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...
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I become a traitor to myself. Instead of blowing Thomas Shelby's head off with a shotgun, I spend three days hiding in my bedroom like a coward.
Engagement gifts begin arriving. I'm vaguely aware of the growing pile outside my bedroom each time I venture out for food or to bathe. I'm careful to sneak around where I won't be discovered. Roberts has called on my door every day, and each time I ignore him, praying he'll assume I'm asleep or busy.
I begin to grow feverish. I'm happiest with a horse at my side and wind in my hair, not cooped up like a caged hen. But there's every chance Tommy's waiting for me out on the grounds. Or some other Peaky Blinder. There's every chance he's trying to reach me, and I don't want to be reached. My bedroom is safe. He can't infiltrate me here.
Of course, there's also every chance he's not waiting for me at all. Maybe Polly talked some sense into him after all. Or maybe he simply changed his mind. Managed to initiate the plan without involving me. He didn't come back for me the day after the party like he said he would.
And with me morose, and depressed, and out of the way, my father's affection for me seems to have grown. He has books sent up to my room, along with lemon cakes and jam tarts. I can't stomach them like usual. Rather than an entire tray, I manage only a half dozen. Practically criminal considering how delicious they are.
My father mentioned at the engagement party that my mother and sister will be coming home for the wedding. I wonder if they'll resent me for it, for having to be in my father's vicinity once more. I wonder if my father will resent having them back.
Of course, that's assuming I actually go through with marrying Alfie. Which is madness on an entire other scale.
But, a small part of me notes, it might be my only chance for independence. Women in this day and age go straight from being their father's responsibility to being their husband's responsibility. With Alfie, the only thing for certain is I'll be free of such tradition. I'll be neutral in this war between my father and the Peaky Blinders. I'll be neutral in just about any war — at least, once the Italians are taken care of.
I groan. Why do decisions have to be so bloody hard?
There's a knock at the door. I don't bother to even glance up from my book. Rain's lashing against the window, the soft patter a comforting melody as I absorb myself in the words of the novel. Most likely, it's Roberts again. Perhaps the cook with another tray of cakes.
Another knock. "Miss Kimber? The meringues are best eaten fresh."
I perk up slightly. It is the cook — with mini lemon meringue pies. I place my book down and cross the room to let her in. The meringues smell heavenly, filling the room with lemon and sugar and cream.
"There's a phone call for you," the cook informs me. "Alfie Solomons. Something about a business problem?"
I frown. One thing I haven't been slacking on during my hibernation is work. I've been compiling lists of every well-to-do woman who'd be a candidate for protective services, and sending them to Alfie with each morning's post.
