Pippa and the Prince of Secrets by Grace Callaway

25

Pippa, Livy, and Fiona proceeded to the New Cytherea the next afternoon. They’d disguised themselves as trollops in search of employment. A guard ushered them in through the back, and when his hand “accidentally” landed on her bottom, Pippa shoved it away.

“No touchin’ the merchandise,” she warned.

“Saucy, eh?” He leered at her. “Come find me after, and I’ll treat you to a tavern supper.”

Fiona, presently a blowsy brunette, hooked her arm through Pippa’s. “Me friend’s on a slimming plan, so you’ll ’ave to sup alone.”

The Angels entered the backstage area. The dilapidated room had a few rickety dressing tables set alongside the far wall, and actresses dressed in clingy robes were nudging one another, fighting for space in front of the looking glasses as they primped.

“Watch yer bony elbow,” a voluptuous blonde squealed. “You’re bruising me tits.”

“And those are wot get ’er the nightly encores,” a brunette riposted, leading to peals of laughter.

The blonde jiggled said assets, cooing, “Lord Evanston is quite taken with me talents.”

“Those talents will droop and sag one day, and then where’ll you all be?” A newcomer strode through the stage curtains. Thin, dark-haired, and angular, the woman sported male attire and clutched a sheaf of papers in her ink-stained fingers. “Why are you hens preening instead o’ practicing your lines?”

“Marg?” Pippa said in surprise.

The woman turned, her eyes widening as she took in the Angels. “Why, as I live and breathe. Wot are you lot doing ’ere?”

“I guess we didn’t need the disguises after all,” Livy said.

The Angels knew Marg. Marg’s companion, the beautiful CeCe, had been Edwin’s favorite model and, indeed, the muse for Portrait of a Lady Dreaming. Pippa had become friendly with the two women, enjoying their chats at Edwin’s studio. The pair had also helped the Angels during the investigation into Edwin’s death.

Smiling, Pippa held out a hand to Marg, who took it in a roughly affectionate squeeze.

“Been a while, luv.” Marg studied her. “You’re looking well. Doing better?”

“Yes,” Pippa said. “May we speak to you in private?”

“We’ll talk in my office.” Turning to the actresses, Marg barked, “As for you lot, I want you to practice the last scene from The Wings of Cupid. We’ll do a run-through when I return.”

“Why bother?” A brassy-haired woman stuck a hand on her hip. “Our audience don’t care ’bout Cupid’s wings. It’s Cupid’s alley they’re ’ere to visit.”

The women fell into one another, cackling with laughter. With a frustrated growl, Marg threw the pages she was carrying into the air and stalked out, the Angels at her heels. They followed her down a corridor and into a storage room crammed with costumes and objects used in plays. They all crowded in, and Pippa was squished next to a plaster rendition of Michelangelo’s David. Feeling something poke into her back, she looked down…and stifled a giggle at the implausible size of the statue’s equipment.

Marg glowered at the protruding appendage, which had to be close to two feet long.

“I curse the day I took this job,” she grumbled. “The owner said ’e needed a proper playwright, after the last one developed bats in the belfry. Now I know why: the poor cove was driven mad by the talentless hacks that work ’ere. Not one o’ the hens out there is willing to lift a finger and act; they’d rather lift their blasted skirts.”

“How frustrating,” Pippa said sympathetically.

“CeCe’s afraid I’m going to have a fit o’ apoplexy. Speaking of Cece…she misses you.” Marg paused. “You haven’t visited o’ late.”

Guilt prickled Pippa. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”

Marg scrutinized her. “Got a follower, do you?”

She flushed. Do I have a sign hanging around my neck announcing that I have a lover?

Marg laughed, as if reading her mind. “You got your glow back. And I’m ’appy for you, luv. Life is for the living, eh? Now tell me what I can do for you ladies today.”

“We are looking for information about this man.” Pippa took out a sketch that she’d done of Hastings. “He was here—”

“That’s the nob who was shot across the street the night before last.” Marg narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t a robbery?”

“We have reason to believe otherwise,” Livy said. “You saw him?”

“Spoke to him after I found him pestering the actresses backstage.”

“What did he want?” Fi asked.

“’E ’ad a portrait o’ a woman. Brown-haired, plain. Said it was ’is wife.” Marg crossed her arms. “’E’d brought an old program and wanted to know if any o’ us remembered seeing ’er at that play.”

Pippa pursed her lips. “Did any of you?”

Marg shook her head. “That play took place a year ago. I wasn’t working ’ere yet, and neither were most o’ the current players. Even if any o’ the hens ’ad remembered the cove’s wife, though, they would’ve kept mum about it.”

“Why?” Pippa asked.

“Because he was a brute,” Marg said flatly. “And too many o’ the women are ’ere to get away from the brutes in their own lives. To take control o’ their futures ’owever they can. And like thieves, there is honor among sisters.”

“Would you mind if we interviewed the actresses?” Fiona inquired. “Perhaps they would talk to us if they knew we were trying to bring whoever killed Hastings’s wife to justice?”

“Be my guest.” Marg snorted. “It’s not as if the hens are doing anything useful anyway.”

That afternoon, Cull arrived early to his appointment at Nightingale’s, a coffee house in Covent Garden. The meeting was the reason why he’d had to postpone the trip to Hertfordshire by a day. The thought of his upcoming journey with Pippa heated his blood, but he forced himself to concentrate. He needed his wits about him for the task ahead.

A pair of guards searched him for weapons before granting him entrance. A relic of a bygone era, Nightingale’s was filled with the rich aroma of coffee, its long tables filled with chattering patrons. Years ago, the place had been razed by fire and rebuilt by Bartholomew Black, a cutthroat so notorious that he’d been dubbed the King of the Underworld. Despite his infamy, Black had also used his power for good, establishing a hierarchy in the underclass that kept bloodshed and chaos to a minimum. He’d employed Nightingale’s as his headquarters and meeting place. As the Prince of Larks, Cull had been invited to the table on several occasions to discuss plans of mutual benefit.

Black had retired, passing the mantle to his granddaughter, Tessa Kent. It was Mrs. Kent with whom Cull would be meeting today. From her that he would request a boon.

The guards led Cull to the private meeting room, a high-ceilinged space with a massive round table which had hosted some of the most intense underworld parleys. The seats ringing the oak slab were empty, save one. In the largest chair—a throne that rivaled the Queen’s with its carved giltwood frame and crimson velvet upholstery—sat Tessa Kent.

Many made the mistake of underestimating the sylphlike brunette with jade-colored eyes. Mrs. Kent was in her thirties, dressed in a fashionable crimson gown and pelisse, her skirts neatly arrayed. Despite her charming appearance, anyone who’d dealt with her knew she was cunning and a force to be reckoned with.

Standing by her side was her tall, dark-haired spouse, Harry Kent. A scientist and partner in a prosperous railway company, Kent was known for his intelligence and fierce devotion to his wife. His bespectacled gaze narrowed, as if assessing Cull for any signs of threat. Such vigilance was understandable, given Mrs. Kent’s condition. Although Mrs. Kent’s pelisse hid her waist, Cull had heard from a source that the lady was expecting again.

“Good afternoon, Prince,” Mrs. Kent said pleasantly. “Please, have a seat.”

Exchanging a bow with Kent, Cull sat where a silver coffee service awaited him. Partaking of the coffee was a ritual. The offering and accepting of hospitality a sign of mutual respect. Kent took the seat next to his wife; although he did not interfere, his stance made it clear he was ready to act at the slightest provocation.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Cull said as he doctored his brew.

Mrs. Kent took a sip from a delicate porcelain cup. “It isn’t often you request a meeting.”

“I have a favor to ask.” With this lady, it was best to come to the point.

She arched her brows. “To ask…or to call in?”

She’d remembered, as he’d known she would. Over a decade ago, she and Kent had asked for assistance rescuing Bartholomew Black from a deadly enemy. Cull had answered their call, and he’d never asked for anything in return. He’d been saving that card, knowing that he would need to play it one day.

Cull took a drink of the rich coffee before answering. “You have a friend, Alfred Doolittle, who owns a slew of pawnshops throughout London. He heads an unofficial guild for his trade, and it is said that all pawnbrokers answer to him.”

“And what’s it to you?” Mrs. Kent asked.

Cull was not fooled by her mild tone. “In recent weeks, Chester Squibb has tried to kill me twice. He is a nuisance that must be dealt with. Squibb makes his living robbing the houses he’s paid to sweep, and I want Doolittle to cut off his lifeblood. To ensure that no pawnbroker in London will take his goods. Squibb’s gang is based on greed, not loyalty. When the money stops coming in, his gang will disperse like a dandelion.”

“Diabolical.” Mrs. Kent turned her cup in its saucer. “Why not just kill Squibb and be done with it? An eye for an eye.”

“Because I do not wish to walk through streets littered with eyeballs and running with blood.”

Mrs. Kent’s lips formed a humorless curve. “A charming image.”

A boom suddenly shook the walls, sloshing coffee out of cups. Instinct propelled Cull to his feet. Kent was slower to rise and looked remarkably unconcerned.

He exchanged glances with his wife, who said with a sigh, “Whose turn is it?”

Kent chucked the Duchess of the Underworld beneath her chin. “I believe it is yours, sprite.”

“It figures,” she grumbled. She stood and said in a voice that carried, “Bartholomew Kent, get in here this instant!”

Footsteps sounded outside the room. A guard let in a boy who was around ten years old, handsome and sturdily built, with a shock of unruly hair that had come from his papa. Currently, tuffs were sticking straight up, ash streaked across his face. He flicked his gaze at Cull, registering the presence of a masked stranger, yet reining in his curiosity to deal with a more immediate peril. He’d inherited his shrewdness from his maternal side, no doubt.

With a confident smile, Bartholomew Kent said, “Hello, Mama and Papa. You called?”

“Don’t you Mama me, young man,” Mrs. Kent returned. “What did we say about setting off Papa’s inventions?”

“That I’m not supposed to,” the boy said virtuously.

A wise rule, Cull thought, since Kent’s rock-blasting explosives had taken down mountains.

Mrs. Kent crossed her arms. “And what were you doing just now?”

“I didn’t set off Papa’s device,” Bartholomew said. “Ask Mr. Parkin.”

He pointed to the scholarly-looking fellow who stood trembling in the doorway.

“Come in, Mr. Parkin,” Mrs. Kent said imperiously. “Tell us who set off Harry’s device.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Parkin.” The boy’s tone matched his mama’s. “Tell them.”

Parkin edged inside, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, his eyes darting between mother and son. “It was…it was me, ma’am.”

Mrs. Kent’s brows pinched together. “Explain.”

“When I went in to give Master Bartholomew his lesson, I, er, accidentally triggered a system of levers and pulleys. We have been studying the physics of simple machines, you see,” the tutor said apologetically. “Anyway, the string on the doorknob was attached to a weight, which lowered onto the lever, which set a ball in motion, which hit a row of books lined up like dominoes, which toppled a lit candle—”

“I get the idea,” Mrs. Kent snapped.

Her husband’s lips quirked.

“It was an ingenious application of the lesson,” the tutor mumbled.

“And an even more ingenious attempt to evade the rules.” Scowling, Mrs. Kent turned to her son. “Nonetheless, Bart, you are ultimately responsible for the device going off. Papa and I will be discussing your punishment. For now, go with your tutor”—she wagged her finger at him—“and no more shenanigans, do you hear me? Or you shall remain in the nursery with your younger siblings, and I shan’t let you accompany us to Nightingale’s again.”

“Yes, Mama,” Master Bart said with a beatific smile.

He strode out, the tutor scurrying after him.

Mrs. Kent sighed. “The boy takes after his namesake.”

“And his mama.” Kent grinned at her. “I seem to recall that you once rigged a similar system.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Mrs. Kent chuckled.

“If it’s any consolation,” Cull said, “Master Bart would fit right in at the Nest.”

“I don’t know how you manage all those mudlarks on your own, Prince.” Mrs. Kent’s mien turned knowing. “Although from what I understand, you may be in the market for a princess?”

What the devil? Cull’s gut knotted. How does she know about Pippa?

While Tessa Kent was more friend than foe, he didn’t like anyone knowing about him and Pippa. Didn’t like exposing Pippa to the dangers of his life.

“You are not the only one with eyes and ears. The lady in question comes from a family with deep roots in our world. Her papa is not a man to cross…but you know that, of course.”

Cull acknowledged the advice with a terse nod.

“Good.” Mrs. Kent smiled. “As to your request, I will speak to Alfie. Await my word.”