Read this book if you want to f-k Tommy Shelby.
You're Billy Kimber's daughter.
You've been accused of stealing the Peaky Blinders' shipment of guns.
And now you're forced to work with Tommy Shelby to solve the mystery of who's framing your father...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It's a few days before I can so much as take a piss without feeling a set of eyes on me.
In fact, I begin deliberately leaving the bathroom door open each time, just so I can wave and stick my middle finger at whoever's on guard down the hall.
Once more, I stew over the fact Tommy must be making more progress than me. He probably went down to Horton's the same night we found the list and paid for a prostitute. She probably told him everything while he was still balls-deep inside of her.
The thought sends a flicker of annoyance and irritation through my gut. Only because he's making progress while I'm still stuck here like a fucking prisoner, I reason with myself.
But it's not time spent wasted. I plot and devise for every hour I'm holed up, snacking relentlessly on lemon cakes and jam sandwiches the cook delivered to my room. I know it's on my father's orders that she's made three trays worth of the cakes. His twisted way of apologising.
He'll have the cook make me lemon cakes, or he'll buy me a pony, or I'll find a gift-wrapped new novel on the floor outside my bedroom. And it'll last all of a week if I'm lucky, before he complains my appetite's been distracting the cook from her meals, the pony was a shit racehorse investment, and that I read too much. Each will be snatched away from me again.
But while he expects me to be sulking, I'm secretly scheming. I spend the first day memorising the address of Horton's and locating it on the map, committing the entire route to memory along with alternates in case I need to make a quick escape.
None of the guards bat an eyelid when I go to retrieve sewing supplies from the maid's stores. And for all her faults, one of the few good things my mother taught me was how to make clothes. It stopped her 'spending all my fucking money on new ones,' as my Father would so eloquently put it.
By the time I've finished making the lacy lingerie and a sheer, fur-trimmed robe to match — mutilating my own clothes in the process for fabric, but a girl's got to do what she's got to do — I worry my measurements will have changed already. Three days of crafting and eating lemon cakes has me feeling less like a sex goddess and more like a bloated pear.
But still I keep working late into the night, as silently as I can with the guard outside my door. My eyebrows are neatly plucked, every inch of my body below my eyes is hairless, and I've exfoliated and moisturised within an inch of my life. I even dug out a leftover hair gloss Marjorie always kept below the sink, and now my hair falls in soft waves down my back. I wonder for a moment if I ought to cut it short like the flappers, if that would be a better fit — then decide against it. Hacking at my own hair with bathroom scissors probably won't end well.
The last step is covering the bruising across my face. Mottled yellows and purples insist on showing through every layer of makeup, no matter how much I pile on. Finally I give up, outlining my eyes in winged kohl and dabbing lipstick in an attempt to distract from my face. Altogether, I look barely recognisable.
Wrapping a trench coat around myself for modesty as much for warmth, I peek out the bedroom door.
Just the one guard tonight, sat on a chair at the end of the hall. The smaller, thinner man. Thank god.
"Psst," I call out, curling around the door frame.
His eyes immediately snap onto me. I see them widen, taking in my appearance, my bare legs in heels peeking out below the coat.
"Come here," I say quietly.
He gulps, deliberating for a moment, before getting to his feet and striding down the length of the hall. God, men really are disappointing. But I plan to work it to my advantage.
"Everything okay, miss?" He asks.
"I need a favour," I tell him.
His eyes flicker downward. Red flushes across his cheeks as he glances one way down the corridor, then the other, before stepping closer.
He doesn't see the thick encyclopaedia I'm holding behind my back until it collides with his skull, all my weight behind the blow.
He collapses.
I look down at his helpless form on the floor. "And that's why you shouldn't make decisions with your dick," I say.
I have to move quickly. First, I bend and retrieve the pistol from his waistband — the whole reason for instigating this chaos rather than simply climbing out the window. Dragging his body into my bedroom isn't strictly necessary — I'm as likely to get caught when he wakes up anyway — but some instinct in my gut pushes me to do it. Which is irritating, because it takes me a ridiculously long time to drag him such a short distance, wasting valuable time. But finally, with the last pull and shove — seriously, why are bodies so heavy — I haul him in and lock him inside.
Mercifully, the route to the kitchen is clear, all housekeepers finished for the evening. My father's smoking cigars and playing darts with a bunch of cronies at the other end of the house. The way is clear, and I scarper across the driveway, disappearing into the thicket of trees.
God really is good.
Until he decides not to be.
"Enjoy your night, yeah?"
I freeze in the darkness, a deer caught in headlights. But it's only Alfie Solomons. And rather than stopping me, he waves merrily to catch my attention. He must have arrived just moments ago.
"Don't worry," he says, recognising the fear spreading across my face. "Daddy dearest won't hear nuffink from me." He winks, and heads inside.
This is the last sort of complication I need. I have no idea if Alfie can be trusted. No idea if he'll hold this over my head and blackmail me with it. But it's too late to turn back now. I've already knocked out a guard. There'll already be consequences.
And I'm already running out of time.
My fingers tremble as I saddle Spangles as quickly as I can manage. She nickers affectionately, and my responding hushes echo through the stables, joining the heartbeat hammering in my ears. Barely believing I'm getting away with this, I mount her, and take off through the trees.
