The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy)

by Maggie MacKeever

  “Odd, is it not,” he offered, “how a costume party inspires people to make asses of themselves? To the best of my knowledge, nothing out of the ordinary took place.”

  “You forget Diana,” Kane reminded him.

  Angel smiled. “Ah, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.”

  Kane murmured, “Touché!”

  Lord Castlereagh inquired impatiently, “What did this Diana of yours look like?”

  “Past her first youth, with rather nice brown eyes. Earlobes delicately formed and perhaps recognizable if one went around inspecting earlobes, which is hardly practical, though there was a time in my misspent youth— Ah, well! Chin and jawline firm but unremarkable. Plump little person. Prim little mouth. I cannot tell you the color of her hair; she was wearing a blonde wig.” Diana’s glorious voice, Angel declined to mention. “Whoever the lady may have been, I assure you she was not Fanny Arbuthnot.”

  “Curious that a connoisseur such as yourself should recall this unremarkable Diana in so much detail,” remarked Lord Castlereagh. “I am eager to learn more about the lady, should you encounter her again.”

  If politely phrased, this was an order. Angel inclined his head. “I doubt we shall meet again. And now, if you will excuse me—”

  Lord Saxe accompanied his friend out of the study, along the hallway and down the stone staircase; waited while Mr. Jarrow collected his kid gloves and beaver hat. “Why do I suspect you are withholding information?” he inquired.

  Because Angel was, of course. “You are catching Castlereagh’s paranoia, my lad. One must maintain one’s perspective at all costs. I recommend a visit to your favorite house of civil reception. A cool tankard, a warm woman— Voilà! An easy mind.” He left the exasperated baron on the doorstep and continued on his way.

  Mr. Jarrow might next have stopped by Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street boxing saloon to exchange blows with the champion himself. He might have visited his clubs. He might even have returned home to deal with the extensive correspondence that his secretary separated into three stacks, the first to do with business, the second social invitations, the third invitations of a different sort, drenched with scent. Instead, he made his way to Brook Street, where his current inamorata resided in a brown-brick structure of three storeys, plus basement and garrets, embellished by three bays. The lady’s obliging spouse was seldom on the premises at this time of day.

  Angel was ushered into the drawing room, a pleasantly proportioned chamber overwhelmed by an exuberance of cow and lion heads, gazelle legs and crocodile feet. On a mahogany sideboard with a sectioned cellaret on one side and open shelves on the other, a pair of bronze and ormolu stork candlesticks flanked a plate of marzipan.

  He regarded a chair with snarling armrests. The ancient Egyptians believed worldly possessions could be useful in the afterlife. Angel wondered if the divine Daphne wanted her abominable furniture with her in the tomb.

  Contessa DeLuca swept smiling through the doorway, porcelain-skinned perfection with chestnut curls and big blue eyes, wafting toward him on a cloud of spotted muslin and flowery perfume. “Angel! What a marvelous surprise.” Daphne’s smile faltered as she noticed the hat her visitor held in one gloved hand. “You are not staying, then?”

  He glanced at the mahogany mantel clock. “Alas, I cannot. I have a question to ask you, pet.”

  She brightened. “Oh!”

  “Not that question, my dove. After all, you are married, are you not? Cast back your mind to the Burlington House masquerade.”

  Daphne didn’t know what her being married had to do with anything. She would have run off with Angel at the twitch of an eyelid.

  She did not say so. Daphne had learned this much in her almost twenty years: gentlemen did not yearn to discover a woman’s innermost thoughts. She arranged herself on a sofa that bore a startling resemblance to a hippopotamus; positioning herself so the thin fabric of her gown outlined bosom and thigh. “You know that I went as my namesake. Any number of gentlemen said I was fine as fivepence.”

  So she had been, a nymph draped with strategically placed laurel leaves. Angel joined her on the couch. “You could be nothing but incomparable, my precious. Did any of your acquaintances dress as Diana, the huntress?”

  “I saw a half-dozen Dianas! None of my friends are so dull. Julia went as an Italian peasant boy, and Harry her companion, and Polly a country housemaid.”

  Daphne continued to chatter. Angel waited until she ran out of breath. “Did you notice a pharaoh?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean one wasn’t present.” Daphne treated him to her tinkling laugh. “I almost didn’t notice you! Julia asked if you were avoiding me.”

  Julia, in Angel’s opinion, was a spiteful little cat. “I was avoiding not you, but your husband. He has the oddest notion that I might care to make him a loan. If not a pharaoh, did you notice anything else out of the ordinary?”

  Daphne’s mood was not improved by mention of the conte. “The most interesting thing I saw was you, stealing away, you rogue. Don’t bother telling you weren’t going to meet someone, because I know how you are.”

  Angel had made his effort on Castlereagh’s behalf, had discovered that his Diana was no courtesan — which did not surprise him, her kiss having had it in more enthusiasm than expertise — and now, having discovered nothing useful, could banish the matter from his mind. He rose. “You are as always a veritable font of information, my sweet.”

  “Your sweet simpleton, you mean. I know what people say.” Daphne leaned toward him, displaying the enticing valley between her breasts. “If you are only going to stay five minutes, I don’t know why you bothered to visit me at all.”

  “But you are a sweet simpleton. It is a large part of your charm.” Angel watched with mild amusement as a storm gathered on her face. “You are turning purple. The shade doesn’t become you, but you must suit yourself.”

  Daphne pouted. “You are a brute, sir, to use me in this shabby way!”

  “It’s you who means to use me, I think. You will not, you know.” Angel trailed one gloved finger along her jaw.

  “Um.” Daphne’s eyelids fluttered closed as she savored the sensation of soft leather smoothing along her skin.

  The mantle clock chimed. Angel withdrew his hand. “We must part now, my heart’s delight. I am late for an appointment with Richard Tattersall. Don’t disturb yourself. I will show myself to the door.” He strolled out of the room.

  Tattersall's? He left her to go inspect a horse? Daphne marched to the mantle, snatched up the plate of marzipan, and flung it at the wall.

  Chapter Five

  Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. —Jane Austen

  Lord Saxe’s favorite house of civil reception, The Academy in King Street, was not open for business this early in the day. Its residents were still recuperating from the excesses of the night before, which had involved a reenactment of mischief among the immortals, performed to the satisfaction of all concerned except the doxy chosen to portray Leda with the swan, who greatly disliked feathers and complained that Zeus was entirely too well-endowed. But there was no pleasing trollops, as the proprietress of the establishment well knew, and a person in her position must always strive to keep an ankle ahead of the competition, no easy task when London boasted some three thousand brothels, and some fifty thousand whores, and lists of prostitutes could be purchased — stating their particulars, specialties and locations — from any London bookseller for two shillings and sixpence.

  Lilah Kingston did not resemble the popular perception of a bawdy house abbess. Her slender body was covered from neck to toe, shoulder to wrist in a modest gown; her face bore not the slightest hint of rouge, lip salve or kohl; her thick chestnut hair lay simply coiled at the nape of her neck. There was, however, no disguising the cynical expression in her lavender eyes as she listened to her companion’s scandalous accounts of hijinks among the haut ton. Mrs. Kingston did not move in such exalted circl
es, though many members of those circles often visited her house. “You jest,” she protested.

  “I seldom jest.” The baron, unlike his hostess, was en déshabillé in shirt and breeches and an exotic banyan she had purchased for his use. In truth, he found little enough to jest about these days. The wars with the French had caused serious civilian distress, the price of food climbing monstrous high while wages fell because the supply of labor far exceeded the demand. It was widely hoped, now the conflict in Europe had ended, that Lord Liverpool’s government might concentrate on sorely needed social reforms.

  Kane wasn’t holding his breath.

  He had been in the employ of the British government since he reached his majority and knew how these things played out.

  And, when he found himself weary of the business, as he often did, he took refuge here.

  Not even Castlereagh would dare disturb him at The Academy.

  The brothel was richly appointed, its interior designed in the style of the Adams Brothers, its furnishings inspired by Sheraton and Heppelwhite. Kane’s gaze lingered on the large oil painting of Lilah, nude by firelight, which hung above the fireplace in the small sitting room.

  As Kane contemplated her painted likeness, Mrs. Kingston contemplated him. Usually she was about her business by this time of day. There were doxies to be dealt with, magistrates to be bought off, and expenses to be paid.

  Instead here she sat, sipping chocolate and indulging herself with Lord Saxe.

  Theirs was an affair of the flesh, not of the heart; an unusual friendship, the rake and the whore. Neither had expectations of the other, least of all fidelity. If either possessed a heart, it was kept safely locked away.

  Lilah had her secrets, Kane had his. And since they each kept their own council, the baron did not know he was the only lover she allowed to spend the night sleeping in her bed.

  Kane glanced from the nude Lilah to the well-wrapped version who sat beside him on the loveseat, a hundred tiny buttons marching up the bodice of her gown. Mrs. Kingston was aware that a man appreciated a challenge. “I’ve asked someone to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Lilah regarded him ironically. “That depends on who it is.”

  “Pritchett.”

  “A Bow Street Runner? One must have some standards, my lord.”

  Kane awarded her his lazy bone-melting smile. “Must one? You disappoint me.”

  If Lilah’s bones didn’t melt, her expression softened. “Poor Pritchett. What do you mean for him now?”

  “Be patient and you’ll find out. Meantime, while we are waiting—”

  Several moments later, there came a tap at the door. In this house, no servant entered a room unannounced. Lilah straightened her gown and called, “Enter.” Kane leaned back on the love seat.

  “Mr. Pritchett,” announced the liveried servant. A neat little man stepped past him and into the room. The newcomer wore a dark coat and trousers, white linen, plaid vest, carefully shined shoes. On his nose perched wire-rimmed spectacles, on his thinning hair a bowl-shaped hat. Pritchett had more the look of a clerk than a Bow Street thief-taker, save for the gilt-topped baton tucked under one arm.

  He averted his gaze from the artwork above the fireplace. Lilah and Kane exchanged an amused glance.

  “May I offer you refreshment, Mr. Pritchett?” asked Lilah. “You look about as happy as if you’d come to have a tooth drawn.”

  “Less,” amended Kane. “But we must all sleep in the beds we’ve made.”

  Pritchett didn’t care to consider beds in these surroundings. A man of his social standing, or lack thereof, would never be welcomed as a customer in this house. Lord Saxe lounged on that loveseat like a well-pleasured oriental pasha, his dark hair tousled, his expression that of a cat well-fed with cream. And as for that cream— Pritchett couldn’t encounter Lilah Kingston without wondering how many men had had her, and how many men she’d ruined.

  Said Lilah, watching the Runner’s face, “Have you breakfasted, Mr. Pritchett? My French chef has a wonderfully light hand with pastry. Can I tempt you with a brioche? A croissant? A baguette with jam?”

  She tempted him to bid her to be damned, but Pritchett didn’t dare. He said to Lord Saxe, “You have a job of work for me, my lord?” The regular pay from the Police Office being less than enough to support a family, most Bow Street officers supplemented their income with blood money and other rewards. They were free to take private inquiry work for anyone who could afford them. Some earned a guinea a night standing in theater lobbies and keeping a sharp eye out for miscreants.

  Pritchett earned much more.

  Except when he worked for Lord Saxe.

  Sworn to uphold the law, Pritchett had broken it more times than he could count, until one too many misdeeds led to the moment when he’d had to choose between dancing to the baron’s tune and dangling in the sheriff’s picture frame. A fellow might find in it a most salutary moral, if he cared to search.

  Lord Saxe issued his instructions. Pritchett didn’t blink an eye. The Runner’s reputation wasn’t for fair dealing. He took his leave.

  Mrs. Kingston read the gossip sheets, along with the rest of London, and insisted her girls relay any indiscreet pillow-talk. Some of the information thus gleaned, she passed along to Kane; the remainder, she kept for her own use.

  The baron’s current purpose, she couldn’t fathom. “May one ask why?”

  He rested his hand on her silk-clad leg. “Let us merely say that it is never wise to bet against a dark horse.”

  Chapter Six

  A man must know how to defy opinion; a woman how to submit to it. —Mme de Stäel

  Evening had fallen. The lamps had been lit. Maddie paused in the hallway outside her papa’s study, wondering what she — or Penn, or Benjie — had done to rouse his wrath this time. Had Sir Owen learned of Benjie’s turn-up with the stable boy? Of her own presence at the Burlington House masquerade?

  A footman stood staring into space. Maddie moved forward, and he sprang to open the door.

  Sir Owen was waiting by the fireplace. He gave her a stern glance. The fine art of intimidation. Maddie repressed an impulse to stick out her tongue.

  Instead, she took a seat.

  He didn’t look like a domestic tyrant, being short and stout and balding; however, not without good reason was Sir Owen Osborne known as ‘The Bludgeon’ in the House. Maddie’s father was a staunch member of the Whig party, and therefore an enemy to the Regent: the Whigs had never forgiven Prinny for not ousting his father’s Tory ministers from office when he came into power. “I’m told you’re going out,” he said.

  Maddie wondered which of the servants had informed on her. “Viscount Ashcroft is escorting me to a musicale.”

  Critically, Sir Owen examined her. “That gown don’t suit you. You resemble a Maypole in those ribbons and stripes. Still, it’s not beyond hope we may make you another advantageous match. A pity you’ve let so many opportunities slip through your fingers, but we won’t speak of that.”

  If they did not, it would be the first time. “Viscount Ashcroft—”

  “More hair than sense.” Sir Owen didn’t explain to whom this sobriquet applied. “I don’t hear Ashcroft asking me for your hand.”

  Nor would he, for which Maddie was grateful. “I am but newly out of mourning. It is too soon for me to think of marrying again.”

  “You spent over two years in mourning. That is more than enough.”

  Forever wouldn’t be too long to wait before enduring another arranged marriage. “Is it not for me to say? I am of age.”

  Sir Owen scowled. “What you are is long in the tooth. The boys will be going to school in a few months. Time you started planning for your future.”

  If she had a future, Maddie silently amended. If the pharaoh didn’t track her down and bash in her skull. Which might be preferable to marrying another of her father’s political allies.

  A footman interrupted to announce that Viscount Ashcroft had arriv
ed.

  Sir Owen glowered at Tony, who had dressed for the evening’s entertainment in a long-tailed deep blue coat with covered buttons, and black pantaloons; high starched cravat and frilled shirt and leather pumps; satin waistcoat embroidered with bright butterflies. The viscount fidgeted. “Don’t mean to rush you — Maman’s waiting in the carriage — Maman don’t like to be kept waiting — Wouldn’t wish her to fly into the boughs!”

  Sir Owen didn’t air his desire that the devil might fly off with both the viscount and his mama, but Maddie understood it was a close thing. He waved a dismissive hand. “Be off with you, then.”

  Maddie collected her shawl and reticule. “Your father don’t like me,” muttered Tony, when they were safely out-of-doors. “I don’t mind it, because I don’t like him either. The man gives me a cold grue.”

  “Oh, dear!” murmured Maddie. “He speaks so well of you.”

  Tony rolled an ironic eye. “He calls me a frippery fribble. You may think that’s a compliment, but I know otherwise. I see what it is, you’re bamming me again. I wish you would not! We should lock your father and my mother away somewhere together, and they could cut up at each other, and leave the both of us in peace.” They had arrived at the carriage, where Tony’s mama waited. He handed Maddie inside and climbed in himself, knocked on the carriage roof to instruct the coachman to move on.

  Lady Georgiana bore a marked resemblance to her son, despite her person being more slender, her hair darker, and her complexion freckle-free. She was all exhausted elegance in a lilac silk gown, a sheer embroidered muslin scarf draped around her shoulders, and a charming lace cap perched atop her curls. “Good evening, my dear,” she said, as Maddie settled beside her on the carriage seat. “How well you look. Tony! Have you told Madalyn how well she looks tonight?”

  Tony flushed. “Of course I did! Top of the trees! First rate! But I have to say, those stripes ain’t the thing.”