Knockout: A Hell’s Belles Novel

Tommy Peck entered the Trevescan ballroom feeling a dozen kinds of fool, like a small boy trying on his father’s too-large coat and too-large boots, clomping around the house in delight. But there was no delight that night.

The clothes and shoes he wore fit him perfectly, though they were no less a costume. If anything, they were more of one—one with a heavier weight. Not to be stripped off and left in a pile beneath the kitchen table, forgotten until the next morning, when Father was late for work, but instead to be worn like they meant something. Like they were truth.

There was nothing about that evening that felt like truth.

He almost hadn’t come. He didn’t belong anywhere near the place and its people. But he’d had no choice. He’d come because of her. Everything Tommy had done in the last week had been because of her, if he was honest—from the moment he’d carried Imogen out of O’Dwyer and Leafe’s on that rainy morning.

He’d told himself it was because she clearly knew more about his investigation than she was willing to share. Confirmed it when he’d found her at Scotland Yard. But then, the carriage had nearly taken her out outside The Place and his desire to interrogate her had become something else. A desire to keep her safe.

That night, Tommy had gone home and attempted sleep until he’d had no choice but to hire a hack and head to Dorring House, where he’d kept watch all night, awake in the cold after taking a beating thanks to The Place’s well-reinforced door, until Imogen had exited the next morning, clean and coiffed, looking no worse for wear.

And still, Tommy had been certain something wasn’t right.

In his more than a decade with the Metropolitan Police, Tommy had been near death on more than one occasion, and this feeling . . . it was not the same. He saw the event again and again, over and over. Imogen, frozen in the lantern light, looking to the bend in the road. The thunder of the horses. The clatter of the wheels.

All night long, a single thought, repeating over and over: She was in danger.

By sunup, he’d convinced himself that what he was about to do was good sense. Yes, she was in danger—he was sure of it—but she had also collected evidence relating to the crimes in East London that he needed to access.

What better way than to offer his services to her brother? The earl wanted his sister married? Wanted her protected? Who better to do so than the Scotland Yardsman who’d found her the night before—there was no need for her brother to know that she hadn’t really been missing.

So, when she’d disappeared into the carriage that had taken her to the dressmaker or the haberdasher or the library or wherever beautiful young women went on Tuesday mornings, Tommy had stepped out of Berkeley Square and asked for an audience with Earl Dorring.

As he’d waited in the marble entryway, he’d catalogued the space—an enormous chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the first floor, which was accessed by a massive staircase. The walls teeming with portraits, ancestors of not only the humans in the house, but it seemed the horses and hounds as well. He did his best not to linger on the hallways above, knowing he would not find a sliver of jewel-toned skirts or a hint of black curl.

Which was fine, as he had not been there to see her. He had been there to see her brother. To offer his services.

Off hours.

Just until the lady was married, he’d agreed with Earl Dorring. Just to make sure she was safely traveling from one place in Mayfair to another. To keep her out of harm’s way. To keep her reputation as pristine as that house in Mayfair.

To keep her safe.

It had all seemed simple enough until that evening, when he’d dressed in trousers and shirts and waistcoats softer and better fitting than anything he’d had before—thanks to the earl, who insisted he dress for the occasions at which Imogen would require guard.

Tommy had ignored the roiling in his gut as he’d shaved and oiled his beard and brushed his teeth and descended from his room to the wide-eyed astonishment of Mrs. Edwards.

And now, Tommy Peck, a boy from the streets of Shoreditch, entered the home of the Duke and Duchess of Trevescan through the main foyer and up the grand central staircase to the ballroom within. Allowed in alongside money and title and power, because he had put on the costume.

He stepped into the ballroom, the air thick with the perfume and heat of those assembled—all of whom seemed to sense that he’d entered, as though they could smell the lack of title and money and power on him—and steeled himself for what was to come.

Looking out over the ballroom, Tommy leaned on his instincts as a detective, tracking the space. Cataloguing its size and scope. The exits, one doorway at one far corner, leading to a dimly lit corridor. Another hidden in the wall paneling on the opposite side. The windows along one wall, black with the night beyond and reflecting the hundreds of candles within that dripped wax on those assembled below.

He wondered how they cleaned their clothes—neither silk nor satin nor dark wool made for easy washing after wax had cooled in the threads. The thought had barely formed before he realized his folly. No one in that room worried or thought about washing their clothes. That was the purview of servants. And even then, only if these people had interest in wearing the same clothes twice.

His gaze fell to the crowd below, with their impeccable clothes and impeccable hair and their collective unwavering gaze, focused directly on him as if to say, Imposter. Intruder.

As though he didn’t know it already—that he didn’t belong here, with these people.

And then he saw her.

Her frock was the color of a summer sunset over the London rooftops, not orange, not red, not gold, but somehow all three, and somehow in constant flux, setting the sky aflame, just as she set the room aflame, making it impossible for him to notice anything else. Not the women around her, not those who tittered near him, not the liveried footman who took his invitation and passed it to another, who announced him, as though he were a valued guest and not a servant, just like them.

“Mr. Thomas Peck.”

His name clanged through the room, loud and discordant—when was the last time the place had heard the name of a resident of Holborn?—followed by absolute silence.

Collective shock.

Across the room, Imogen’s enormous brown eyes remained on his. Her cheeks flushed almost instantly, sending a thrum of awareness through him. He’d done that. He’d put the wash on her cheeks, and as he watched, the flush traced down her neck, over her shoulders, and to the pretty, smooth expanse of her chest, disappearing beneath the line of that gown . . . the one he feared he would think of whenever he saw a sunset, for the rest of his days.

The rest of the room was cold, but Imogen Loveless was fire.

For one wild moment, Tommy wondered how it might be if, instead of being there to watch over her, he was there to be with her. He didn’t have time to linger on the thought—which was likely for the best—as Imogen was already turning away from him, pushing through the crowd. Disappearing.

With that, Tommy no longer felt out of place. He knew his purpose. He was there to watch over Imogen Loveless, and if she was running, he was there to chase.

What he did not expect, however, was half of London stopping him from getting to her.

It began easily enough, with the Earl of Dorring meeting his eyes from across the room and offering a quick nod—Tommy had no qualms about avoiding conversation with the man—but within seconds, someone else called out to him, stopping him in his tracks.

He couldn’t very well ignore Commissioner Battersea.

“Sir,” he said, accepting the firm handshake that drew him closer to the group of men assembled.

“Can’t slip past me, my boy.” The man laughed heartily despite not having made a jest. “Come, come. Everyone wants to meet you—the brightest star in the Yard.”

Tommy gritted his teeth and shoved the promotion to the forefront of his thoughts as Battersea made introductions. The trio of white men with the commissioner—a marquess, and two earls—were known throughout London as powerful, vocal members of the House of Lords. They were trotted out every time a reform bill was even whispered about in the news—workers’ rights, women’s rights, immigrants’ rights, compulsory education—to shout down the truth and drum up anger from any who would listen.

Tommy had been at more than one gathering-turned-riot incited by the trio. Seeing the commissioner with them did little to change Tommy’s view—entitled toffs.

“I confess—it’s not every day we see a Scotland Yardsman in a Mayfair ballroom!” Lord Oakham said.

After a round of harharing, Earl Leaving added, “Indeed! A bit like inviting a horse to dinner!” He clapped a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and it took all Tommy had not to smack the touch away. “A jest, Peck! A jest! You’re the cleverest horse in the field!”

“Clever enough that he must be back to the race, gents,” Battersea interjected. “As I understand it, Mr. Peck is on the job.” He leaned in. “Dorring’s sister needs minding until she finds a man to do the work for free.” He lifted a chin toward Tommy. “Peck has offered his skills for the task.”

“Good man,” Leaving said. “Odd thing, the Loveless girl.”

“Loveless is right—can’t imagine anyone wishing themselves saddled to her,” Oakham agreed. “Bad enough I was required to heave her about the ballroom tonight.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched; any one of these men would be lucky to have Imogen Loveless. But they wouldn’t, because Tommy had no doubt that the woman wouldn’t give them a second look. There was no way Lady Imogen was marrying anyone even in the same universe as these men.

He’d stop the fucking wedding himself, and take immense pleasure in ending the goddamn groom.

“You ought to take care,” he said, drawing the sharp attention of the quartet with the quiet threat he could not keep from his tone. “It is my job to keep the lady safe, and that includes silencing those who disrespect her.”

Collectively, the men blanched, trading nervous looks as they attempted to assess whether Tommy was serious.

“Watch your tone, Peck,” Battersea blustered, having no choice but to attempt to control Tommy and prove his worth to the assembled lords. “You’d do well to remember this isn’t your place.”

“I assure you, sir,” Tommy replied, his words like steel. “I could not possibly forget that.”

Battersea narrowed his gaze as Lord Haverford jumped in. “Nonsense, Battersea. He’s just doing his job. Not that he needs to play the watchdog with us.” He waved a limp hand at the room beyond. “We’re all of us throwing hats in the ring. Proximity to Dorring’s name and fortune is worth . . . making an effort . . . for the girl.”

A false chuckle from Oakham. “Certainly. All we are saying is that she’ll need a firm hand from a husband.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the wife, isn’t that how it goes, Haverford?” Leaving said, the implication in them turning Tommy’s stomach.

The group laughed again—fucking ghouls—and Tommy imagined what it would be like to take a rod to the lot of them. His hand clenched at his side. He wouldn’t need a rod. His fists would do just fine.

A growl sounded low in Tommy’s throat as he considered the full repercussions of putting a fist into the man’s face, turning the Trevescan ball into a brawl, and ruining his career.

Battersea must have heard it, for the nervous look he cast in Tommy’s direction. “Alright, Peck. You are released. Be sure to give the ladies the full show—we need them telling their husbands to vote for additional Home Office funding, eh?”

Oakham chortled and reached for Tommy’s shoulder, missing it when Tommy sidestepped the touch. “Well, not the full show. Though Lord knows you’ll be asked for it. Do try to keep yourself in check, Peck. These ladies . . . they’re not for you.”

Was his career worth not delivering these men a well-deserved facer? Everything in him told him to do it and hang the consequences. And then he saw it, a flash of fiery orange silk at the far end of the room.

Imogen.

If he started a brawl, he wouldn’t get to her.

If he started a brawl, he would no longer have a reason to get to her.

Except he did have a reason. He could see the carriage bearing down on her. The building coming down around her. These men, insulting her.

If he started a brawl, he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

But he deserved a damn medal for not starting one.

Without farewell, he left them, vowing to open investigations into all three of them. What was it Imogen had asked for the other night? A slow boat to New Zealand? Tommy could not think of three more deserving passengers.

Where was she?

“Detective Inspector, what a lovely surprise.”

Fucking hell. A man couldn’t get three feet in this damn room.

Gritting his teeth, he turned to discover the Duchess of Trevescan, tall and blond and lithe—dressed in an ice blue gossamer gown that only made her seem more of a queen than she did on a working day. He dipped his head. “Your Grace.”

“If we weren’t in this particular ballroom at this particular ball, I would tell you that considering all the ways we’ve met before now, you really needn’t stand on ceremony. Alas—”

“While I’m wearing such a complicated cravat, I expect I have no choice but to stand on ceremony, ma’am.”

She grinned. “It’s very well tied. Well enough that someone might come looking to steal your valet.”

He didn’t have a valet. He had Phillips—who was a clotheshorse and had delighted in teaching him to tie this particular knot, which he was sure would delight the Duchess—a renowned detective inspector with a penchant for bespoke waistcoats. “Thank you.”

“Since we are here playing our roles,” she said quietly, “I confess I am surprised you are dressed for an evening of play, when you are surely here for work.”

He coughed a little laugh, then immediately qualified, “Forgive me, but I can see no scenario in which tonight’s festivities might be considered play.”

She smiled. “Mr. Peck, I think you’ll find that most things are play when Imogen is involved.”

He met the woman’s knowing blue gaze. “I know better than to think you’d tell me where she is.”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

Of course not. He exhaled harshly, biting his tongue before he said something inappropriate.

“But the last I saw her,” the Duchess added, tipping her head in the direction of the doorway nearby, leading to a dim corridor behind, clearly not meant for guests, “she was on the hunt for some air.” Before he could leave she added, “Mr. Peck?”

He met her gaze, no longer light and curious, but instead hard like steel. “Know that Imogen is not to be trifled with. Where her brother falls short, I assure you her friends . . . do not.”

A vision flashed, the duchesses and Sesily Calhoun, clad in silks and satins in the rubble in the East End. At The Place. Shoulder to shoulder.

“Make no mistake,” the duchess added. “Where others might be impressed by your position—I am far more interested in the man you are outside of the uniform.” She let her gaze linger on the men he’d left only moments earlier. “I noticed your self-control with that odious collective.”

Tommy didn’t need to look. The hot fury that came in the wake of her words was enough. “I did not wish to ruin your party.”

She nodded. “While I can assure you I would not have thought it ruined in the slightest, I appreciate your aplomb.” She leaned in. “Though I would have happily lent you a weapon.”

“I assure you, I would have done the job without it.”

Her brows rose. “I can see why Imogen thinks you’re a decent man.”

The words warmed him in a way he did not expect. “And you?”

The woman’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “I reserve judgement.” But she nodded in the direction of the corridor again, which was something.

Tommy did not need further instruction. He nodded once and faded into the crowd and, when he had a chance, slipped away, down the winding hallway, undetected. He followed the winding corridor around a corner, trying all the doors along the way. He silently discovered a card game in progress and the stairs leading to the kitchens before another corner revealed what he was looking for—an unlocked door, a dark room, and Imogen.