Guilt prickled Pippa. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
Marg scrutinized her. “Got a follower, do you?”
She flushed.Do I have a sign hanging around my neck announcing that I have a lover?
Marg laughed, as if reading her mind. “You got your glow back. And I’m ’appy for you, luv. Life is for the living, eh? Now tell me what I can do for you ladies today.”
“We are looking for information about this man.” Pippa took out a sketch that she’d done of Hastings. “He was here—”
“That’s the nob who was shot across the street the night before last.” Marg narrowed her eyes. “It wasn’t a robbery?”
“We have reason to believe otherwise,” Livy said. “You saw him?”
“Spoke to him after I found him pestering the actresses backstage.”
“What did he want?” Fi asked.
“’E ’ad a portrait o’ a woman. Brown-haired, plain. Said it was ’is wife.” Marg crossed her arms. “’E’d brought an old program and wanted to know if any o’ us remembered seeing ’er at that play.”
Pippa pursed her lips. “Did any of you?”
Marg shook her head. “That play took place a year ago. I wasn’t working ’ere yet, and neither were most o’ the current players. Even if any o’ the hens ’ad remembered the cove’s wife, though, they would’ve kept mum about it.”
“Why?” Pippa asked.
“Because he was a brute,” Marg said flatly. “And too many o’ the women are ’ere to get away from the brutes in their own lives. To take control o’ their futures ’owever they can. And like thieves, there is honor among sisters.”
“Would you mind if we interviewed the actresses?” Fiona inquired. “Perhaps they would talk to us if they knew we were trying to bring whoever killed Hastings’s wife to justice?”
“Be my guest.” Marg snorted. “It’s not as if the hens are doing anything useful anyway.”
That afternoon, Cull arrived early to his appointment at Nightingale’s, a coffee house in Covent Garden. The meeting was the reason why he’d had to postpone the trip to Hertfordshire by a day. The thought of his upcoming journey with Pippa heated his blood, but he forced himself to concentrate. He needed his wits about him for the task ahead.
A pair of guards searched him for weapons before granting him entrance. A relic of a bygone era, Nightingale’s was filled with the rich aroma of coffee, its long tables filled with chattering patrons. Years ago, the place had been razed by fire and rebuilt by Bartholomew Black, a cutthroat so notorious that he’d been dubbed the King of the Underworld. Despite his infamy, Black had also used his power for good, establishing a hierarchy in the underclass that kept bloodshed and chaos to a minimum. He’d employed Nightingale’s as his headquarters and meeting place. As the Prince of Larks, Cull had been invited to the table on several occasions to discuss plans of mutual benefit.
Black had retired, passing the mantle to his granddaughter, Tessa Kent. It was Mrs. Kent with whom Cull would be meeting today. From her that he would request a boon.
The guards led Cull to the private meeting room, a high-ceilinged space with a massive round table which had hosted some of the most intense underworld parleys. The seats ringing the oak slab were empty, save one. In the largest chair—a throne that rivaled the Queen’s with its carved giltwood frame and crimson velvet upholstery—sat Tessa Kent.
Many made the mistake of underestimating the sylphlike brunette with jade-colored eyes. Mrs. Kent was in her thirties, dressed in a fashionable crimson gown and pelisse, her skirts neatly arrayed. Despite her charming appearance, anyone who’d dealt with her knew she was cunning and a force to be reckoned with.
Standing by her side was her tall, dark-haired spouse, Harry Kent. A scientist and partner in a prosperous railway company, Kent was known for his intelligence and fierce devotion to his wife. His bespectacled gaze narrowed, as if assessing Cull for any signs of threat. Such vigilance was understandable, given Mrs. Kent’s condition. Although Mrs. Kent’s pelisse hid her waist, Cull had heard from a source that the lady was expecting again.
“Good afternoon, Prince,” Mrs. Kent said pleasantly. “Please, have a seat.”
Exchanging a bow with Kent, Cull sat where a silver coffee service awaited him. Partaking of the coffee was a ritual. The offering and accepting of hospitality a sign of mutual respect. Kent took the seat next to his wife; although he did not interfere, his stance made it clear he was ready to act at the slightest provocation.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Cull said as he doctored his brew.
Mrs. Kent took a sip from a delicate porcelain cup. “It isn’t often you request a meeting.”
“I have a favor to ask.” With this lady, it was best to come to the point.
She arched her brows. “To ask…or to call in?”
She’d remembered, as he’d known she would. Over a decade ago, she and Kent had asked for assistance rescuing Bartholomew Black from a deadly enemy. Cull had answered their call, and he’d never asked for anything in return. He’d been saving that card, knowing that he would need to play it one day.
Cull took a drink of the rich coffee before answering. “You have a friend, Alfred Doolittle, who owns a slew of pawnshops throughout London. He heads an unofficial guild for his trade, and it is said that all pawnbrokers answer to him.”
