“The smell—excuse me…”
Fi shot up, her peach satin skirts billowing as she dashed from the room.
“Poor Fi,” Livy murmured. “My morning sickness wasn’t as bad as hers.”
“Hers isn’t just in the morning; it’s morning, noon, and night.” Pippa pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll go check on the poor thing.”
After Pippa toddled off, Glory said, “Do you think Fi will be all right?”
“She ought to be fine in a few weeks. And she has Hawksmoor looking out for her. She told me that the earl is taking impending fatherhood quite seriously. He takes notes at every physician’s visit and has apparently read multiple manuals on childbirth. Fi says that he is so involved that he has even begun experiencing some of her symptoms.”
Glory had to grin at the thought of the stoic Earl of Hawksmoor getting queasy. His attunement to Fi didn’t surprise her, however. Like all the Angels’ husbands, the fellow adored his wife and was inordinately protective of her. Glory was glad that her friends had chosen their mates well.
I, however, have made a different choice. While I might be a dismal failure as a debutante, I am a jolly good investigator. And I am not letting my skills go to waste.
“About tonight.” Glory straightened her shoulders. “I will be in disguise. You know my Cockney is first-rate. I’ll pop in, do a bit of reconnaissance, and be out before—”
“We never embark on missions alone. It’s too dangerous,” Livy said firmly. “If Charlie were here, she would say the same.”
Botheration. As usual, Livy was right. The motto for their society was “Sisters first,” which meant the Angels always looked after one another. The strength of their bond made them a formidable team. But what if Glory’s friends got too distracted by their new lives to focus on investigating? With Livy injured, Fi casting up her accounts, and Pippa about to pop like a champagne cork, the Angels were presently a shipwreck. And not just the Angels…the entire organization had hit the rocks.
The Angels’ instructors, Hawker and Mrs. Peabody, who’d also served as Charlie’s de facto butler and housekeeper, had married a few months ago. To everyone’s surprise, Hawker had inherited a duchy; now the Duke of Ryedale, he and his new duchess were managing their estate in Yorkshire. Although the pair promised to return when things were settled, Glory missed her teachers dreadfully.
Then Charlie had begun to take frequent trips as well. When she left town yesterday, she claimed it was to visit an ailing friend, but Glory’s intuition told her something else was afoot. Some secret mission, mayhap, that their mentor could not speak about.
Someone has to woman the fort, Glory thought resolutely. That woman might as well be me.
“We have an urgent case,” she reminded Livy. “We promised Mrs. Mumford-Mills that we would recover Sir Barkley, and there is no time to lose.”
As Glory stroked her snoring ferret, her heart ached for their newest client. A wealthy widow who lived alone, Mrs. Mumford-Mills doted upon her bull terrier, Sir Barkley. She’d been out shopping when dognappers snatched her beloved companion from her carriage. That night, a shady fellow had paid a visit to her home. He claimed he was a “middleman” who didn’t know Sir Barkley’s location but was working on behalf of the dognappers to negotiate a ransom.
Not knowing what else to do, Mrs. Mumford-Mills had paid the twenty pounds he demanded. The next week, the same fellow reappeared, without Sir Barkley and demanding fifty pounds to ensure the dog’s continued well-being. He had warned Mrs. Mumford-Mills against contacting the police, saying that the dognappers would kill Sir Barkley on the spot if she did so.
Distraught, the poor widow had confided in a friend, who’d told her about Charlie’s secret organization. Mrs. Mumford-Mills had begged Charlie to help, even providing a miniature portrait to aid the search. The painting showed a sprightly white-and-brindle bull terrier with pricked ears. Upon his collar was a charm Mrs. Mumford-Mills had commissioned for him, the letter “B” topped with a small garnet-studded crown.
Disguised as sweeps, Glory and Livy had lain in wait outside Mrs. Mumford-Mills’s home three nights ago. Sure enough, the middleman had shown up to collect his payment, and they’d tracked him to an establishment in Covent Garden with the dubious name of Fanny Bottom’s. The club was open to members only, and the Angels, unable to gain entrée, had lost their target.
Since then, Charlie had managed to obtain a pair of membership cards. In a stroke of luck, Glory’s parents were away on a trip to promote her papa’s political campaign against the opium trade, leaving her under the charge of her aunt. A proud bluestocking, Aunt Hypatia was delightfully supportive of female autonomy. Thus, it would be easy for Glory to come up with an excuse to leave the house tonight and, hopefully, rescue Sir Barkley.
All she needed was a partner for the mission.
“I understand the urgency,” Livy said. “And I have a solution.”
Glory sat up straighter. “You do?”
“Initially, I thought Hadleigh could escort you. But he insists on being here to carry me up and down the stairs.” Although Livy cast her gaze ceilingward, her blush betrayed that she didn’t mind her husband’s attention. “In his place, he has asked Master Chen to accompany you.”
At the mention of Hadleigh’s friend, Glory felt a strange quiver of excitement. Wei Chen was an austere gentleman who operated a clinic that treated opium addicts in the East End. Although a social connection between a Chinese commoner and an English duke was unusual, to say the least, Livy had confided in the Angels about the men’s history.
Before marrying Livy, Hadleigh had struggled with opium use. The drug had wreaked havoc upon his life, taking him on a downward spiral that had led him to an alley in Whitechapel, where he’d been attacked by cutthroats. He might have died had Master Chen not intervened. A master of both healing and fighting arts, Chen had saved the duke from the murderous thugs and helped him to stop his opium habit.
Glory was fascinated by the noble master. He was around Hadleigh’s age, yet his broad cheekbones, straight nose, and chiseled jaw had an ageless quality. His hair was the black of midnight, and the short, thick layers had a slight wave. Beneath his straight eyebrows, his eyes were an intense, clear brown—like tea brewed strong. To Glory, those eyes revealed everything and nothing.
Truth be told, she had never met anyone with Mr. Chen’s degree of self-possession. It was as if he observed the world from some high and motionless perch, unaffected by the vagaries of human emotion. For a girl who preferred action, his quality of stillness was as puzzling as it was intriguing.
Yet he was fully capable of acting when warranted. He’d assisted the Angels on several missions, and his kung fu had filled Glory with awe and, truth be told, a bit of envy. While she wasn’t pretty or popular, she did pride herself on her athleticism. Growing up in Dorset, there hadn’t been a tree or cliff she couldn’t climb or a boy she couldn’t outrace. She loved physical activity and sports…although her competitive nature sometimes got the best of her. At a recent party, she had decimated the other debutantes at archery. The gentlemen, too. When it came to dancing, she was often quicker and nimbler than her partners, which resulted in her unfortunate habit of taking the lead.
As sporty as Glory was, however, Master Chen’s physical abilities cast hers in the shade. With his muscular frame and absolute control, he seemed capable of conquering gravity and air. She’d never seen anyone move like him, fight like him. He combined the power of lightning with the stealth of shadows.
