Bombshell

by Sarah MacLean

  “Well,” she hedged. “It was dark.”

  Three sets of brows rose around the table.

  “You are, and I say this with all affection, the worst liar I’ve ever known,” Adelaide said.

  “We can’t all spend our lives lying to nobs and stealing their secrets, Adelaide.”

  “And why not?” Adelaide retorted.

  The duchess sighed. “Who knows, Sesily?”

  Sesily looked to the other woman—the woman who had brought them all together. “I have a feeling you are asking that question for effect.”

  The other woman’s red lips curved. “Of course I am. You think I sent you off to deal with that particular problem without ensuring your safety?”

  Irritation flared. “You had watchmen in the garden?”

  “Had I known you’d be so . . . well taken care of . . .” The duchess trailed off, but Adelaide and Imogen leapt upon the tail of the words like cats with a mouse.

  “Hang on!”

  “Taken care of, how?”

  Dammit. She’d have to tell them. They were relentless.

  “Nothing!”

  “I wouldn’t call it nothing,” the duchess replied.

  Sesily shot her a look. “He’d never tell anyone what happened.”

  “Who’d never tell?”

  “And what happened?”

  Sesily flattened her lips at the duchess idly tracing the rim of her champagne glass. “Everyone thinks you’re above gossip and excitement, but you positively thrive on it.”

  The duchess’s face broke into a wide smile. “In fact I do.” Sesily groaned. “And you’d best tell them the truth, before Imogen decides to deploy whatever weapon she’s most recently concocted to hurry you along.”

  On cue, Imogen replied, “Did you know that if you set a handkerchief aflame once it is properly inserted into a bottle of alcohol, you’ve all you need for a lovely explosion?”

  “I did not, as a matter of fact,” Sesily said.

  “Might be useful in dealing with whoever saw you in the garden, is all I am saying.”

  “There is no need to explode him,” she said. “Caleb Calhoun is in business with my sister. And if he weren’t, he’d still be her friend. That alone ensures that he’d never reveal what he saw in the gardens.”

  “He didn’t see her in the gardens,” Imogen pointed out.

  “We barely know the man,” Adelaide added.

  Sesily didn’t like how defensive she was feeling about Caleb, who hadn’t really done much to deserve her defense in the last two years. He was barely ever in London, and when he was, he seemed to do all he could to avoid her, which grated, if she was honest. But some men were simply decent. And he was one of them.

  He didn’t kiss like he was decent.

  She pushed the thought away as the duchess said, “I don’t care for relying on theoretical loyalty for silence. I require proof of the first, or insurance of the latter.” She leaned back in the chair, a stunning diamond necklace gleaming at her neck. “Caleb Calhoun is not stupid, and if he’s paying attention to you—”

  “He’s not.”

  The duchess cut her a disbelieving look. “If he’s paying attention to you,” she repeated, “that means he’s paying attention to us, and it won’t take him very long to put it together that our nights of debauchery at The Place aren’t exactly what they seem. We need insurance. Which means it’s time to discover the American’s secrets.”

  “I told you, he won’t say anything. Even if he weren’t Seraphina’s friend . . . even if he didn’t have tens of thousands of pounds tied up in business with her on both sides of the Atlantic, he’s not exactly beholden to the aristocracy.”

  “And you know that because . . .”

  “He’s American.”

  The duchess considered the words. “Well. American or not, he does enough business on this side of the Atlantic that I’d like to be absolutely certain where his loyalties lie. And I’d like them to lie with us.”

  “Information.” It wasn’t a difficult leap to make. The duchess had made a life dealing in that particular currency and in the last two years, Sesily, Adelaide, and Imogen had joined her. Between them, they held some of the city’s most prized secrets, understanding what too many did not: that kept secrets were more powerful than those that were revealed.

  But one had to have a secret for it to be uncovered. Sesily shook her head. “There’s nothing.”

  “Mmm.”

  “You think that in two years I haven’t scrutinized the man in business with my sister?”

  “Well, first, I don’t think your scrutiny has anything to do with your sister.” Sesily didn’t care for the duchess’s casual statement, but she bit her tongue. “And if the events in my gardens are any indication, you most certainly have . . . scrutinized him.”

  “Hang on!” Imogen’s eyes went wide.

  “What happened in her gardens?”

  “Nothing!” Good Lord. Was she blushing? Awful. This was awful. “I did what I had to do to keep myself from discovery.” The duchess smirked and drank more of her champagne. “Who drinks champagne in a tavern, anyway?”

  The other woman shrugged. “Duchesses.”

  “Did you . . .” Adelaide paused, then lowered her voice to the loudest whisper Sesily had ever heard. “You know?”

  “She means did you swiv him,” Imogen said, matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, Imogen, I gathered as much.” Sesily paused. “No. I did not. Believe it or not, Caleb Calhoun is not a part of the half of London that desires to swiv me.” She paused, then added, “Also, it would do us all well to find another word for the act. That one is . . . not pleasant.”

  “What would you prefer? Did you discuss the weather? Did you play croquet?”

  Adelaide laughed.

  Sesily cut her a look. “Do not encourage her.”

  “Did you prune the hedge?”

  “Really, anything sounds salacious when you say it that way, Imogen,” Adelaide pointed out.

  Imogen grinned. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  Duchess blessedly chose that moment to enter the fray. “There was no weather discussing, croquet playing, or hedge pruning. Sesily did what was required to keep herself from being found out.”

  “Which was?”

  “I kissed him.”

  “He must have enjoyed that,” Adelaide said.

  “We could use that against him,” Imogen said. “Your sister won’t like that he compromised you.”

  Seraphina was far more likely to think Caleb had been the one compromised, but before Sesily could point that out, the duchess said, “It’s not enough,” as though they were having a perfectly ordinary conversation rather than discussing blackmailing the man Sesily had kissed three nights earlier.

  “We are not using that against him!” Sesily said, riddled with embarrassment. “I’d prefer everyone forget it happened.”

  “Ah,” Imogen said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You didn’t enjoy it.”

  Except she had. She’d enjoyed it very much.

  “Oh, no.” This, from Adelaide. Damn Adelaide, who always saw everything. “You did enjoy it.”

  “I did, in fact,” Sesily grumbled.

  “And he—”

  “He appeared quite unmoved by it,” she said, hating the sulk that edged into her words.

  All three women sat forward in their chairs.

  “What in—”

  “Hang on!”

  “He’s clearly a horse’s ass.”

  They might drive her up the wall, but in that moment, Sesily couldn’t have asked for better friends. They all looked absolutely insulted on her behalf, and Sesily couldn’t help but feel a little better about the whole thing.

  A very little better.

  Because Sesily had been waiting two years to kiss Caleb Calhoun and in all the dozens of hundreds of ways she’d imagined his response to such a thing, she’d never once imagined that he’d be unmove
d by it.

  She’d imagined him devastated by it. Destroyed by it. From time to time she allowed herself to imagine the great brute sinking to his knees and thanking his maker for it.

  But she’d never imagined him unmoved.

  Dammit.

  For a heartbeat, that night, under the linden tree in the duchess’s garden, as his hand had come around her waist and held her tight to him and the heat of him blazed against her chest, and he smelled—and tasted—like the smoke from a Highland scotch . . . for a moment, she’d thought he was moved. She could have sworn his lips had softened. Could have sworn she’d heard a slight groan at the back of his throat.

  But then Totting had come out of the labyrinth and Calhoun had looked at her the same way he always did, in the fleeting moments when he was on British soil and found time and inclination to look at her—his eyes devoid of emotion, as though he’d just as well have been kissing the linden tree instead.

  The disinterest was the worst bit. In thirty years, Sesily Talbot had engendered many, many emotions from the world at large. She’d entertained and tempted, won friends and wooed strangers, been cause for delight and, now and then, disgust. But she’d never, ever, been forgettable.

  That was the worst bit.

  Made that much worse by the fact that she quite desperately wanted Caleb Calhoun to remember her.

  Though, to be honest, she was rarely sure if she wanted to be remembered for a passionate embrace or for a passionate punch in the nose. Perhaps they weren’t that much different.

  “Are you very sure you wouldn’t like me to test my gin explosion on him?” Imogen said, interrupting her thoughts.

  “It’s not the worst idea I’ve heard,” Sesily said.

  “It would solve the problem of the man knowing more than we’d like,” the duchess said. “Though truthfully, it might be too kind. I am now doubly interested in his secrets. For our security, and your honor.”

  “You can’t punish the man for not wanting me.”

  The duchess’s gaze narrowed. “Why not?”

  Sesily laughed again. “Anyway, there’s nothing to find.” When he was in London, Caleb was either at the pub he owned with her sister or in the town house he kept in Marylebone, doing whatever it was men did alone in their homes. “He doesn’t drink or gamble to excess. He doesn’t even have a club here.”

  “None of the St. James’s spots would welcome an American,” Imogen said.

  “The Fallen Angel would welcome him,” Sesily pointed out, referring to the casino on St. James’s that made the rest of the gentlemen’s clubs on the street look excruciatingly boring. “But he doesn’t wish it; I’m telling you, he’s uninteresting.”

  At least, that’s what she told herself.

  “Mmm,” the duchess said again. “And you don’t think that’s strange? No secrets?”

  “Everyone has secrets,” Adelaide pointed out. “That’s the only truth.”

  “Are you offering to lure them from him?” Sesily hated the taste of the jest in her mouth.

  “No. But truly, Sesily. If a man like Calhoun lives the life of a monk, that’s absolute proof that he’s hiding something.” A pause. “Probably something good.”

  She was right, of course. If it was anyone else, she’d feel the same way.

  “Well, it’s not in London; it’s probably in America,” she said. “That’s why he’s always there and never here.” Not that Sesily cared where he was.

  Lie.

  The duchess nodded. “But in the best of circumstances it would take three months to get answers from the other side of the world. We need to act now.”

  Sesily swallowed back her irritation, knowing that she should agree with the duchess’s plan. Caleb had witnessed their work. She should be concerned with ensuring his silence, just as her friends were. But she didn’t want to know his secrets. She didn’t want any more reason to think about the man.

  And still, she didn’t want anyone else to know his secrets, instead.

  “I imagine your sister has some ideas,” the duchess said, matter-of-factly. “Perhaps I’ll pay her a visit.”

  “No.” Three sets of eyes widened at the sharp retort. She cleared her throat. “What I mean to say is, I’ll do it.”

  The duchess’s brows rose. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sesily.”

  “Why not?” Adelaide asked, ever keen, eyes enormous behind her spectacles.

  Imogen even mustered some curiosity, finally interested in the conversation. “Yes, why not?” She looked from the duchess to Sesily, who did not flinch from the duchess’s attention.

  “No reason.”

  The duchess sat back in her chair, her expression clear. You tell them, or I will.

  Sesily sighed, then grumbled, “Fine. Because once . . . a very long time ago . . .”

  “Not so long ago,” the duchess interjected.

  If only murdering a duchess weren’t a capital crime. “Two years ago . . . I thought perhaps he was . . .”

  The one.

  Silence fell at the table, as though she’d spoken the words aloud.

  “Oh.”

  Sesily winced at Adelaide’s soft, understanding reply. “As I said, it was years ago.”

  “Only two years, though,” the duchess said. “And it was something of a heartbreak, if I recall.”

  “It wasn’t a heartbreak,” she replied. “It was—a rejection. We are all rejected at some point or another.”

  “You aren’t,” Imogen said.

  “Well, I was then. And anyway, I was wrong.”

  “Either way, I suggest we try out my new explosive on him.”

  “How?” Adelaide asked.

  “Well, I think we’d do it at his home, because I doubt Seraphina would like it if we exploded her tavern.”

  “Not how do we explode Calhoun, Imogen,” Adelaide said. “How did he break Sesily’s heart?”

  This was mortifying. “He—” Sesily hesitated. “Truthfully, the term broke my heart is really an overreach.”

  “He refused her advances and left the country. That day.”

  “Dammit, Duchess!”

  The other woman’s eyes went wide, her diamond earrings winking in the candlelight. “I’m simply trying to get through it!”

  “Did you tell him? That you thought he might be—”

  Don’t say it.

  She cut Adelaide off. “I did.”

  “Oh dear. How mortifying.”

  “Not more mortifying than this recounting,” Sesily said.

  “What did he say?” Imogen asked.

  He hadn’t said anything. He’d just—“As I said, he left.”

  “Well, he’s back now, so I remain in favor of exploding him.”

  Sesily sighed her exasperation. “Can we be done now?” No one pressed for more information, thank God, and she added, “I’m telling you, he’s not a worry. It’s not as though he’s summoning Scotland Yard to investigate the events in the gardens.”

  “You’re sure?” Adelaide asked.

  “Quite.”

  “Hmm.”

  Sesily’s brows knit together. “Why?”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Adelaide said, “but Mr. Calhoun just walked in the door.”

  It took all Sesily had not to turn and look. “Why on earth would he be here? He’s got a perfectly nice pub of his own not five minutes west of here.”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.” Adelaide’s eyes narrowed behind her spectacles.

  “Why not?” Sesily’s stomach dropped.

  Don’t look. Don’t look.

  “He’s with Thomas Peck.”

  She did look, then, finding Caleb instantly. Ignoring the way her heart thumped in her chest, she considered his bearded companion, taller than him and equally wide. Thomas Peck, the pride of Bow Street, and now one of the best-known faces of the Metropolitan Police.

  “If this is the company he keeps,” the duchess said, ever world-weary, “it seems we shall require M
r. Calhoun’s secrets after all.”

  And so it was decided. Sesily stood, knowing what she had to do. “I’ll get them.”

  Chapter Four

  What was she doing there?

  Not that he should have noticed her. There were dozens of women in the tavern—it felt like a hundred of them, with the wall of heat and perfume that struck when he stepped through the door from the cool night beyond.

  Maggie O’Tiernen’s place always teemed with women, understandable as it promised safety, security, and a lack of censure to women of all walks, allowing them a level of privacy and privilege they were rarely afforded in other taverns.

  Caleb had spent his life in taverns. He owned twelve of them, and he’d worked hard to build them into places that welcomed women. But where his pubs worked for that welcome, The Place came with it built in.

  So, on any given evening, Maggie’s place was full. Full of women who danced and drank and laughed—enough to make it difficult to single one from the whole crowd. Many with wide smiles and unbridled laughter. Many with smooth skin and wild curves. Many of them brunettes. Many of them beautiful.

  He shouldn’t have noticed one among the rest.

  Of course, he did. He’d barely had a chance to look over the crowd, to register the group that danced in the lamplight on the far edge of the room, to hear the heavy clink of glasses to his right and the deep boisterous laugh from Maggie at the bar to his left, to smell the perfume and ale and something delicious coming from the kitchens . . . and there she was.

  She was too far away for noticing. He shouldn’t have been able to see her dark hair, gleaming in the orange light of the pub as she turned to face him. He shouldn’t have been able to detect the stain of red on her lips or the low dip of the line of the dress she wore that had clearly been purchased from the devil himself. Not that Caleb should have been able to see the sinful garment, nor the way it framed the rise of her breasts, the swell of her hips. Nor should he have been able to hear her laugh over the scores of others, or smell her, warm and rich like almond tarts.

  But he did. Instantly.

  Because he’d always been able to see those things. Hear them. Scent them. From the moment he’d met her, two years earlier.