Bombshell

by Sarah MacLean

  “I would never dream of blowing up that nice man,” Imogen said, casually, focused on her project. “It would be a waste of those thighs.”

  Caleb looked to Sesily. “Does she mean Tommy Peck?”

  “Is that what his friends call him?” Imogen asked. “Tommy?”

  “Considering he’s put Caleb in a holding cell for a full day, I’m not sure we would call them friends,” Sesily said as Imogen approached, wiping her hands on her skirts.

  “Right. Out of the way, Sesily.”

  She nodded and looked to Caleb, reaching through the bars and pulling his face down toward her. “I’d rather do this without the barrier, but needs must.” She kissed him, quick and intense. “Best find a corner.”

  “You, too.”

  They retreated and a flint sparked in the dark hallway, setting smoke billowing and a trail of gunpowder sizzling, igniting the tail end of oiled linen jammed into the lock of the cell door. Caleb turned away, shielding his eyes against the stonework cell, and counted the interminable seconds, hoping that Lady Imogen, mad genius, was more genius than mad.

  The explosion rocked Scotland Yard.

  Caleb turned around, heart in his throat, already headed for the cell door, calling Sesily’s name into the thick cloud of smoke, the silence that followed the explosion threatening to destroy him.

  The cell door remained closed, so he did the first thing that occurred and put his boot to it, kicking it wide with unnecessary force, as Imogen had broken the lock. He was in the hallway in an instant. “Sesily!”

  “Here!” she said, appearing at his side, breathless.

  He had her in his arms before the word had even left her tongue, pulling her tight to him and lifting her, walking her back into the wall across from the cell they’d just destroyed, and kissing her, wild and thorough, licking into her until she sighed her pleasure and went loose in his arms.

  When he broke the kiss and opened his eyes, it was to find her with a happy, dazed smile on her lips. “Am I back to being a goddess now?”

  “Mmm,” he said, kissing her once more, fierce and quick. “I didn’t think I’d be able to do that again.”

  She wiggled in his grasp. “Let’s spend the rest of the night doing it.”

  “Now is not the time for croquet, you two,” Imogen said from somewhere in the smoke as shouts sounded down the hallway. “It’s time to go.”

  Sesily stiffened. “I don’t imagine that detective inspector with the nice beard is going to care much for what you’ve done to his jail, Imogen.”

  “Nonsense,” Imogen replied as they made their way away from the approaching police. “With the attention the papers will give him? He ought to send me a gift of some sort. Fruit.”

  Caleb snorted his laughter and tightened his grip on Sesily as they ran. “Is it always like this with you lot?”

  Sesily smiled up at him when they reached the end of the corridor. “Aren’t you excited to throw yourself in with us?”

  He was, actually.

  Something strange thrummed through him at the idea, something akin to relief, but more complex. In his lifetime, he’d never known the pleasure of the support of others. He’d never known what it was to be cared for.

  To be thought of.

  But now . . . Sesily thought of him. Cared for him.

  Loved him.

  “You go that way,” Imogen said, pointing to a far staircase. “It will lead you out the side door. The duchess is waiting.”

  “And you?” he asked, turning to Sesily’s friend, who had put herself in danger for him.

  “I’ve a gift to leave for the detective inspector.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t stay inside. They’ll be looking for you.”

  “Why on earth would they be looking for me?” she scoffed, heading back toward the cell she’d destroyed. “A woman? Breaking a prisoner out of Scotland Yard? Absolutely laughable. Just the kind of thing an American would dream up.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, only to realize Lady Imogen was right. No one here would ever believe it.

  The trio parted ways, Caleb refusing to let go of Sesily, pulling her along the corridor toward the promised exit. They were free of the smoke here, but the hallway was dark in the evening light—no one had lit the lamps that hung on the wall yet. Scotland Yard was, apparently, busy with other things.

  “What’s the gift?” he asked Sesily as they hurried down the corridor.

  “A file. Thick as your thumb.” He shot her a curious look. “Suffice to say, I expect the Viscount Coleford will be receiving a visit from Scotland Yard sometime very soon. In my experience, the aristocracy has a poor view of those who thieve from them and their favorite charities. Which the viscount has been doing for years. He’ll be headed to prison, most definitely.”

  “He won’t do well in prison,” Caleb said as they came upon the farthest door in the place, marked Whitehall Mews in jagged white paint.

  “That much is true,” the words came from behind them, and Caleb’s blood ran cold as Sesily stiffened next to him. He turned, mind already working, knowing what he would find.

  Coleford, pistol in hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He wasn’t supposed to be there.

  They’d sent enough women to keep Peck so busy that he couldn’t notify Coleford all day long, and they’d had servants watching for missives to and from Scotland Yard all day. As of an hour earlier, when Imogen had knocked on the detective inspector’s door, Peck hadn’t notified Coleford, and still, here was the viscount, not upstairs in an office, but here, pistol in hand, pointing it at the man she loved, and Sesily found she did not care for that at all.

  She cared for it even less when Caleb moved to put himself in front of her. Ever looking to keep her safe at his own expense.

  Coleford swung the pistol toward Caleb. “I wouldn’t, if I were you, American.” A pause. “But you’re not an American, are you?” He shook the pistol. “Are you?!”

  Don’t answer that, she willed.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Damn this man and his unwillingness to lie.

  “You killed my son. I know you did. You’re the right age. The right height.”

  Caleb shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

  Bless this man and his unwillingness to lie.

  “Well then you’re lying prettily to someone, because I’m hearing you’ve confessed to it. No doubt to prevent my dogs from coming to get you. And your sister. And the whelp.” He looked to Sesily, who resisted the urge to spit in the man’s face she loathed him so well. “There’s time still for them, I suppose. And for your lightskirt.”

  “Truly, you grow ever more charming, Lord Coleford,” she said, not hiding her disdain for this man who had for so long ruined so many lives.

  Caleb hissed a warning, his fingers tightening on hers, making it impossible for her to move.

  “You think I don’t know who you are?” the viscount spat. “You, who came into my home with your common bitch of a friend who thought to tell me how to treat what’s mine?” His eyes narrowed with pure hate. “Embarrassing me in front of my own guests?”

  “That’s not all we did,” Sesily said smartly, smoothing her skirts.

  “Sesily.” Another warning from Caleb.

  She ignored it. “But I would not worry, my lord. You were an embarrassment long before my friend decided to help you along. And you’ve far more coming.”

  Coleford grimaced in her direction. “I suppose you think you’re one of these new, clever girls. Coarse and sharp tongued, whoring yourself out to anyone who will have you now that there’s a queen on the throne.”

  Caleb took a step toward him, a low growl in his throat, hard as steel with leashed anger. With an obvious desire to take this man down if not for the pistol in his hand. “Watch it, old man.”

  The viscount continued, spewing his poison. “Ruining England. Everything we worked for. You think I don’t know who your family is? Your father, who
made a mockery of the aristocracy? And you—the lightest skirts in London.”

  “I am surprised to hear you speak so highly for the sanctity of venerable institutions. What with the fact that you never reported your son’s murder to the police.” She paused. “Or your wife’s. Either of them.”

  He turned a murderous look on her. “That’s slander.”

  She raised a brow. “Only if it’s false, though, right?”

  The man’s ruddy cheeks went impossibly redder, and the pistol swung toward her. “I’m going to take great pleasure in killing you both. I’d hoped the boys I had watching the Brixton house would make it a private affair, but if it has to happen here, I suppose it will do.”

  “Your boys?” she asked. “The ones who swindle mothers searching for their orphaned babes?”

  “Sesily . . .”

  “You know about that, do you?” said the old man. “Well, let’s be honest, it’s not as though the silly women have any hope of finding them otherwise.”

  Caleb swore, harsh and angry, unable to keep the loathing from his voice. “I look forward to you rotting in prison for a long while.”

  Until that moment, Sesily had imagined prison and devastation for this man to be the perfect revenge. Revenge for raising a son as monstrous as he was, for what she was sure he’d done to his wives, for stealing Caleb and Jane’s happiness, for stealing from the Foundling Hospital, for stealing hope from women who had nothing but hope left. But listening to him speak of the crimes he’d committed, she realized that prison would never be enough for this man.

  “Your boys won’t take initiative when you’ve stopped paying them. Indeed,” she added, “I imagine they’ll happily sing when it becomes clear that you cannot pay your debts. Your wife, too. I don’t think the new viscountess cares much for you. You should have treated her more nicely.”

  “Sesily.” Caleb, warning her again, even as she kept going, eager to unsettle Coleford. Knowing that unsettling him was their best chance at escaping this unharmed.

  “And you will go to Newgate. Your title won’t save you—not when the public gets hold of everything you’ve done. You know it, and we know it, and now, Scotland Yard knows it, and it’s a bold choice to threaten to open fire here, when your name is surely the newest on the list of wanted criminals.”

  Something flickered in the man’s gaze—something like fear, and he gripped the pistol more tightly.

  “You bitch,” the viscount said. “You know nothing of this. Every penny I have—every penny I have spent—it’s been to find him.” He waved the pistol in Caleb’s direction, but his hate was directed at Sesily.

  Good. Keep it there.

  She would never let him have Caleb.

  Except Caleb had other plans. “You’re right.”

  She turned to him. “What are you doing?”

  Caleb took a step toward Coleford. “I was there,” Caleb said. “Your boys found me. And your fight—it is with me.”

  Sesily realized what he was doing. Redirecting the viscount’s attention. Buying time.

  It worked, and soon Coleford’s pistol was pointed at him.

  “No. Caleb.” It was Sesily’s turn to hold him back, but Caleb shook her off, taking another step, to the side, blocking her view.

  Blocking Coleford’s shot.

  Protecting her.

  Once again, putting himself in harm’s way to keep her safe.

  “I suppose you thought that by coming here, you could protect yourself. You were caught, and you thought you’d surrender to justice.” Coleford waved the weapon in a circle, and Sesily couldn’t stop watching his eyes, unfocused and wild. “But you made a mistake, you see. I never wanted justice. I didn’t report the boy’s murder, because I don’t want it.”

  “You want vengeance.” Sesily sucked in a breath, and Caleb moved again, releasing her hand, stepping squarely in front of her. Infuriating man.

  Respect flared in the older man’s gaze. “Indeed.”

  “I understand that. I want it, too.” He stilled, slipping one hand into his trouser pocket, leaving the other free at his side.

  And that’s when Sesily remembered she, too, had pockets.

  And what she kept in them.

  Infuriating, brilliant man. Fighting alongside her after all.

  “Only one of us is going to get it, though,” Coleford said, leveling the pistol directly at Caleb’s heart.

  Within seconds, the hilt of her knife was in his hand, and he was moving like lightning, the blade flying through the air as Sesily leapt to knock him out of the way of the gunshot that sounded in the darkness.

  Sesily’s scream sounded alongside Coleford’s high-pitched whine and Caleb’s wicked curse. The viscount dropped to the ground, the hilt of Sesily’s blade protruding from his shoulder even as Caleb lunged for the pistol, kicking it into the darkness, far out of reach.

  He turned to face her then, her name like a breath, over and over, soft and full of worry, his hands stroking over her arms, up to her face. “Are you alright? Are you safe?”

  She nodded, her own hands coming to his cheeks, his arms. “Yes. Yes. I’m fine. Are you? He fired the gun—the bullet?”

  “Fucking hell, Sesily. You could have been killed. Next time, you let me take the damn bullet.”

  “We’ll discuss it.”

  He pulled her close, planting a quick, firm kiss on her lips. “We will not, dammit.” Releasing her, he said, “I don’t suppose you’re willing to part with any of those pretty petticoats in service of tying up an absolute rotter?”

  She gave him her brightest smile. “Did you think the ribbons sewn into them were merely for show?”

  She’d just lifted her skirts to fetch the bindings when behind them, an irritated voice said, “Goddammit, this is just what the day needs.”

  Thomas Peck stood at a distance, lantern in hand, the golden light illuminating his extreme annoyance as he took in the scene. Coleford writhing in the darkness, Caleb and Sesily fussing with her skirts.

  Smoothing them down over her ankles, Sesily took Caleb’s hand and stood. “With all due respect, Detective Inspector, you would have been immensely helpful a few minutes earlier.”

  “Well, my lady,” Peck said, the honorific sounding more like epithet on his tongue. “As my hallways were teeming with women at the exact moment of the explosion, it was rather difficult to move with any deliberate speed.”

  She nodded. “Ah. No need to worry. As you can see, Mr. Calhoun had things well in hand.”

  “The amount of paperwork you people have caused me today.” He looked down at the viscount, writhing on the ground. “I gather this is Coleford?”

  “In the flesh,” Calhoun said.

  “Mmm,” Peck said, looking down and addressing the viscount. “Well, you turning up here certainly saves me having to come round and arrest you for attempted murder in Scotland Yard, but I could have done without a knife wound.” He raised his voice to an unseen aide. “Someone get a damn surgeon, please?”

  Sesily resisted the urge to laugh at the man’s demeanor. No wonder Imogen liked him.

  He seemed to sense her attention. “And you, Lady Sesily, I suppose you just happened by? Out for a carriage ride with your friend Lady Imogen?”

  She flashed a bright smile at him. “I heard there was an explosion. You couldn’t expect me to stay away from a thing like that.”

  “Mmm. Lucky that Mr. Calhoun survived it, considering there turned out to be no reason for him to be in custody to begin with. Thank heavens for small favors, I suppose. All I needed was a dead man in my jail cell to make this day perfect.” He nudged Coleford with his toe. “Oy. Don’t die on me, toff.”

  Coleford whimpered from his prone position.

  “Hang on.” Caleb’s brows rose, and Sesily delighted in the surprise on his face. “No reason for me to be here?”

  Peck sighed. “Not considering the fact that the body of one”—he removed a slip of paper from his breast pocket—“Peter Whitacre
was delivered to the morgue this afternoon, along with a confession for the eighteen-year-gone murder of the viscount’s son.” He paused, returning the paper to his pocket. “A fact I would have known sooner, if your friend hadn’t been attempting to drive me mad, Lady Sesily.”

  “I shall have a stern talk with her,” she said.

  “If you would, please,” he replied. “And also, I understand you’ve plans to donate the funds to repair one cell door.”

  Her smile widened. “I am nothing if not a staunch supporter of the law.”

  “Mmm,” said the detective inspector. “I cannot see how anyone would think otherwise.” He looked down at Coleford on the ground for a moment before turning an irritated gaze back on them. “A great deal of paperwork, in light of which, I believe I will not be entering into the record either of the conversations I had today regarding the murder of a man who can only be described as out-and-out villain. Especially considering we now have a confessed perpetrator in the morgue.”

  Beside her, Caleb went taut with shock. Sesily could’ve kissed Thomas Peck right on the mouth, but somehow she didn’t think Caleb would like that.

  “Thank you,” he said, the rough gravel of his voice hinting at the wild relief he felt. They both felt. She slipped her hand into his, loved the way his grip tightened on hers. Like he’d never let her go.

  Like he’d never have to.

  Peck nodded, his eyes glittering with the light of a man who followed his own code of honor. “Someday, American, I shall ask you to remember it.”

  The message was clear. It was no longer Peck who owed Caleb, but the other way around. And one day, the inspector would call in the chit.

  Caleb didn’t hesitate. With a nod, he agreed to the terms.

  Satisfied, Peck turned his stern gaze on her. “And now, I think we’ve all played enough ‘Visit Scotland Yard and Toy with the Detective Inspector’ for the day.”

  She resisted the smile that threatened. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you’d best see to your man, my lady. And quickly.”

  Her man.

  The words sent a shiver of pleasure through her.

  Her man. Free and clear.