, then something, weren’t they? They’d been kissing in the hack not thirty minutes earlier. They’d only stopped kissing because he’d stopped the damn carriage. Nobly, she supposed, even if she’d been disappointed.

Not that she was disappointed any longer.

Well. Maybe a little disappointed.

“As I said”—Tommy cut his mother a pointed look—“we are . . . friendly . . . through work.”

Rose scoffed. “Work.”

“Not work?” Imogen asked.

“Not work,” Rose said. “Tommy hates bringing work home. You wouldn’t be here if it was work.”

Tommy nodded. “Sometimes, a particular case requires a more personal touch.” He met Imogen’s eyes. “This investigation happens to cover the East End, and we were nearby.”

They’d been in Mayfair. But she understood what he was reminding her. She was there for work. She was there because he was attempting to show her that he did care for more than money and power and privilege and Parliament. That he had come from here. Wasn’t that what he’d said in the hack?

But he’d intended a drive, and now it was dinner.

And his lovely family.

And it was delicious.

“Well, if you’re in the East End at dusk, it’s a good thing you’ve Tommy with you. The boy knows every nook and cranny out here, and will keep you out of trouble.”

Imogen looked to him, perfectly straight, perfectly groomed, perfectly serious. Perfect. “I imagine he was the kind of child who was always out of trouble.”

“I imagine you were the opposite.”

She grinned. “I remain the opposite.”

He gave a tiny exhale of laughter, as though he couldn’t help but like her reply. But like her. “Oh, I know.”

Rose and Esme shared a look before Esme said, “In fact, Tommy wasn’t always out of trouble.”

It was as though Imogen had won a prize. “He wasn’t?”

“Mother.” The word was a gruff warning.

It did not work on Esme, whose blue eyes gleamed. “No. Indeed, I recall one particular knock at the door one afternoon when he was about fourteen . . .”

“Mother . . .” Now it was a growl.

Imogen thought she might perish of curiosity. “Who was it?”

Tommy’s ears were turning red. “It’s not important. Where’s Annabelle?”

Rose was already snickering. “You want Annabelle to hear this story?”

He bit back a curse and turned away, the red now coloring his cheeks.

“At the time, the house had a laundry line that was shared between our place and the facing building at the rear,” Esme said, delighting in the story. “A building that housed . . . a number of ladies.”

A bawdy house.

It was decided. This was the best dinner party she’d ever attended. No one ever talked about bawdy houses at dinners in Mayfair. “Go on . . .”

“This is not appropriate.”

“It most certainly was not appropriate, Thomas Peck,” his mother retorted. “I opened the door, and the lady of the house was standing there, primped and painted. And very concerned because several pieces of the girls’ laundry had gone missing from the line over the past few weeks. A stocking. A petticoat. That morning, one of the girls had seen a corset go in through our window.”

Imogen turned wide eyes on Tommy, who looked as though he might throw himself into the fire. “Oh,” she said, feeling for the young boy, tempted by all those underthings on the line. And now, for the man, horrified by the story of his childhood antics.

“My boy, a thief!” Esme said. “And not just a thief—an unmentionables thief!”

“Funny how you are able to mention it now,” he said dryly, heading for a bottle on a nearby shelf.

“The important thing is, for all the stealing he’d done, when the poor thing took one look at Mrs. Farrell, he confessed immediately. The missing clothing was returned the moment the interrogation began.” Esme reached for him and patted his cheek, red above the smooth line of his beard. “And thus ended his misguided life of crime.”

Rose laughed. “Wasn’t his punishment having to sweep the front and rear of that particular building for the better part of a year? Not the worst punishment one could cook up for a boy with a fascination for the ladies inside.”

“It wasn’t, as a matter of fact,” Tommy agreed, and they all laughed, Imogen filled with a warm pleasure that she was here and she was welcome, and not simply by Rose and Esme, but now by Tommy, as well.

He didn’t dislike her.

Indeed, as his blue eyes found hers, sheepish and sweet, it occurred to her that, perhaps, he liked her. Though surely that wasn’t possible, was it?

Or maybe it wasn’t possible that he like her as much as she liked him.

Their gazes locked for long enough that she had to tear hers away, clearing her throat and reminding herself of their positions. Of his role. “And after that? The straight and narrow?”

It was Rose’s turn to speak with a little groan at the ceiling. “So straight! The most narrow!”

“What’s that mean?” Tommy asked, affronted.

“Tommy.” His sister leveled him with a firm look. “He was always on time, always immaculate, perfect manners, never snuck an apple from the fruit stand, never let us out of his sight, not even when we got older. Do you know how difficult it is to court with that following you everywhere you go?” She waved a hand in his direction.

“I wanted you to be safe!” He looked properly offended. “Truly, this is the only family that can make following the rules sound like a bad thing. It’s a miracle Stanley is a vicar.”

“A shock, to be sure, considering that he did not find the straight and narrow so easily,” Esme agreed, looking back to Imogen. “I’ve another son, Stanley. He’s a vicar in Croydon. He’s often here for Sunday supper—Tommy will bring you back to meet him.” She paused. “He is also unmarried.”

Imogen laughed at the obvious suggestion, no small amount because of the laughable idea that she would be the appropriate match for a vicar. “I would enjoy meeting him very much.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Everyone turned to look at Tommy when he spoke the words a bit too low and a bit too rough for the company. Imogen blinked. “I wouldn’t?”

He took a visible breath. “It’s just that . . . Sunday dinner is usually lamb.”

“Oh?” she said, because it seemed she should say something, even though it was difficult to find anything at all to say in the wake of what felt like such a dismissal.

Tommy looked to his mother. “Miss Loveless does not care for lamb.”

Rose’s eyes were so wide, they threatened to come right out of their sockets, but Esme simply smiled a warm, welcoming smile. “Then we’ll have something else.”

A heavy knock sounded outside the door, and Rose went to the window to look down on the street below. “It’s Wallace.”

She was out the door as Tommy froze, casting a strange look at Imogen. She raised her brows in his direction. “Is there something wrong?”

“I don’t think so.”

She didn’t believe him for a moment. “Is there something I should know?”

He could not answer, as the door swung open and his sister reentered, a look on her face that was equal parts anticipation and something Imogen could not name. Following behind her was a tall, older, portly man—one she immediately recognized. The superintendent of Whitehall, whom she’d met in the hallway outside the uniform closet.

He carried a small box in hand. Once inside, he removed his hat instantly and addressed the room with a boisterous “Aren’t you all a refuge for a cold winter’s night!”

“Come in, Wallace,” Esme said, crossing the room to him, letting him claim her hand for an exaggerated kiss before taking his hat and the box he offered as he removed his coat, revealing a very simple navy blue wool suit with a flat gold medallion pinned to his lapel. Imogen’s heart hammered with recognition in her chest. She’d seen the medallion before.

She had a matching one in the carpetbag she’d left by the door.

Her mind began to race as she started to connect the dots . . . dots she’d feared were connected for months.

Without thinking, she looked to Tommy, who immediately noticed the way she spun around. Concern in his gaze, he took a step closer to her. “Are you—”

His mother interrupted whatever he was going to ask with a too bright, “Look who is joining us for supper!”

“I say! It’s been a tick since I’ve seen you at the Yard, Tommy.” Wallace Adams made to step forward, but stopped midstride, the moment he saw Imogen. “Oh,” he said, recognition flashing across his face. “Hello.”

Imogen smiled.

“Introductions!” Rose insisted. “Miss Imogen Loveless, this is Wallace Adams. Wallace, Miss Loveless is Tommy’s . . .” Rose paused. “Well, we’re not sure. Something to do with work, apparently, so you likely know more than we do.”

Mr. Adams’s brows shot up at the words. “Work, is it?”

Tommy let out a sigh. “Adams is my superintendent.”

The head of Whitehall. She pasted a smile on and dipped a little curtsy. “Mr. Adams.”

Adams’s attention flew to Tommy, then back to Imogen. Something flashed in the older man’s eyes, so fast Imogen couldn’t name it.

He knew who she was, of course. If he was Tommy’s superior, he surely knew she was his assignment. Adams had likely been the person to assign Tommy the task of finding her that night in Covent Garden. And what’s more, Adams knew she’d been with Tommy in Scotland Yard the morning of that assignment. When she was supposed to be missing.

It was a proper mess.

Imogen waited for him to reveal her identity and change the evening. Except he didn’t. Instead, he smiled and said, “Miss Imogen Loveless. I’m very pleased to meet you.”