Knockout: A Hell’s Belles Novel

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.”

The cold night immediately felt warmer. Hot, even. “Threatened you how?”

Imogen’s gaze turned curious. “You are turning red.”

“Threatened you how?” he repeated.

“Marriage.” She paused. “Honestly, it would not have surprised me if he sent you not to find me, but to affiance me.”

He laughed. The very idea of an earl thinking Thomas Peck worthy of his only sister—of Lady Imogen Loveless—was unimaginable.

“You needn’t find it so amusing,” she grumbled, and for a hot, wild moment, he misunderstood. Imagining for a remarkable heartbeat that she thought him a fine man. One worthy of marrying so far above himself it was absolutely impossible to fathom.

“Anyway,” she said, a touch too loudly, “a bit of time away and my head is clear. I’ve had a change of heart.”

He had never heard such a terrible lie. “Have you?”

“Indeed,” she said. “I’m headed home this very night and cannot wait to meet a battalion of suitors. You shall no doubt be unable to miss the crush of them when you drive past the house. I hope the place can sustain the weight of the hothouse flowers.”

He couldn’t help his amused look. “Though I sincerely doubt you feel that way, my lady, you must return home. There are actual crimes being committed in London. And I would like to go back to solving them.”

He didn’t like the look she gave him, as though she had very clear opinions about those crimes, and his role in solving them. “What happens when I go home?”

“I imagine your brother will buy you a new frock and send you to a ball or two.”

“No,” she said, suspicion in her round face. “I mean, what happens to you? A new carriage? Larger rooms at Whitehall? Do they name a horse after you at the Palace?”

“A man can dream,” he retorted, not liking the way the questions suggested he had an ulterior motive for finding her. He was a detective with an assignment. This was his job.

“Rooms outside of Holborn?”

“How do you know where I live?”

She tilted her head, her brown eyes large and lovely on his. Not that he cared about how her eyes looked. “I think you’ll find I know a great deal about you, Detective Inspector.”

“Because of your chaos ladies, no doubt.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

He raised a brow.

She grinned. “Though I daresay they would enjoy the name.”

The woman was impossible.

“You should ask for something very valuable,” she said. “My brother is terrified of scandal and drinks with the home secretary, and if you’ve been assigned to keep our family name out of the muck, that should be worth at least a promotion.”

A pause. A telling one. How did she know that? “You do know a great deal about me, it turns out.”

“To what?”

“Head of the Detective Branch.”

“Impressive.” It did not sound as though she meant it. It sounded as though she was disappointed in him. “Strange, is it not, that Scotland Yard does not offer you a promotion for solving serious crimes in places that need it, but finding one peculiar, madcap, errant aristocratic lady from Mayfair buys you an entire division of the Yard.”

He hated how the words made him feel, as though he’d done something wrong. As though he hadn’t spent his entire adult life on a straight, narrow path in the hope that he might be able to lift himself and his family from their station. Trying to earn the opportunity he’d been given. To convince everyone around him that he deserved it. “I have done far more than find a girl from Mayfair.”

“No doubt.” She nodded. “But they only care about the bits in Mayfair, don’t they?”

He could change that. A promotion meant the ear to the commissioner of police. It meant he could prioritize the injustices of the East End . . . injustices he knew firsthand. Of course, he didn’t tell her that. Instead, he said, “Not all of us are born with the world at our feet, able to play at justice when we don’t have a tea party to attend.”

Her brows rose at that. “Do I look like the kind of woman who attends tea parties?”

No. She didn’t.

“And in your experience, Detective Inspector, have I ever treated justice as though it were a game?”

He set his jaw. Why did this woman set him off so well?

“I do not begrudge you your promotion. I am simply saying that if I am the means to such an end, I deserve something as well.”

He didn’t like the direction of the discussion. “Is it a return journey to your brother’s house?”

She smiled one of those overwhelming smiles and stepped closer. The wind whipped up the street, sending her curls into chaos. “No. I’ve plenty of friends inside who can do that.”

Thomas Peck had been a detective long enough to know that this woman was up to something. And that his evening was about to go very, very sideways. And still, he asked, “What then?”

She shook her head. “I would like the kiss you did not attempt this morning.”