Sardonic humor pulled at the damaged side of his face, the sensation of movement still there beneath the deadened layers. He’d spent years perfecting the mysterious and all-powerful image of the Prince of Larks, yet here he was, serenading a lady like some lovestruck mooncalf. Truth be told, he’d never wanted power or enigma, but the more people feared him, the less they dared to cross him or his larks. The image of power was as important as power itself.
People feared what they did not understand. It was a tradition for the Prince of Larks to wear a mask—a way to keep the legend alive, no matter what happened to the flesh-and-blood man beneath. Cull had adopted the practice, even before his injury. Now he never left the Nest, the mudlarks’ headquarters, without the black leather covering that started beneath his eyebrows and ended at the line of his jaw, leaving only his eyes and mouth exposed.
He also leveraged gossip in the stews to his advantage. When two of his rivals disappeared, he planted rumors that he’d dispatched them in cold blood, the stories of his ruthlessness proliferating like weeds. By last count, he’d “executed” some hundred foes. When someone described his flute playing as “chilling,” he made sure to play eerie melodies as his barge floated past London’s darkest neighborhoods. Now people ran when they heard his tunes.
It amused him, the dread his name invoked. He wondered how people would react if they knew that the vast shadow of the Prince of Larks was cast from a regular man with regular longings. The most potent of which involved a golden-haired beauty who could never be his.
Yet he would always look out for Pippa. The same way he looked out for his sister Maisie, despite their estrangement. While Cull could not be a lover worthy of a lady like Pippa—or the brother that Maisie deserved—there was one thing he was good at being: the Prince of Larks.
And the prince protected his own.
Cull was relieved to see the lighter ahead clearing the low arch of the bridge. He was eager to be off—away from Pippa and the dangerous yearning she stirred in him. Yet she’d left him no choice but to come to her aid tonight. Since her husband’s death, she’d been acting unlike herself. A product of the rookery, Cull was no stranger to death and knew the myriad effects grief could have on people. Some got buried by it; others pushed on.
In Pippa’s case, it had made her a trifle…batty.
She was, by nature, a sweet and gentle creature. A ray of sunshine that lit up any room she entered. Because of her, those weeks he’d spent recuperating at her parents’ home were the finest of his life. He’d loved talking with Pippa and hearing her melodious voice as she read to him. During his supposed naps, he had secretly watched her sketch and paint by his bedside.
She’d grown from a peerless girl into a woman who sparkled in Mayfair ballrooms, who strolled along Bond Street or beneath the leafy bowers of Hyde Park, twirling a parasol in her delicate hands. Predictably, she’d married Edwin John Gaston Lumley, the Earl of Longmere, a blueblood with an ancient title…and empty coffers, but one couldn’t have it all. Not that Pippa needed money, with her papa’s vast wealth.
Since Longmere’s passing, however, Pippa had lost her mind. She’d joined a secret investigative society headed by the indomitable Lady Charlotte Fayne. Instead of spending her time at home in proper mourning, she was prancing through the darkest alleys of London. Having observed Pippa’s skills, Cull had to admit they were impressive, and he wouldn’t have interfered if it weren’t for her damned recklessness.
Last week, she’d chased down a thief on her own. Tonight, she hadn’t waited for her partners, instead tracking a suspect into the perilous reaches of Limehouse. Cull’s jaw tightened. It was as if Pippa was purposefully courting disaster…which meant he had to take an active role in ensuring her safety.
If the ploy with Honest Harvey, Plain Jane, and Keen-Eyed Ollie hadn’t worked, Cull would have had to intervene with that bastard Hastings personally. He still might, given how that blighter had manhandled Pippa. But that didn’t solve the larger problem. Day by day, Pippa grew bolder and more self-destructive, making it bloody difficult to protect her from a distance.
“Crikey.” Ollie stopped mid-bite, his bespectacled eyes blinking as he pointed at the bridge. “Wot’s that cove doing?”
Cull swung his gaze to the bridge. A dark silhouette stood on the span, dangerously close to the edge.
“If ’e’s a jumper, ’e ain’t going far.” Fair Molly snorted. “That bridge ain’t ’igh enough to do damage. Except to ’is pride for being a fool.”
Their barge reached the bridge, their lanterns limning the figure above. Cull’s heart slammed into his ribs. An instant later, he sprinted toward Pippa as she leapt.
Pippa planned to break the impact of her fall with a roll, the way Mrs. Peabody, one of her instructors at the society, had taught her.
Do not fight momentum.Mrs. Peabody’s crisp voice rang in her head.Use it to your advantage.
Having maneuvered many drops, Pippa did not anticipate any problems. The deck where she intended to land was clear. She timed her jump perfectly. As she sailed through the air, she readied herself to land and roll.
“Oof.”The sound whooshed from her lungs as she collided with a wall of muscle. Her momentum took them both down, and she braced herself for the fall, but arms closed around her, keeping her tucked against a muscular body that bore the brunt of their combined fall.
She ended up sprawled atop the man, the wind knocked out of her. Panting, she raised her head; her wig had fallen off, and she had to push her own heavy blonde locks out of her eyes. She stared at the male beneath her. His hood had fallen back to reveal a thick mane of chestnut-brown hair. His black leather mask covered his face from beneath his eyebrows to the edge of his jaw, exposing only his eyes and mouth. Through the mask’s holes, familiar brown eyes glinted at her.
When he reached a hand to her face, she froze. But he didn’t touch her, merely plucked off the moustache dangling from her upper lip.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
His voice was deeper, rougher, but still had that teasing quality she remembered. Now she had no doubt: the man she was lying on top of was Timothy Cullen…the Prince of Larks.
She became aware of Cullen’s large, hard body beneath her. In her current outfit, sans feminine layers, there was little to separate them. Through his thin linen shirt and trousers, his heat seemed to penetrate every fiber of her being. Her breasts felt hot and achy smooshed against his sinewy chest. Ridges of steel pressed into her belly. When she squirmed, she felt a large protrusion prodding her thigh.
Her eyes widened.Heavens…is that what I think it is?
Recovering her senses, Pippa struggled to get free. Cullen grunted and loosened his hold. She scrambled to her feet, retreating a step when he rose as well. At five-foot-seven, she wasn’t used to men towering over her, but Cullen did. Not just physically. With his dark cloak swirling around his brawny form, his expression hidden behind his mask, the man had a larger-than-life presence.
She stifled a shiver, tilting her chin up. She was not about to be intimidated by any male…especially not this one.
“Mr. Cullen,” she said in crisp tones. “It has been some time, has it not?”
