Pippa, however, was a lover of ordinary things. She liked domesticity and managing the household. Her favorite activities included spending time with family and friends, painting in sunlit solitude, and working with the children at her parents’ academy for foundlings. Yet after Edwin’s death, everything had changed.
Edwin’s cousin had inherited the townhouse where Pippa had lived. Her parents had wanted her to return to their home, but she’d declined, preferring to be alone. As much as she loved her family, her marriage had strained her relationships with them—with her papa, especially—and their time together was a stilted and painful reminder of the mistakes she’d made.
Thus, she had used her small stipend to rent a cottage in Bloomsbury. She had her independence, yet she still felt…lost. Her relationship with Edwin had slowly eroded her identity; without knowing how or when it happened, she’d lost parts of herself.
Now she no longer knew who she was. Her beloved routines failed to hold her interest. Painting, which had once been a source of joy, roused terrible guilt. Edwin, a rising painter, had died because of his art…and Pippa had unwittingly hastened his demise.
When she picked up a brush, she saw it dripping with his blood.
She hadn’t painted in months and might never again.
Trapped by the unrelenting weight of bombazine, grief, and other festering emotions, Pippa had felt herself unraveling. Needing distraction, she had jumped at Charlie’s offer to train her to be an agent. Even now, her memories lurked, ready to pounce and shred her equilibrium to pieces. Luckily, danger had a way of absorbing her senses, helping her to evade the claws of the past.
Once upon a time, she’d striven to be a proper countess, a good wife who would make her husband proud. Now she had only herself to please.
The other Angels will catch up soon,Pippa reasoned.I must discover what nefarious business Hastings is up to.
She entered the mouth of the alley, her footsteps stealthy on the packed dirt. The shadows sucked her in like a tar pit, the air heavy with overripe smells. When something squished beneath her boot, she shuddered. She made it into the courtyard, where the light from the surrounding tenements illuminated rows of clotheslines. The garments swayed like a field of frayed ghosts.
Is Hastings hiding here?Pippa drew back her shoulders.There’s one way to find out.
Pushing aside a patched sheet, she ducked beneath the clothesline and looked down the row: the only movement was the flutter of fabric. Indistinct shouting and laughter came from the nearby buildings as she advanced another row, then another. Soon she was halfway through the field of clothes, her nose itchy from the fumes of lye and starch.
Did Hastings go into one of the tenements?Or did he pass through here?
She swept aside a sheet…and a hand closed around her arm. She was yanked backward into a man’s chest. Cold metal pressed into her temple.
A pistol. Cocked and loaded.
“Why are you following me?” The tremor in Hastings’s voice betrayed his fear.
He pressed his forearm against her throat, a hold she could escape. Her next moves flashed through her head.Stomp on his insole and drop down before he pulls the trigger. Kick out low, knock him off his feet. Grab his pistol and gain the upper hand.
That would be a last resort, however. Her goal was to gather information about Hastings, not give him a beating. As satisfying as the latter option might be.
“Gor, guv, you’ve got the wrong fellow.” She used a Cockney accent and pitched her voice low. “I ain’t following ye. I’m ’ere to visit me kin.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Hastings hissed. “I saw you earlier. You followed me from the docks, and you’ll tell me why—or I’ll put a goddamned bullet through your brain.”
Dash it. His arm was shaking.
If I don’t calm him down, he might shoot me out of nerves.
“Easy there, guv,” she soothed. “I ain’t lying. Me sister lives ’ere, and I’ve come for a visit—”
“Uncle Peter, you’re ’ere!”
Hastings jerked at the sound of the child’s voice, and Pippa tensed, ready to carry out her escape plan if necessary. But three children burst through the sheets. The tallest one, a brown-haired boy around twelve years old, held a lantern that lit up the trio’s cherubic faces and shabby but clean clothes.
“Mama made ’er special hotchpotch, and we’ve been waitin’ on ye…” The boy was addressing…Pippa? He trailed off, his gaze landing on Hastings and the pistol aimed at her head. “Crikey, what are ye doin’ to me Uncle Peter?”
“Nothing.” Hastings released Pippa with a shove. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“Me ma will ’ave your ’ead if ye ’urt ’er favorite brother,” the second tallest child, a pretty girl with blonde ringlets and a fierce scowl, declared. “A word from us, and she’ll be down ’ere in a blink wif ’er frying pan.”
“Ma’s pan packs a wallop.” The warning came from the youngest child, a tow-headed boy whose huge spectacles magnified his wide-set eyes.
“Bloody hell, I said it was a mix-up,” Hastings muttered. “I don’t have time for this.”
