Pippa and the Prince of Secrets by Grace Callaway
6
“Here is the information you requested, Fanny,” Cull said.
He placed the packet of documents on the desk before settling into the velvet armchair that faced it. As usual, his favorite drink was waiting for him on the mother-of-pearl inlaid side table. He picked up the glass and took a sip, enjoying the mellow burn. In line with everything else at Corbett’s, the most exclusive bawdy house in London, the whisky was first-rate.
Fanny Grier, the proprietress of the club, insisted upon quality. She and her husband Horace owned the pleasure house and several others. Their strategy of offering the best, along with a reputation for discretion, had proved an unbeatable combination. The pair could have retired years ago, but Fanny enjoyed the challenge of her work.
A former prostitute, Fanny had fought for her success every inch of the way, and she deserved to be proud of her achievements. Seated across the mahogany desk in the luxurious office, she looked like any other wealthy matron. Her grey silk gown and jewelry were tasteful and expensive, and her silver-streaked dark hair was styled in an elegant twist.
Putting on her spectacles, Fanny reviewed the documents Cull had brought. Truth be told, he could have sent a mudlark to deliver the information, the way he did with other clients. But he’d known Fanny for over a decade, and she’d done him a personal favor years ago that he would never forget. He would be forever indebted to her for helping his sister through a dark crisis. He was honored to call Fanny and Horace his friends.
Besides, it was good for Cull to get out of the Nest. Since his accident, he’d spent too much time holed up in the mudlarks’ compound. The Griers’ office was one of the few places outside of his own home where he felt comfortable without his mask. Where he knew he would not draw undue stares or looks of revulsion.
Fanny set down the papers. “A thorough job, as usual.”
Her accent was polished by elocution lessons. She was a great believer in advancement; in fact, she’d been the one to introduce Cull to the tutor who’d taught him his letters and how to speak like a gentleman. That had been before Cull’s scarring, when he’d still had a secret dream of courting Pippa. When he had still believed that he could one day be worthy of her.
“Based on your reports of their financial situations, I’ll be denying three of last month’s applicants,” she went on. “You’ve saved me a good deal of trouble, Timothy.”
Fanny was one of the few who called Cull by his Christian name, and he didn’t mind when she did. It was what his mam had called him; if the blue ruin hadn’t killed her, she would be about Fanny’s age. Cull felt the familiar pang, thinking about the sacrifices his mother had made.
If only he’d been able to support their family, then she wouldn’t have had to resort to whoring. Maybe she wouldn’t have turned to the bottle for comfort. Maybe she would still be alive; maybe she would have prevented Maisie from falling prey to disgrace…
Cull pushed aside the old guilt. While his mam and Fanny had a lot in common, Fanny had been wiser in her choice of a mate. Horace Grier was a stand-up fellow, whereas Cull’s sire had been a heartless cad who’d deserted his woman and children.
“It’s what you pay me to do,” Cull said.
He focused on the whisky and plush surroundings. While he wouldn’t trade the Nest for the finest mansion in Mayfair, he appreciated the finer things in life. And Corbett’s was all about the finer things.
As if reading his mind, Fanny said, “Supper will be brought in shortly. I’ve asked Monsieur Georges to prepare your favorite dishes.”
Cull’s stomach gave a happy growl at the mention of the French chef’s delectable creations. There was a reason why he scheduled his meetings with Fanny around mealtimes.
Fanny shook her head. “I’ll never understand why you don’t get rid of your dreadful excuse for a cook.”
“One doesn’t get rid of Mrs. Halberd,” Cull said, suppressing a shudder.
The cook had been with the mudlarks since before Cull’s time. The old battle axe had a mean temper; as a boy, he’d had his ears boxed by her more than once. He would rather face down an army of cutthroats than her and her wooden spoon, and the idea of ousting her was laughable. Besides, there probably wasn’t another cook alive who would be willing to put up with a house packed with mischief-loving urchins.
“You’re lucky her food hasn’t killed you.” Fanny snorted. “You should be living better.”
“As the old prince used to say, we mudlarks got a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and each other.” Cull shrugged. “A fellow doesn’t need more than that to survive.”
Fanny went to pour herself a whisky from the sideboard and returned with a fresh one for Cull, who’d risen when she had. He minded his manners around Fanny, who deserved respect. She leaned against the edge of the desk and waved him back into his chair; the meditative sip she took conveyed that she had something on her mind.
“At some point, a man ought to do more than survive,” she said. “You’re a wealthy cove, Timothy. With the sums your customers are paying, your coffers must rival that of Croesus. Yet I don’t see you spending any blunt on yourself. You could use new clothes and a haircut.”
Fanny liked to harp on his appearance. But what was the point of dandying himself up when half his face was a mangled, burned mess? Besides, mudlarks valued function over fashion, and Cull liked the comfort of his well-worn clothes. He would toss his shirt when it developed holes…maybe.
“I have everything I need,” he said.
As he spoke the words, Pippa filled his mind’s eye…and all of his senses. He recalled the silken fall of her hair, her soft yet sleek curves draped atop him, her lily-and-sunshine scent making his mouth pool. Her charms were far more than physical. He was drawn to her feistiness—her fire and the vulnerability he sensed beneath. She’d invaded his dreams last night, and he’d woken up, hard and aching. He’d had to take matters into his own hands…twice.
She was an itch under his skin. One he could never assuage and maybe didn’t want to. By nature, he was a realist. Harboring a fantasy about Pippa was about the only impractical thing he’d done, and he felt possessive over it. Over having something just for himself, even if it was futile.
“Needs and wants are two different things.” Fanny downed the rest of her Scotch, placing her glass down with a precise click. “It is high time you got yourself a woman.”
Cull choked on a mouthful of whisky. He coughed before answering.
“You’ve laid eyes on this mug o’ mine, haven’t you?” He angled the damaged side of his face toward Fanny, not that she could miss the swirling ridges of melted skin. “I ain’t exactly bait for a treacle tart.”
“First of all, there’s more to you than your face. Many a female would consider you a man in your prime…and don’t you roll your eyes at me, Timothy Cullen. I am not deaf; I hear what my wenches say about your stamina.”
Cull’s face heated. Jesus wept. The last thing he wished to discuss with Fanny was what her whores said about his sexual prowess. He didn’t make use of the club’s services often; when he did, he mostly watched in the public rooms. Observing from the shadows had become a habit for him. Only when his craving for physical contact grew too great did he participate. During the deed, he kept his mask on. Call him vain, but he found bed sport more pleasant when his partner wasn’t staring at him in horror.
“We’re not talking about this,” he muttered.
“We can leave the wenches’ praises out of this,” Fanny said. “But onto my second point: it’s not just a sweetheart you ought to be after, but a wife.”
At that, Cull barked out a laugh. “Now I know you’re pulling my leg. There ain’t ever been a Princess of Larks, and you know it. The curse of solitude comes with the job.”
It was a tradition that the Prince of Larks ruled alone. Whether it was because his demanding duties made it impossible to look for a bride or because no woman with good sense wanted to take on a man who was responsible for hundreds of street urchins, Cull didn’t know. All he knew was that a century of history backed up this fact. And he, with his wrecked mug, wasn’t about to be the one to end the curse.
For folk like us, there’ll be no lucky stars lightin’ our way. He could hear his mam’s voice, drenched in sorrow and gin. To last in this world, Timothy, you ’ave to learn to survive in the dark.
“You could be the first to wed,” Fanny argued.
“Aye. And pigs could fly.”
Fanny’s gaze slitted. “Don’t be smart with me. You aren’t getting any younger. And there’s more to life than looking after mudlarks and those injured birds of yours.”
Soon after Cull’s injury in the fire, a mudlark had brought in an injured sparrow. Figuring it was an omen of some sort, Cull had nursed the bird back to health. Somehow fixing up hurt birds had become a hobby, and he’d built an enclosure atop the Nest, where his feathered charges recovered until they were strong enough to fly away.
“You need someone to look after you for a change,” Fanny insisted.
Luckily, the opening door relieved Cull of the necessity of a reply. Fanny’s husband entered. Horace Grier was a large Scot with a grizzled beard and gruff manner. Cull rose to shake hands with him before the latter ambled over to Fanny.
“Supper ain’t ready yet, love?” Grier asked.
Fanny huffed, her arms akimbo. “Is food all you men can think about?”
Grier transferred his gaze to Cull. “What bee got into her bonnet?”
“Marriage,” Cull said succinctly.
“Ah.” Bravely but unwisely, Grier said, “We talked about this, lass. I thought we agreed you weren’t going to pester our friend ’ere about ’is marital plans.”
“You said to leave off the subject,” Fanny retorted. “I did not agree to anything.”
Grier lifted his bushy grey brows. “Now you ken why the lad ain’t keen on getting leg-shackled?”
Cull had to swallow a laugh at Fanny’s annoyed expression. Arguing was the pair’s way of showing affection. Sure enough, when Fanny slapped her husband’s arm, Grier snatched her hand and kissed it.
“Surrounded by nodcocks, I am. The pair of you keep this up, and neither of you are getting any supper,” Fanny muttered.
“Ain’t a chance I’m missing out on Monsieur Georges’s fancy cooking,” Horace returned. “It’s the least I deserve for putting up with that temperamental Frenchman.”
“He’s an artist.” Fanny waved a hand. “All artists are dramatic.”
“Tell that to the scullery maids who come crying to me,” Horace said.
“They come to you on account of your giant soft heart. And you had better not be offering them that brawny shoulder of yours to cry on, Horace Grier.”
A smile slashed through Horace’s beard. “Jealous, lass?”
That earned him a glare from Fanny that would have felled a lesser man.
Supper was carted in, interrupting the Griers’ banter. The delicious meal of chicken stew, herbed potatoes, and side dishes was accompanied by wine and easy conversation. As Cull was tucking into dessert, a creamy blancmange and assortment of buttery cookies, Grier brought up a more serious topic.
“’Ave you given any thought to my suggestion o’ ’iring on guards, lad?” the Scot asked.
Cull finished a cookie. “I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need guards.”
“Those larks o’ yours are excellent scouts. But they ain’t fighters,” Grier insisted. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: a man who deals in secrets can’t be too careful. Should think it obvious, after what ’appened.”
Grier was referring to the incident two weeks ago when a carriage had nearly hit Cull as he was leaving the club. The vehicle hadn’t slowed after Cull had dived out of harm’s way. Cull knew it was no accident, yet he balked at hiring guards. Mudlarks managed their own business. He’d informed Long Mikey and the other team leaders, who were instructed to keep a sharp lookout.
He’d also started gathering information on possible suspects. He’d narrowed the list down to five bastards who’d long wanted to get their greedy paws on the larks: Melville, Crane, Hannity, Igden, and Squibb. The cutthroats were known to use violence to keep their gangs in line. They wanted to expand their power by absorbing the mudlarks’ territory and reaping the profits from the information trade.
Cull despised the blackguards. He refused, however, to start a battle that would turn into a massacre. As far as he was concerned, there were no winners in war; when he retaliated, it would be clean and efficient, as bloodless as he could make it.
“I’ve everything in hand.” Cull shrugged. “Danger is the price of doing business.”
Being products of the underworld, the Griers understood that as well as he did.
“Even so,” Grier began.
“Save your breath, luv,” Fanny said. “The lad has more pride than sense. Thinks he can handle cutthroats without shedding blood.”
“Killing begets more killing.” The inked tally on Cull’s back was a reminder of that fact, and he would do everything in his power not to add to it.
A mudlark never forgets.
The door was flung open, and Ollie scampered in, his spectacles askew.
Cull frowned. “What are you doing here? You should be keeping watch on—”
He cut himself off. The last thing he needed was for Fanny to find out about Pippa. Christ Almighty, he would never hear the end of it.
“Why aren’t you with the target?” he finished.
Ollie didn’t reply, mesmerized by the plate of cookies on the table. Sighing, Cull offered it to him. Ollie stuffed two buttery rounds into his mouth, pocketing the rest.
“I tried to tail ’er,” the boy said through a mouthful of crumbs. “But she pulled a fast one and disappeared.”
Bloody hell, that wasn’t a good sign. Where could Pippa have gone?
“Thank you for the hospitality.” Pushing his chair back, Cull got to his feet and bowed to the Griers. “If you’ll excuse me, I must attend to some business.”
Ollie showed Cull where he’d lost Pippa, at a busy corner of the Strand. As it was clear that there would be no picking up her scent, they headed back to the Nest.
The carriage wound through the narrow streets toward the mudlarks’ headquarters in the Devil’s Acre, located in the heart of Westminster. Here in the shadows of the grand old Abbey and Houses of Parliament lived real London. Reformers had taken to these low-lying streets near the Thames, documenting their outrage over the population of beggars, thieves, and prostitutes who eked out a squalid living, in the same neighborhood where bluebloods decided the fate of the nation (always and unsurprisingly to their own advantage). The do-gooders tried to start schools to educate the “heathen children” in the ways of Christianity.
Some campaigners even knocked on Cull’s door. Demanded that he release the children in his care…as if he kept them behind bars. The doors of the Nest were open for mudlarks to come and go as they pleased. The children Cull took in were like him: products of the stews, who’d survived poverty and loss and worse. They were outsiders who valued freedom and lived by their own rules.
One time, a crusader had kidnapped an adolescent mudlark named Matches from the Nest, forcing him to join one of the “ragged schools” designed to reform poor children. Knowing Matches could take care of himself, Cull hadn’t been too worried. Sure enough, the boy returned two days later, smirking, his spiky dark hair singed from the hobby that had earned him his moniker. The do-gooders never did rebuild the burned-down school…nor did they come back for Matches.
The reformers couldn’t understand that, for some folk, liberty was more important than respectability. Choice more alluring than security. And those who chose the way of the mudlarks knew that their soul was worth more than new clothes and bowls of gruel.
Since Cull had become the leader, he’d done his best to steer his group away from the darker trades. The prince before him had begun to shift the work of the mudlarks from scavenging and theft to dealing in information, and Cull had pushed that agenda. The decision had proved a profitable one. Fanny hadn’t been wrong when she said the gang’s coffers were overflowing. Cull had instituted a system whereby each of the larks had a share of the profits, based on their years of service and contributions. The funds were kept tucked away at Gruenwald’s Bank until they were ready to fly the coop.
Increasingly, mudlarks were choosing to stay on into their adult years. Cull had been working on a program to train the older larks in a profession that would provide them with a sustainable future. He hoped, in time, to create a legitimate enterprise, one that would permanently lift his brethren out of the dangerous streets while providing them with the autonomy they craved.
The carriage drove by sagging flash houses and gin shops, alleyways teeming with vice and danger. The swirling fog carried the stink of the streets and the Thames and might have offended some nostrils, but to Cull, it was the smell of home. They arrived at the Nest, a riverfront property that had once been a tenement. Cull descended first, turning to see a hackney pull up behind him.
The door opened, and a slender trouser-clad figure hopped down.
Bloody hell…Pippa? What is she doing here?
He stared at her, wondering if she was a figment of his feverish imagination. As she came up to him, the scowl on her face confirmed that he wasn’t fantasizing. She was no less gorgeous when she was angry, however; from beneath her cap, her eyes blazed with heavenly fire.
Those eyes suddenly widened. “Cull, behind you!”
Her panic made Cull spin around. A brute had emerged from the shadows; face hidden by a kerchief, he aimed a pistol straight at Cull. As Cull tensed to spring away from the danger, a shot tore through the night. A moment later, a force rammed into him and sent him to the ground.
