Prologue
1835, London
Timothy Cullen surged awake on a wave of agony.
Each breath jostled cracked bones and torn flesh, and when he bit his lip against a moan, he tasted blood. Feral gratitude flashed through him because pain meant that he was alive. The bastards hadn’t killed him, hadn’t…he scanned his body, hot relief pushing against the back of his eyes. While Crooke and his gang had beaten the stuffing out of him, they hadn’t violated him in a worse fashion.
Cull’s last moments in the flash house returned. Crooke’s brutes had strung him up to a post and flogged him until he’d blacked out. They had wanted to make an example of him; at fifteen, he was one of the oldest mudlarks, the urchins who made their living scavenging the Thames. Since the death of their leader, the Prince of Larks, men like Crooke had tried to take over the gang, wanting to profit from the children in despicable ways.
Cull welcomed the searing throb of his injuries because it was the pain of resistance. Of not standing down or giving in, even when your enemy thought you were too powerless and weak to matter. Even when you doubted yourself.
“A mudlark’s strength lays in his loyalty.”The Prince of Larks had drilled this message into his charges.“Alone, we are easy to defeat. Together, we are invincible.”
Other than his eleven-year-old sister Maisie, the mudlarks were the only family Cull had. No bastard was going to take over and force them into working for a bloody bawd—not if Cull still had breath to fight.
He took stock of his present situation. Patting himself down gingerly, he discovered that someone had dressed his wounds and wrapped him up in enough bandages to rival an Egyptian mummy. His eyes were nearly swollen shut—the brutes had given him twin shiners—so he carefully pried one open with his fingers, huffing out a pained breath…and then one of surprise as he got a good look at his surroundings.
“Bleeding ’ell,” he said hoarsely. “’Ow’d I end up in a castle?”
Afternoon light seeped through a crack in the velvet drapes, casting everything in a golden glow. He was in a huge tester bed with a feather mattress. The room was fit for a king, with walls covered in blue silk and a soaring white ceiling where plaster cherubs gamboled in the corners. The place even smelled nice…like the flower market in Covent Garden mixed with a lady’s expensive perfume.
Maybe I’ve cocked up me toes and gone to ’eaven after all,Cull thought, bemused.
His gaze landed on a small table next to the bed. When he saw the gleaming silver pitcher of water and spotless glass, his parched throat clenched. He wondered if whoever had fixed him up would mind if he helped himself. As he was reaching for the pitcher, the door opened. He jerked his hand back like a thief, wincing when his injuries protested.
“Oh. You’re awake.”
The voice was the prettiest Cull had heard. It reminded him of an exotic bird he’d once seen at a fair, which had sung a tender song from its cage. A girl came into view, and even through the puffy slits of his eyes, he saw that she was a Diamond of the First Water.
Curls the color of sunshine framed her oval face. He guessed she was near his own age, her slender figure in the first bloom of womanhood. Beneath her white beribboned frock, which probably cost more than he’d earned in his entire life, she had small, high breasts and a waist that made his hands itch to span it.
She came closer, bringing with her that clean, flowery scent. When she peered at him, he saw that her eyes were an angelic blue. He felt a stirring beneath the blankets…Jesus wept,was he getting hard? He was no stranger to lust, having lost his virginity to an experienced milkmaid two summers ago, but getting randy while beaten to a pulp was a first.
“Maisie will be so relieved,” the girl said in her musical voice.
“Maisie?” His voice was sandpaper against his throat. “You know me sister?”
The girl’s gilded curls swung against her cheek as she nodded.
“Maisie is a student at the academy run by my parents,” she explained. “She’s been by your side for the last two days. I offered to watch over you so that she could have a lie-down in one of the guest bedchambers. Perhaps she has mentioned me? My name is Pippa Hunt.”
Since Cull’s younger sister chattered like a magpie, he couldn’t keep track of all her ramblings. He spent time with Maisie when he could…which hadn’t been too often, given the pressing troubles of the mudlarks. Although he made his living in the underbelly of London, he didn’t want the same for his sister. She deserved better.
After their mam died a year ago, he’d debated taking Maisie to live with him at the Nest, the flash house and headquarters of the mudlarks. Instead, he’d brought her to the Hunt Academy, a school for orphans that was known to treat its students well and train them in respectable trades. He’d interviewed the founders, Gavin and Persephone Hunt, to make sure they weren’t a pair of dodgy bamboozlers. The pair had earned Cull’s trust, which was saying a lot. He hadn’t survived fifteen years by being a gull.
The Hunts had tried to get Cull to stay on at the academy, but he wasn’t a domesticable sort. Maisie, however, had blossomed in her year at the school, learning her letters and improving herself. Cull was relieved and proud of her progress. During his visits, she’d prattled on happily about the other pupils, and now that he thought of it, she had mentioned this Pippa, claiming that the Hunts’ daughter was sweet-natured and kind, never putting on airs.
What Maisie hadn’t mentioned was that Miss Hunt was also every lad’s bedtime fantasy.
Realizing that he was staring at his hostess like a booby, Cull opened his mouth to reply but was seized by a coughing fit. Pain punched him in the ribs.
“Here, try some of this,” Miss Hunt exclaimed.
She held a glass to his lips, tipping it slowly. The cool liquid soothed his dry throat, and he sucked it down in greedy gulps.
“You mustn’t drink so fast, you poor dear,” she said. “You might choke again.”
Cull couldn’t remember anyone calling him a “poor dear.” Among friends, he went by the shortened version of his surname that was as rough-and-ready as he was. Among enemies, he was referred to as one of the three B’s:bastard,bugger, orblaggard. An alley rat born and bred, he was used to respectable folk looking down at him from their high horses, yet Miss Hunt seemed oblivious to their differences in station. Setting down the emptied glass, she dabbed stray droplets from his lips with a soft scrap of linen.
