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“Thank you,” he replied like a proper idiot before opening the hatch in one smooth movement.
There, in the hole, tied and gagged with colorful silk ribbons, was—
“My goodness. Is that the Marquess of Havistock?” She was back, standing at his shoulder—or more like his elbow—peering down into the stores. “What a surprise.”
“It’s strange, Lady Imogen, as you don’t sound at all surprised.” In fact, the ribbon binding the marquess’s hands was the exact color of Lady Imogen’s gown.
“Yes, well, I’ll be honest, I’ve always thought the manbelongedin a hole. But didn’t you say this store was for munitions? He doesn’t look like a munition.” She paused. “Is it possible to have one munition? In the singular?”
Tommy looked to her. “What?”
“Anyway. I recommend reading the file before you free him.” She patted him on the arm. “And as for the missing munitions, never fear. They will most likely turn up sooner or later, one way or another.”
“Mmm,” Tommy said, opening the file to discover a signed witness statement of one Lady Helene Carrington, née Granwell, only daughter of the Marquess of Havistock. Apparently the marquess was not only wrapped up in whatever went on here the night prior, but he’d also murdered Earl Draven, and his daughter had witnessed the crime. The lady had left her direction for further questions. Beneath the witness statement, a collection of additional data—questionable treatment of employees at the man’s factories, strange ledgers, missing children and more.
He closed the file and ran his fingers over the blue bell. Another file full of evidence, another aristocratic felon left for his discovery.
The Belles again.
And only then, in the midst of his surprise, did Lady Imogen’s words echo through him.
The munitions will be put to good use.
He looked up. “What did you say?”
She was gone, the file in his hand the only evidence that she’d been there at all.
He looked back to the aristocrat bound at his feet and cursed, the foul language punctuated by the door to the church, a heavy echo that drew his attention to the young constable who entered, wide-eyed and breathless, pulling up short as soon as he saw Tommy. “Detective Inspector, sir.”
Tommy waved at him. “Come.”
He did, already fishing a missive out of his pocket.
Opening it, the detective inspector scanned the text there.
Early morning explosions reported at all five Havistock factories. No casualties or witnesses. Return to Whitehall for debrief.
And like that, Thomas Peck’s day went from bad to worse.
Epilogue
The Duke of Clayborn woke to the morning sun, next to the woman he loved, just as he had every morning since they’d stood together in Lambeth and fought shoulder to shoulder for their future. As the light streamed through their bedchamber window, casting the room in a golden glow, the world beyond still heavy with the quiet of dawn, he lingered over her, just as he had countless times in the past year. Just as he would countless times for the rest of his life.
Taking a deep breath, he rubbed a hand over the familiar ache in his chest—part relief that he had found her, part joy that she was his, part disbelief that he had been so blessed as to call this magnificent woman his own.
Unable to resist her a moment longer, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek, warm and soft and pink with sleep. When she sighed, he could not help the little rumble of pleasure in his chest as he kissed her again, at the line of her jaw, beneath her ear, at the place where her neck met her shoulder, soft and sweet and smelling of thyme and fresh rain. His hand stroked down her side, finding the round swell of her belly, full with the child she would soon bear.
With a lazy stretch and a self-satisfied smile, she turned into his embrace, winding her arms around his neck and pressing herself to him, long and warm andperfectly soft, before saying, eyes still closed, “Happy anniversary, husband.”
He thieved the words from her lips. “And to you, wife.”
While Alfie Trumbull’s plans had gone sideways and he had not overseen the wedding of his daughter to a duke on that night at St. Stephen’s, Henry and Adelaide had found their way back to Lambeth the following day, where the Duke of Clayborn had used every inch of his power to secure a meeting with the Archbishop himself... and they’d been married by special license in the chapel at Lambeth Palace. Jack and Helene had been in attendance, along with Adelaide’s crew—the Duchess of Trevescan, Lady Imogen Loveless, Lady Sesily and Mr. Calhoun, and Maggie O’Tiernen, who’d opened The Place immediately following for a raucous wedding celebration. The morning had turned into an afternoon and an evening filled to the brim with celebration and well-wishes and so much dancing.
And no one in Mayfair would have believed that the Duke of Clayborn, known for his cool control, a man who showed passion only on the floor of the House of Lords, spent the evening with his wife in his arms, holding her scandalously close as they reveled in each other and the promise of their future.
That night, exhausted and happy, they’d tumbled up the stairs to Adelaide’s apartments—to her single bed in her rooms, full of books and devoid of most everything else—and made slow, lingering love to mark the beginning of the rest of their lives.
Since then, the two divided their time between Covent Garden, where the rooms they let above The Place were filled with lush fabrics and lusher memories and the laughter of friends and family, and their home in the country, where they spent their days exploring the estate, far from the prying eyes of the aristocracy, and their nights abed, exploring each other.
