Pippa and the Prince of Secrets by Grace Callaway
32
To Pippa’s surprise and delight, Cull offered to accompany her to talk to the actresses.
“Don’t you have business to attend to?” she asked.
They’d decided to eat breakfast in the kitchen. Even though the bacon and eggs had gone cold, Cull wolfed down the meal as if it was the best he’d had.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” His eyes gleamed. “Very important business.”
She squealed when he hauled her into his arms and carried her back to her bedchamber for a quick but lusty romp, during which she moaned her satisfaction into a pillow…twice. Heavens, the man was passionate in the morning. Afterward, they dressed and started working their way through the list of addresses Marg had sent.
Progress was slow. By midday, Pippa and Cull had interrupted the sleep of several grumpy ladies and narrowly dodged the contents of a chamber pot thrown their way. Now they were at the eastern end of the Strand, knocking on the door of a shabby flat.
“Let’s hope we have better luck with this one,” Cull muttered.
The bloodshot eye that blinked at them from the door’s peephole did not bode well.
“Who’re you and what do you want?” The female voice had an impatient growl.
Pippa kept her tone pleasant. “Good afternoon. We’re here to speak with Miss, ahem, Penny Cunnyngham.”
“You’re speakin’ to ’er. State your business.”
“Would you mind opening the door? We would like your assistance identifying a portrait,” Pippa said politely.
“What’s in it for me?”
Cull held a coin purse to the peephole and jingled its contents. “Yours if you open the door and talk to us.”
After a moment, the door creaked open.
Cull went in first, keeping Pippa behind him. She peered over his shoulder, taking in the single-room abode that made the Nest look as neat as a pin in comparison. Clothing, empty gin bottles, and assorted sundry were scattered about. The place reeked of cheap perfume and an earthy musk.
Miss Cunnyngham was a pretty, plump-cheeked woman with brassy curls. Her voluptuous figure was covered—barely—by a robe of gaudy apple-green sateen.
She held out a palm. “Payment first.”
Cull dropped the bag in her hand.
She counted the sum, then tossed it onto a table piled with wigs. She yanked on the belt of her robe, the panels parting like curtains. At the sight of the woman’s generous breasts and bushy sex, heat scalded Pippa’s cheeks.
She couldn’t help but peek at Cull. With a tug of possessiveness, she wondered what his reaction would be. Not that she could fault him for looking at another woman; Edwin often had. The one time she’d brought it up, Edwin had said dismissively, “You can’t blame a man for looking, my dear. And as an artist, it is my job to look.”
Moreover, Cull had told her more than once that he liked to…watch. At present, however, his expression was dour, without a spark of interest.
“One at a time or both at once?” Miss Cunnyngham drawled.
“For Christ’s sake, cover yourself,” Cull snapped. “We’re not here for that.”
Her forehead creasing, Miss Cunnyngham fastened her robe. “What’re you ’ere for then?”
Pippa took out the portrait of Julianna Hastings. “As I mentioned, we’re trying to identify the woman in this portrait.”
“Oh, you want ’elp with an actual portrait.” Miss Cunnyngham looked bemused.
“What did you think I meant?” Pippa asked, puzzled.
“Thought you were using slang, luvie. For the position where the woman is sitting upright, supported by a gent beneath ’er and another female—”
“Can you identify the painting?” Cull cut Miss Cunnyngham off. “We believe the lady attended a performance of The Grove of Love, which we’re told you had a part in.”
“I ’ad the starring role.” Miss Cunnyngham preened. “Played Rosalinda, the fair virgin who was sacrificed on the altar o’ Pan. The part left me sore for days. The actor who played Pan ’ad the biggest—”
“Just look at the portrait.” Cull scowled. “Do you know the lady or not?”
Peering at the portrait, the actress let out a snort. “Oh, her. I know that tart all right.”
Pippa’s pulse sped up. “How did you meet Lady Hastings?”
“I don’t know no Lady ’Astings,” Miss Cunnyngham said. “But I know the woman in the picture. ’Er name is Mary Brown, and she was one ’oity-toity bitch.”
Lady Fayne sat up in her chair. “Julianna Hastings has a look-alike?”
Even the indomitable lady appeared astonished.
After the interview with Miss Cunnyngham, Cull and Pippa had wanted to share the discovery straight away. It put everything they knew in a different light, and Cull’s mind spun with possibilities.
Had Lady Hastings been conspiring with Mary Brown? Was this part of the “solution” she’d referred to in her letter to Morton? What had the two women been up to? And perhaps the most disquieting question of all: whose body was buried in Lady Hastings’s casket?
“Both of you saw who we believed to be Julianna Hastings after her death.” Lady Fayne was obviously aboard the same train of reasoning. “Mr. Cullen, you discovered the body, and Pippa, you saw her remains at the funeral. Is there any chance that the dead woman was, in actuality, Mary Brown?”
“It is hard to say,” Cull said pensively. “At the time, there wasn’t a question in my mind that the woman was Julianna Hastings. Earlier that day, the larks had followed her from her residence. As Ollie has no memory of that night, however, we don’t know what happened in the hours leading up to her murder.”
Pippa spoke up. “When we interviewed Mrs. Loverly, she told us that the woman at her brothel that night was named ‘Mary Brown.’ I had assumed Lady Hastings was using an alias. But now I am not as sure. The woman I saw looked a lot like Julianna Hastings, but she was wearing a mask and could have been Mary Brown. If so, the two women are virtually indistinguishable.”
“Good God,” Lady Fayne murmured. “We may need to have another look at the body.”
“Digging up the grave may not help us. It’s been over two weeks since the victim died.” Cull cleared his throat. “Even though burial may have slowed the process, the body will still have undergone significant decomposition.”
Pippa looked slightly queasy.
“You have a point.” Lady Fayne tapped a pen against her blotter. “Even when the body was fresh, no one suspected that it belonged to anyone other than Julianna Hastings. Which may prove to be the truth, but we can no longer ignore the other possibility.”
“What is our next step, then?” Pippa asked.
A brisk knock sounded on the door. It was Lady Fayne’s housekeeper.
“Excellent timing,” Lady Fayne said. “Mrs. Peabody, here, has been on the trail of Vincent Ellis. She followed him and his paramours, Lord and Lady Effingworth, to their estate in Lancashire. Hopefully, she brings us news.”
“It was a wild-goose chase,” Mrs. Peabody stated. “When I arrived in Lancashire, I discovered the trio had returned to London.”
“They’re in Town?” Lady Fayne said alertly.
“Yes, my lady. According to the whispers of the servants in Lancashire, the Effingworths and Ellis came back to stay with their friends, Baron and Baroness de Tremblay, in Hampstead.” Mrs. Peabody’s mouth flattened into a disapproving line. “Apparently, the de Tremblays are holding a private bacchanal in their honor tomorrow night.”
