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The Duchess dipped her head in agreement. “Quite right. Allegedly. Absolutely anything in that jail could have spontaneously combusted.”
“Go on, then. What is he calling thisgroup?”
Maggie and The Duchess wore matching grins. Ear to ear. “Hell’s Belles.”
Adelaide couldn’t stop the delighted laugh that bubbled out of her at the moniker. “That’s—” She shook her head. “It’s—”
“Perfect, isn’t it?” Maggie laughed, big and bold.
“Does Imogen know?”
Duchess nodded. “She just told me she was going to pay Detective Inspector Peck a visit to praise him for his creativity.”
Adelaide laughed at the idea—the last time Imogen and Thomas Peck had been in close proximity, an explosion had rocked Scotland Yard. “I can’t imagine Peck will let her anywhere near the place now.” She paused. “Hell’s Belles. Perfect.”
And then, as though summoned by the name, a bell sounded in the darkness, from high above. A watch on the roof, signaling something was amiss.
The trio stilled, nothing but the cool October wind whipping around them.
Duchess’s gaze fell to the opening of the alleyway, over Adelaide’s shoulder. “Warm night.”
“Unseasonably so,” Maggie added, moving shoulder to shoulder with Duchess, her hand sliding into her skirts, to the blade Adelaide knew was hidden within.
Adelaide slowly lowered herself into a crouch, heading for her own blade, tucked into her boot. Before she could get to it, however, Duchess said, loud and bright, as though they were anywhere but in a Covent Garden back alley in the dead of night, “Your Grace! What a delightful surprise.”
Adelaide froze, then spun around.
Sure enough, the Duke of Clayborn approached, the light from the swinging lanterns on the back of the carriage lighting the blue eyes in his handsome face.
What in hell? Why was he there?
Not that she would ever give him the satisfaction of her surprise. Instead, she pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and leveled him with a cool look. “A bit far from Mayfair, aren’t you, Duke?” She paused, then added, “Oh, but after the places you’ve been today, why wouldn’t you try the Garden on for size?”
“I’ve seen a fair bit of the city, I’ll admit,” Clayborn said, stopping a few yards away, the shadows of the alleyway painting over the harsh lines of his aristocratic face. His gaze took in the scene—the trio of women in a dark alley behind a legendary tavern.
“Ladies,” he said, offering a little, gentlemanly bow, as though they were in a ballroom and not a back alley. “Going on a journey, Miss Frampton?”
He knew.
She lifted her chin in his direction. “North.”
“How interesting. I’m headed in that direction as well.” He knew precisely where she was going. Which meant her veil had not hidden her in the slightest at Havistock House, and he’d known from the start who she was.
She should have been shocked at the revelation. Angry. At least frustrated. But instead, she found herself... excited by it.
A worthy opponent.
And a dangerous one, as he knew the true identity of the Matchbreaker—a piece of information that half of London would pay dearly to learn. She’d have to deal with that, eventually. But the box tucked into the bag in her carriage was enough to ensure his silence for now. Even arrogant dukes understood information was currency, and revelation required retribution in kind.
“I’ll say, Duke,” she said, “I did not expect that you would know where to find me.”
“I think you’d be surprised by how much I know about you.”
“Well,” Maggie said, low beneath her breath.
Indeed.
“Adelaide Frampton, a Duchess’s cousin”—he looked to the Duchess in question—“with rooms above The Place.”
