One of the men raised a bleary gaze. “Gor, look at ’is fancy mask. What’re you…a highwayman?”
His comrade snickered.
“I’m looking for a boy. Blond, wearing spectacles, this tall.” Cull placed his hand at Ollie’s approximate height. “Have you seen him?”
“No one’s come by,” the man replied.
Fair Molly planted her fists on her trousered hips. “So you ’aven’t seen a boy?”
“’E didn’t say that, did ’e, missy?” The second man’s burp reeked of onions.
Cull bridled his impatience. “Did you see the boy or not?”
“Might ’ave,” the first drunk said. “When I went to piss in me water closet, saw someone sleeping there, didn’t I.”
His pulse quickening, Cull asked, “Where is your water closet?”
“’E likes to do ’is business ’neath the bridge,” the second man said.
Cull took off, Molly and Jane behind him. They reached the footbridge moments later. Holding up his lamp, Cull scanned the rocky shore beneath the bridge’s span…and his heart slammed into his ribs when the light fell on the small body: a boy lying on his side, the tide tugging at his boots.
Please, God, let him be alive.
Cull sprinted over. Kneeling, he carefully turned the boy over.
Ollie’s right temple was crusted with blood, his face bone-white in the darkness.
“Is Ollie…is ’e…” Jane said in a muffled voice.
Cull felt for a pulse on the boy’s neck.
“He’s alive.” Relief pushed the air from Cull’s lungs. “We’ll get him back to—”
“Wot are those coves looking at?”
Molly’s question diverted Cull’s attention. She was staring at a dock on the other side of the bridge. Nothing was anchored there, but a few people had gathered around a dark form lying upon the wooden planks. The river breathed, stirring the shape, rustling what appeared to be layers of fashionably full skirts.
A cold premonition seized Cull’s gut.
12
The next evening, Pippa ascended the front steps of the Nest and rang the bell. After a few moments, she rang it again. And again. Finally, the door opened to reveal the curly-haired girl she’d met before.
“Hello, Fair Molly,” Pippa said. “I’m here to see Cull.”
“’E ain’t expecting visitors.” The girl eyed her up and down. “And ’e’s otherwise occupied.”
“He will see me,” Pippa stated. “Inform him that I won’t leave until he does.”
The girl studied her, then grumbled, “’Ave it your way. But this is the Devil’s Acre, not Mayfair. You’d best wait inside if you don’t want to be plucked like a bleedin’ pigeon.”
Although Pippa wanted to reply that the pistol in the pocket of her skirts was designed to forestall any plucking, she let the girl usher her through the door. She was one step closer to seeing Timothy Cullen. One step closer to obtaining crucial information.
The blasted man affected her emotions like a hurricane, spinning her out of control. Two nights ago, he’d not only made exquisite love to her, but he had also taken tender care of her afterward. He hadn’t run from her tears or tried to stop them. Instead, he’d held her, letting her purge the toxins from her soul. His strong, silent support had melted her defenses and her heart. She’d fantasized about having an affair with him…
Then Julianna Hastings had been found murdered early this morning.
Remorse and powerlessness furled Pippa’s hands. The Angels had failed their client. They had let her walk away…straight into the lion’s den.
