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.”
33
As the unmarked carriage neared its destination, Pippa’s heart thumped with anticipation. The de Tremblays’ manor was situated on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath, bordered by grassy knolls and woodland. In the indigo twilight, the place felt wild and isolated.
A place where anything could happen.
“I don’t like this,” Cull muttered beside her.
It had been his refrain since she and Charlie had hatched the present plan.
Through her contacts, Charlie had secured Pippa and Cull entry as “performers” for the event. As part of the hired help, Pippa was unlikely to be recognized by any acquaintances who might be in attendance. The theme of the bacchanal was “Gods Walking the Earth,” and performers were required to follow a specific dress code.
Cull was going as Hephaestus, the blacksmith god. Pippa hoped it was his sardonic sense of humor rather than any true sense of self that had led him to dress as the deformed Olympian. Whatever his intention, he radiated male sensuality in his black domino, mask, and tight black breeches. He was shirtless beneath the cape, the glimpses of hair-dusted muscle making Pippa’s insides flutter. The god’s huge hammer, made of lightweightpapier-mâché, rested on the carriage floor.
Pippa, herself, was disguised as Hephaestus’s wife. She’d modeled her Aphrodite after Botticelli’sThe Birth of Venus, choosing a wig of long, red-gold curls that cascaded past her waist. Beneath her woolen cloak, she wore a sleeveless white robe with a crisscrossed bodice and tasseled gold belt knotted at the waist. The dress had high side slits that reached mid-thigh; per the instructions given to the performers, she wore nothing beneath it.
She felt altogether scandalous…and liberated. She wondered if women might move differently in the world without corsets and petticoats to impede them. She wasn’t even wearing stockings; her footwear consisted of thin golden sandals with laces that climbed like vines up to her knee.
Elation thrummed in her. It was as if she’d shed a part of herself along with her unmentionables. Patient Pippa, with her inhibitions and insecurities, was nowhere to be found. Tonight, Pippa felt like a true Angel: strong, confident, and determined to solve the case.
“This is a bad idea,” Cull more or less repeated.
With an exasperated twinge, she said, “I heard you the first dozen times.”
“We can turn back.”
“We are not turning back.” She frowned at him. “Why are you being a wet blanket?”
Cull glowered back. “I’m not being a wet blanket; I’m being sensible. You have no business going to a sodding orgy.”
“No business? I am anagenton a mission.” She huffed out an annoyed breath. “I thought we’d moved past your overbearing tendencies.”
“I know you’re an agent, but you’re also a lady,” he said obstinately. “I don’t like the idea of you being exposed to this depravity.”
Her simmering temper reached a boil. How dare he?
“Whether or not you like it is irrelevant; I make my own decisions, Timothy Cullen. Why are you acting this way? This isn’t my first visit to a den of iniquity—remember The Enchanted Rose?”
