Bombshell

by MacLean, Sarah

  Standing, she collected the file. “I’m taking this back. I’m not sure you deserve it.”

  “I don’t know how I will go on,” he said, guiding her across the room. He set a hand to the door handle. “Thank you for your visit.”

  He opened the door to his office to discover another woman standing in the doorway, pretty and dark-haired, with a rosy-cheeked round face and laugh lines at the corner of eyes that were not smiling. “Detective Inspector Peck?”

  He bit his tongue. Of course there was another woman at his door.

  He forced a pleasant smile despite wanting to do the very opposite, and looked down at Lady Imogen. “I assume the parade of ladies reporting nonsensical crimes today has something to do with you?”

  “Really, Detective Inspector,” she said, “you are lucky I do not take offense at being called a criminal mastermind.”

  “I didn’t call you a criminal mastermind.”

  “Ah. Well. Now I am offended.”

  Absolute mayhem.

  She leaned forward and, in a stage whisper, said, “The others were just for fun. This one is real.” And then she dipped a little curtsy to him—one he absolutely should not have enjoyed considering the way he simmered with frustration at being toyed with for a full day—and slipped beneath his arm, turning back to face him once she was in the hallway.

  “Warm in here, don’t you think?”

  Scotland Yard could be called many things, but warm was not one of them.

  Before he could reply, she’d turned away. He watched her go, her full hips swaying beneath the cloak she wore.

  His visitor cleared her throat in the doorway. “Detective Inspector Peck?”

  He tore his gaze from the wild woman, not altogether certain that she could be trusted in the building on her own, and looked down at the newcomer. “Yes, please. Come in, miss.”

  He backed away, holding the door as the woman entered, hands clasped tightly together.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, sure he was about to receive another time wasting report.

  Missing embroidery hoop, lost on Bond Street. Might it be recovered? Could the police help?

  Except … This one is real, Lady Imogen had said.

  And the woman looked it. She looked serious. “My brother did not kill Viscount Coleford’s son.”

  Ten hours after he’d confessed to murder, Caleb sat on a hard stone slab in a dimly lit, dank holding cell at Scotland Yard, thinking about Sesily.

  He’d stopped waiting for Peck to turn up hours earlier. As the time passed, it became clear that he wasn’t of much interest; a handful of policemen had wandered by to have a look—he’d recognized two of them from Covent Garden. But eventually, news of his presence in Scotland Yard had traveled far enough that he was left alone, which gave him more time to think than he’d like, because thinking about Sesily was almost too much to bear.

  There were a dozen thoughts he might have summoned when it came to her. The softness of her skin, the wild fall of her sable curls when her hair was loose around her bare shoulders. The curve of her lips. The taste of her, sweet and sinful.

  But he didn’t think of all that. Instead, he sat, her portrait in hand, brushing his thumb over the silver frame, and thought about her laugh. The way it echoed through a room, loud and carefree. The way it rolled through him, filling up all his dark places. The way it lit her eyes and reddened her cheeks, and became more than just amusement.

  Watching Sesily laugh was a revelation.

  And whatever was to come—prison, the gallows, passage to Australia—he’d carry the warmth and the hope that filled him every time she laughed forever. When he breathed his last, it would be with that sound in his thoughts and her name on his lips.

  And if he never heard it again, never saw her again, never heard her voice, it would be enough. Because she would be safe.

  But Christ, he’d give everything he had to hear her voice again.

  “Fucking hell, Caleb.”

  He came off the slab of concrete at the sound, wondering if he’d conjured it, even as he knew that if he were conjuring anything, it wouldn’t be her cursing his name.

  Or, maybe it would be. Maybe it was perfect.

  Perfect or not, he hadn’t conjured her. She was there, on the other side of the cell bars, looking glorious in a dress of shining silk the color of the summer sky, even as she crouched, inspecting the lock on the cell door.

  He was at the bars in a heartbeat, hands gripping them tight until his knuckles went white. “What in hell are you doing here?”

  “Not now,” she said, not looking up from her work. “I’m really very annoyed with you.”

  None of this was as he’d planned. How had she gained access to Scotland Yard? How had she gained access to his cell? “You can’t be here,” he said. “Jesus, Sesily. This is a jail.”

  “Please,” she scoffed. “This is Whitehall. It’s not exactly Newgate.”

  “It’s crawling with police officers.”

  “Not one of whom appears to be interested in you. You’ve been in here for ten hours, and Peck hasn’t even sent word to Coleford.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She did look up at him then, her beautiful blue eyes like a gift. “At what point in our story do you think you will realize that I’m fairly good at knowing things?”

  He would have laughed at that if he wasn’t in a jail cell. But he was, and he didn’t want her knowing things about that. He didn’t want her anywhere near that. She’d be locked in a jail cell if she was discovered doing … whatever it was she was doing.

  “Whether or not they’ve taken interest in me, Sesily, I’m locked in here for a reason.”

  “Yes. A misplaced sense of responsibility. We’re going to discuss that just as soon as I’m through.” With a little, frustrated growl, she stood up and stomped her feet. “Dammit. We shall have to wait for Imogen.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. “Why is Imogen here?”

  Sesily cut him a look, as though he was a child. “Because I know better than to stage a prison break without reinforcements, Caleb.”

  “I thought it was just Whitehall.”

  “Yes, well, they’ve upgraded the locks since I was in here last.”

  He blinked. “You’ve done this before?”

  She waved away the question as though it weren’t important. “The point is, tonight I am breaking you out, you idiot man. You are not allowed to just leave me.”

  “Sesily,” he began, hating that they were to have this conversation again. “I told you. If I am not here, you are not—”

  “Safe. Yes. I heard you the first dozen times you said it.”

  “Goddammit!” he whispered, not wanting to be heard. Not wanting to get her caught. “It matters!”

  She smiled at him, soft and loving, as though they were at a horse race, or walking in Hyde Park, or meeting eyes across his tavern. The look made him want to reach through the bars and pull her close. And then she said, “Tell me, Caleb, has it occurred to you that it might also matter that you be safe?”

  This woman. “Sesily, I don’t get to be safe. I—” He paused. “I killed the heir to a viscounty!”

  She shook her head. “You magnificent man. Full of protective instincts and a need to sacrifice your happiness. Truly, someone should put you in a novel.”

  The words sent a thread of cold through him. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” she said, her tone firmer than before, accusatory, “that you did not kill The Absolutely Not-Honorable Bernard Palmer, and no one is going to jail for a crime they didn’t commit today. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  His heart stopped. “How do you know that?”

  There was only one way. She had to have spoken to Jane.

  “You will find, Mr. Calhoun, that I have an immense network of very skilled people at my disposal. A network I am not afraid to use if it means ensuring that I get what I want. Which, tonight, require
s stopping the man I love from committing this very noble and exceedingly stupid act.”

  The room was growing warm as Caleb’s panic began to rise. “Sesily—” he warned. “Jane is—”

  “Jane isn’t going to jail for any crime, either,” she said. “I told you there was another way, didn’t I?”

  Except there wasn’t. There was no other way, except Caleb here, and Coleford knowing it. “Where is she?”

  “She is safe. Peter, too. And his father,” Sesily said. “And all very eager to see you, I might add. Not quite as annoyed with you as I am. Though I understand why you didn’t tell me the truth. Some stories are not for you to tell.”

  “She told you?”

  “She did,” Sesily said. “She told me the whole story. The terrible Mr. Palmer, the way he came for her. How she had no choice but to defend herself. And how you, you gorgeous man, did what you do best—what you have done best, apparently, since you were a child. You protected her. Just as I’ve seen you protect every person you’ve ever loved. Your sister. Your nephew. Seraphina.”

  “You,” he said. “You.”

  “Me.” She reached for his hands on the bar, her fingers warm and firm on his skin, and aching for her touch, he threaded his own through them. “You’re quite brilliant, you know. It turned out that your plan was the one all along.”

  “What plan?”

  “No more darkness.” She smiled. “We’re lighting the lights.”

  He couldn’t get to her and it was making him wild. “Goddammit, Sesily. You shouldn’t have come.”

  “There’s no use getting angry with me,” she said. “Aside from the plan being already in motion—”

  “What plan?”

  “The one where I save you,” she replied. “Aside from us being well down that path, you’re locked in there and these bars are quite strong.” She leaned away from them, turning to look down a darkened corridor. “I do wish Imogen would hurry, on that note.”

  “What’s Imogen up to?” He paused. “What have you all done?”

  “I could answer that any number of ways,” she said. “I’ve had a very busy time of it since you left me—did I mention I do not like it when you leave me?”

  “You did, yes.” Christ. It had ripped his heart out to leave her there, on the river. To walk away without looking back.

  “I thought I might never touch you again,” she said, squeezing his fingers in her own. “I didn’t like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “I thought I might never see you again. I didn’t like that, either.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She met his gaze. “And you told me you loved me. I didn’t like that, either.”

  His brows shot together. “You didn’t?”

  “I didn’t. You said it the way you say it to someone you’re intending to never see again. You said it the way you say it to someone whose heart you’re about to break. You said it like an end, instead of a beginning.”

  Christ, he wanted it to be a beginning.

  He reached for her through the bars, his fingers brushing across her cheek, sliding into her hair. “I’m sorry. Shall I try it again?”

  “I’m not sure you’ll do it right this time, either,” she said, anger in her words for the first time since she’d appeared at the bars of his cell. “I need you, Caleb. I don’t need you in prison, protecting me. I need you out here, shoulder to shoulder. With me.”

  He needed it, too.

  “Has it occurred to you that I am a great deal of trouble?” she added.

  “Only every day since the day we met.”

  “And do you think I will be less trouble once you are gone? Because I shan’t be. I assure you, I will not take your death well. I’ve no intention of withering gracefully in silent despair, like some widow wearing black and reading sad poetry.”

  Widow. He lingered on the word. On the way it made it sound like they’d had a lifetime together. On the way it made him ache.

  But Sesily was just beginning. “Let me be clear, you arrogant man. You know nothing of what I will do if you die. If you die, I will detonate. They will have to invent new words for the havoc I will wreak."

  Her blue eyes flashed, full of furious promise. Good lord, she was magnificent.

  “So you are not allowed to die on some silly hill and claim it is for me, Caleb Calhoun. I don’t want it and I certainly don’t need it.”

  Magnificent, and his.

  “You think I am reckless now—”

  “I don’t think you are reckless. I think you are fearless. That’s not the same thing.” He reached through the bars and pulled her closer. “You are making a very big promise, Lady Sesily. Are you sure you mean it?”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “What kind of promise?”

  “If we stand together … if we fight together … if we go with your plan and light all the lights, tell all the truths …”

  “It was your plan.”

  “You make it sound more fun.”

  She lifted her chin. “I do, don’t I?”

  “I want it.”

  She blinked. “You do?”

  More than anything he’d ever wanted. And he’d wanted many many things in his lifetime. “I want it, and I want you.” He paused. “You have a plan?”

  She nodded, understanding lighting her eyes. “Yes.”

  Shoulder to shoulder. That was the promise.

  “Then lead the way.”

  She grinned and reached for him, her hand coming to his face through the bars. “I love you.”

  “I love you,” he said, softly.

  She met his gaze with a watery smile. “That was better.”

  “You see?” he replied. “I just need practice.”

  “Try it again,” she said.

  “I love you,” he replied.

  “Good,” she said. “I’m absolutely furious that you came barreling in here like some kind of hero, instead of letting me do what I do best.”

  “Which is?”

  “Win.”

  “Does it involve viscount vandalism?”

  She grinned. “Don’t tempt me with a delicious challenge. But no, I’ve more skills than a steady hand with kohl.”

  A bell rang at a distance, distracting Sesily. She looked down the corridor and released a little breath. “Honestly, Imogen, it took you long enough.”

  “I would have been here sooner if you’d let me do it my way from the start,” Lady Imogen said to Sesily before looking to Caleb. “Good evening, Mr. Calhoun.”

  Sesily had brought chaotic reinforcements. “Is it?”

  “It’s about to be,” the woman replied.

  “I assume the detective inspector refused the request.”

  “Indeed. The whole thing was a real disappointment.” She paused. “Except the man’s beard. That isn’t disappointing.”

  Sesily laughed.

  Caleb attempted to keep the conversation on track. “What request?”

  “The request to release you,” Sesily said offhandedly, looking down at Imogen, who was rifling through her bag, passing items for Sesily to hold. A narrow silver spoon. A tapered candle.

  “Did you expect him to release me upon request?”

  “No,” Imogen said, happily, removing a heavy blanket from her bag and unwrapping it carefully to reveal a glass jar within. “And if I’m being honest? I’m happy he didn’t.”

  She passed the jar up to Sesily.

  “What is that?” he asked, suspicious.

  “No need to worry,” Sesily and Imogen said together.

  Which immediately made him worry. “What in hell is that?” he repeated, suddenly keenly aware of what, in hell, it was. His voice rose. “Christ, Sesily …”

  “Best not to yell,” Imogen said, digging deep in the dark bag. “Being caught with a jar of gunpowder in Scotland Yard is not the most ideal scenario at this point.”

  He looked to Imogen. “Is there a less ideal scenario?”

&nbs
p; “There is,” she said, now distracted by the lock.

  “Which is?”

  “I could drop it,” Sesily said, matter-of-factly.

  Caleb’s heart began to pound, and he spoke through his teeth. “What happens if you drop it?”

  Lady Imogen looked up at that. “The odds are not insignificant that she would explode us all.”

  He stuck his hand through the cell bars. “Give it to me.”

  “Really, Caleb,” Sesily said. “I’m not going to drop it.”

  He was coming unhinged. “How is it that in this situation, you are the one who is exasperated?”

  “Because you are the one requiring this production. No one is here breaking me out of prison, are they?” She tutted in his direction, passing the jar to Imogen, who was now crouched by the lock on the cell door. When that was done, Sesily winked at him, as though this were all a game. “If I had my way, we’d be at my home in my bed right now.”

  An image flashed at the words, Sesily, rising over him, beautiful and bold, with that playful light in her eyes that never failed to draw him to her like a dog on a lead. He wanted it. And for the first time in a lifetime, this woman made him realize that it might not be an impossibility.

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “When I get out of here …”

  She smiled then, broad and bright and beautiful, and he was struck by how fucking perfect she was—or, at least, how perfect she would be if she were not holding a jar of gunpowder as though it were a cup of tea. “I’m very happy to hear that you intend to get out of there.”

  “I haven’t a choice,” he said. “You can’t be trusted on your own.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “That … and you love me.”

  “I do,” he said, softly, his fingers coming to hers through the bars of the cell.

  “If you two are through?” Imogen asked as she quickly repacked her large bag and moved it out of view of the cell bars. She looked to Caleb. “Is there is a faroff corner in there?”

  His brows rose and he looked around the cell. “I wouldn’t say far.”

  “Least close?”

  Caleb looked to Sesily. “Is she going to blow me up?”

  “We thought about having you kick the cell door down, but …” She trailed off with a grin, and Caleb imagined all the ways he’d kiss it off her if she were in the cell with him.