Pippa and the Prince of Secrets by Grace Callaway

8

“My dear Pippa, how tired you look.” The Dowager Countess of Longmere took a tiny sip of the Darjeeling and, with a slight grimace, set it aside. “Are you not sleeping well?”

Pippa kept her polite smile fixed in place. She’d had plenty of practice when it came to her mama-in-law. Five minutes into the monthly visit, the dowager had already found fault with the temperature of Pippa’s parlor, firmness of the divan cushions, and texture of the biscuits.

“Thank you for your concern, Mama,” Pippa replied. “My sleep has been undisturbed.”

Unless one counted the dreams she’d been having about Cull. The ones where she woke up, dazed and damp with perspiration, the sheets twisted around her legs. The taste and smell of him filled her senses as she lay there, heart pounding and unmentionable parts aching. On several nights, matters had gotten so desperate that she’d had to resort to an improper relief.

The brief remedy she found for her bodily tension did not assuage her mental turmoil. Thoughts of Cull consumed her. How good he’d made her feel…and how wretched.

She was reminded all too keenly of the early stages with Edwin. The giddiness and passion. While not as flowery and effusive as her dead spouse, Cull’s seemingly honest professions had made her thrum with a familiar longing. And his touch…she’d never experienced such pleasure with Edwin. Cull had weakened her defenses, even though she knew full well the dangers of getting involved with him.

He was a fellow who could not be trusted. Who specialized in secrets. She was still licking the wounds inflicted by her marriage; the last thing she needed was another man in her life.

Even if that man looked after urchins who clearly adored him. Even if he had come to her aid. Even if he looked at her with soulful yearning and his touch made her come alive with desire.

Gah.

“You needn’t hide your feelings.” The dowager shook her head, which was covered in a severe black turban. Her rail-thin figure was draped in a matching shade that seemed to suck the light from the room. “We are family, after all. I know how hard it must be for you with dear Edwin gone. You must wonder what the point is in continuing.”

Of all the things Pippa had been contemplating, not continuing hadn’t been one of them. Not wanting to disappoint her mama-in-law, she said, “He has been greatly missed.”

“He was the light of our lives, not to mention a luminary in the world of art.” The dowager dabbed at her eyes with a black silk handkerchief. “To lose him and his genius in one fell swoop…how could Fate be so cruel?”

Pippa didn’t have an answer for that. But seeing as the dowager asked the same question at every visit, she knew one wasn’t expected.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she murmured.

Her mama-in-law’s snort could have been construed as blasphemous. “True grief—that of a mother for her only child—cannot be consoled by platitudes. Now, speaking of Edwin’s art, I do not see his crowning achievement. Why has his pièce de resistance been moved from its place of honor?”

The dowager would notice. A few days ago, Pippa had moved Portrait of a Lady Dreaming from above the parlor mantel, replacing it with another of Edwin’s paintings. Having the portrait of the woman with the red-gold hair and sad turquoise eyes on public display had felt too painful. It symbolized Pippa’s mistakes, including the secret she’d kept that had led to Edwin’s death.

“You did not sell the piece, did you, Pippa?”

“Of course not, Mama,” she said hastily. “It is in my sitting room.”

She didn’t mention that she had left it on the ground, the canvas facing the wall.

“Where no one will see it?” Outrage amplified the shrillness of the dowager’s voice. “Why would you dishonor my son’s genius in such a fashion?”

“I thought it might be nice to rotate his paintings. The study of the fruit bowl looks quite charming above the mantel, don’t you think?” Pippa said lamely.

If the fruits had been real, they would have spoiled beneath the heat of the dowager’s glare.

“Need I remind you that Portrait of a Lady Dreaming was chosen to be exhibited by the Royal Society? That painting was Edwin’s grandest achievement. I cannot think of a single reason why it should not be showcased in a place of honor, can you?”

Because that painting is a fraud. Because every time I see it, I want to cry. Or scream.

Pippa held her tongue; it wasn’t for nothing that she’d earned the moniker of Patient Pippa. What people didn’t realize was that she wasn’t necessarily more patient than the next person. She was just better at curbing her words. Her thoughts, however, were a different matter.

As trying as she found these visits, Pippa would never hurt her husband’s mother. The lady had lost her only child, and even though she thought Pippa wasn’t good enough for her son—and Pippa knew this because she’d overheard the dowager say repeatedly to Edwin, “That gel is not good enough for you, my darling boy”—the lady had few close relatives. Even fewer friends.

Thus, it was Pippa’s duty to look after the dowager.

“I shall have the portrait reinstalled above the mantel, if you wish,” she said.

“See that you do.” Looking somewhat mollified, the dowager said, “While we are on the subject of honoring my son, have you been keeping up your visits to Kensal Green?”

The dowager had insisted on burying Edwin in the exclusive General Cemetery for All Souls in Kensal Green. She’d wanted a mausoleum and a plot as close as possible to that of Prince Augustus Frederick, the Duke of Sussex. To afford that royal proximity, Pippa had sold off some of her jewelry.

She stifled a sigh. “Yes, Mama.”

The dowager shifted her discontent to another target. “Have you done something different with your hair? It is distractingly bright.”

Pippa’s maid had arranged her hair into its usual style, parted in the middle, with ringlets falling to her shoulders. For her mama-in-law’s visit, she’d worn a black lace-edged mourning cap that covered most of her coiffure.

“I’ve done nothing different,” she said.

“Perhaps it is your gown then. Are you certain it is quite dark enough?”

Pippa looked down at her somber skirts. “My dress is black.”

“A smoky shade closer to charcoal, I should say.” The dowager pressed her lips into a line so thin her mouth nearly vanished. “And the luster of the fabric is suggestive of levity, most inappropriate given the occasion.”

“It is bombazine.” Also known as the mourning cloth.

“There is bombazine, and there is bombazine.” The dowager sniffed. “Where you come from, my dear, the difference may go unnoticed, but not so in your current position. Must I remind you of your duty? While my son may be dead, you still bear his name. Mourning him properly is the least you can do considering you bore nothing else of his.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Pippa said nothing.

“I will give you the name of my modiste.” Her mama-in-law gave her a once-over. “She can fix any problem.”

It’s always nice to be referred to as a problem, isn’t it?

Pippa took a calming breath and asked, “More tea?”

The dowager stayed longer than usual. As a result, Pippa felt frayed by the time she headed over to Charlie’s. The visit with her mama-in-law brought to bear the errors of her past, the ones she was determined not to repeat.

Ergo, she was done with men. What she needed was a different purpose.

A week had passed; hopefully, Charlie would deem her ready to start investigating again. Hawker, Charlie’s butler and the Angels’ teacher, ushered Pippa in. He looked his usual piratical self with his shaved head, dark beard, and eye patch.

He peered at her. “You ain’t been sleeping well. Something troubling you, lass?”

Was the state of her emotions so dashed obvious?

“I just missed being here,” she managed to say lightly.

“Your presence was missed.” Hawker led the way to Charlie’s study. “But a respite can be good for the body and mind. ‘The end of labor is to gain leisure.’”

“Aristotle?” she guessed.

While teaching practical skills such as lockpicking and developing “sticky fingers,” Hawker also liked to infuse his lessons with the teachings of philosophers.

“Always were a sharp one, lass.” A smile flashed in his beard as he opened the door to the study. “Go on in. Lady Fayne’s expecting you.”

Charlie was standing by the study’s tall windows, the sun burnishing her honey-blonde hair, her full merlot skirts rustling as she turned. Relieved to see her welcoming smile, Pippa went over to exchange air kisses.

“It is good to see you, my dear.” Charlie studied her with astute grey eyes. “How was your week?”

“Fine.” Deciding to head off any comments on her appearance, Pippa said, “The reason I look peaked is because my mama-in-law paid me a visit.”

“Ah.” Charlie’s mouth curved wryly. “How bad was it?”

“I feel like I was put through one of those new-fangled washing machines.”

“Your forbearance is worthy of a saint. Especially since you have protected the dowager from the truth of her son’s sins.”

Not wanting to discuss her husband, Pippa said, “I am ready to work again, Charlie. If I don’t find something to occupy my time, I fear I shall go mad.”

“If you are certain you are ready—”

“I’m certain.”

“Then I must first ask you a question.”

Pippa tilted her head.

“What transpired during your visit to the Nest?”

Taken off-guard, Pippa stammered, “You…you had me followed?”

“I am concerned about your welfare. And about the Prince of Larks’s interest in you,” Charlie said bluntly. “If he is harassing one of my agents, I will deal with him.”

Seeing Charlie’s steely expression, Pippa knew that her mentor meant every word. While she planned to steer clear of Cull, she couldn’t let Charlie think that he was an enemy of the Angels.

She took a breath. “He isn’t harassing me. On the contrary, his intention has been to protect me—even though I neither need nor asked for his help. On the night in question, however, I went to him.”

“Why?”

“At first, it was because I saw that one of Cull’s larks had followed me home. It made me angry,” she admitted. “I was determined to turn the tables on him, so I trailed him back to the Nest. I was going to tell him to back off…but when a ruffian came out of nowhere and tried to shoot him, I intervened.”

Charlie’s gaze narrowed. “Cull, is it?”

“That was what he went by. When I knew him all those years ago,” she said falteringly.

“I need you to be honest, Pippa. What are your feelings toward him?”

The question battered at her dam of self-control. To her horror, heat swelled behind her eyes.

She fought back the tears, blurting, “I’m so confused.”

“As men are perplexing creatures, that is no surprise. Do you wish to talk about it?”

Charlie’s will was formidable, her compassion even more so.

“Even though Longmere has been gone for a year, I still haven’t regained my equilibrium,” Pippa said in halting tones. “There are times I feel fine, almost like myself. Then at others, I feel sad and confused and…”

“Angry?” Charlie said matter-of-factly.

Pippa swallowed. “It isn’t fair of me to be angry. Longmere is dead. And he…he suffered for his mistakes.”

“Grief isn’t about fairness. It can take many forms, none of them right or wrong.” Charlie’s beautiful face hardened. “As widows, we are expected to mourn for our husbands, no matter what went on in our marriages. Sadness is the only public face we are allowed to show. It is only in private that we grapple with the complexities of what they left behind. I speak from personal experience. When Fayne passed, I grieved…but I also felt disappointment and rage.”

The words resonated like a church bell.

“I have felt disappointment…and anger as well,” Pippa confessed.

“That is a natural part of healing. You needn’t feel guilty, my dear.”

Pippa wished it were as simple as that. She hadn’t told Charlie—or anyone—about the role she’d played in Edwin’s demise. She couldn’t undo her mistake, but she could preserve the one thing of value she’d given her husband.

“Now tell me how Timothy Cullen fits into the picture,” Charlie went on.

“He kissed me. And I…I kissed him back.”

“Ah.” Charlie’s jaw tightened. “How far did things go?”

“Not far…beyond the kissing. But they could have,” Pippa said in a low voice. “If he hadn’t refused to remove his mask. That brought me back to my senses. Made me realize that I was dealing with yet another man who would hide things from me. And I left.”

“A wise choice,” Charlie said with a brisk nod. “The Prince of Larks has made his fortune from secrets. I have never seen him without his mask; it’s part of his enigmatic persona.”

Pippa recalled the way Cull had been with the children at the Nest. In those moments, he hadn’t seemed enigmatic. He’d been gruff, kind, and exasperated…as any big brother dealing with a houseful of unruly siblings would be.

“And yet, I felt things with him,” Pippa divulged. “Things I’ve never felt before. Not even with…”

It was too shameful to say aloud. To admit that she’d experienced pleasure with a virtual stranger that she hadn’t with the man she’d fallen in love with and married. Over the course of her marriage, she’d begun to fear that she might be…broken in some way. That there might be something wrong with her physically that prevented her from enjoying marital pleasures.

“Although Society tries to convince us otherwise, women have desires just like men do. And these desires are not always—and rarely, I daresay—satisfied in marriage,” Charlie said.

With thrumming relief, Pippa said, “What I felt with Cull was rather powerful. And I don’t want to repeat my mistakes because I am swept up in those feelings. I don’t want to fall for a man and end up hurt in the end.”

“Are you falling for Mr. Cullen or simply experiencing desire for him?”

Pippa furrowed her brow; she hadn’t considered the difference. “I…I don’t know.”

“We ladies are taught that love and desire must go hand in hand; I call this the Great Lie, one that has been used since the beginning of time to control feminine passion,” Charlie said crisply. “Desire is simply a need…like an appetite for food or drink. Love has naught to do with it; indeed, it can muddy the waters. After all, you see men indulging in lust without emotional attachments. Why should the same not hold true for women?”

Faced with that logic, Pippa could only think, Why not indeed?

With a flash of insight, she realized that she’d been afraid of the strong reaction Cull evoked in her. Afraid that it meant she was headed down the same painful path as her marriage. But lust—and yes, that had to be what she’d experienced with Cull, whom she hardly knew—was not the same as love. She wasn’t falling for Cull the way she had for Edwin. Conversely, she hadn’t felt half as much pleasure with her husband as she had with Cull.

Desire and love were different. If Charlie was correct, then desire was common—a mere appetite. Maybe what Pippa felt with Cull she could have felt with another man. With a dozen other men.

“Moreover, needs can be met outside the marital bower,” her mentor said. “In safe and discreet ways that are far more enjoyable than sacrificing oneself on the altar of matrimony.”

Intrigued, Pippa asked, “What ways?”

“You are a widow. As such, you have independence denied unmarried ladies. You are free to pursue your passions…as long as you don’t get caught.” Charlie gave her a considering look. “I know of an exclusive club where women of a liberated mindset go to explore their desires. Perhaps it is just the place to help put Timothy Cullen behind you.”