The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy)

by Maggie MacKeever

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Did you think the lion was sleeping because he didn’t roar? —Johann Christoph Frederick von Schiller

  The sun shone feebly down on London, filtering through coal smoke and fog. The streets were crowded with carts and carriages, citizens and street vendors hurrying to and fro. Those residents fortunate enough to have a few moments’ leisure scurried to the parks to see what progress was being made in preparation for the Great Fair, of greatest current interest the tons of rock salt being thrown into the Serpentine in an attempt to turn it into a proper sea, assisted by large quantities of cockle-shells and periwinkles, razor-fish and sand strewn along the banks. Countless people lined the shore and watched with bated breath as several ladies dipped their fingers into the briny deep and proclaimed the waters every bit as good as any seaside resort. An eminent chemist was blending sea-weed and verdigris to create the proper shade of azure-green.

  Of considerable more interest to the politically inclined was the re-election of Lord Cochrane, that daring captain of the Napoleonic Wars whom the French nicknamed Le Loup des Mers, who had as result of his alleged involvement in the Great Stock Exchange Fraud been dismissed from the Royal Navy and expelled from his Parliamentary seat, at which point the electors had promptly decided he was a fit and proper person to represent the City of Westminster and voted him back in.

  A great crowd had assembled in Covent Garden to witness the official proceedings, scheduled to take place in front of St. Paul’s Church, a stone-faced towerless rectangle with tall arched windows, a massive portico, and an overhanging roof.

  Sir Francis Burdett (who had himself a few years past been imprisoned in the Tower), accompanied by the Westminster Committee, stepped out onto the temporary platform from which candidates addressed the electors. A universal shout of “Cochrane! Cochrane!” went round. The shouting continued while the high bailiff read the speaker’s warrant for a new election, and took the oaths administered to insure a fair and impartial return.

  Sir Frances moved forward. The crowd quieted, at least enough so that some of them might hear him speak. “Electors of Westminster— Gentlemen, in pursuance of the unanimous resolution of the electors latest assembled in Palace-yard...”

  Horus worked his way through the throng. Today his chest and head were covered, and the mask he wore was the one he presented to his peers.

  The question of Lord Cochrane’s innocence or guilt, following a career conspicuous for courage, continued to be the subject of much debate. Many believed that his lordship had been tried and sentenced on insufficient evidence, his conviction due less to his well-timed disposal of Omnium shares than to his outspoken criticisms of corruption in the Navy and the conduct of the war.

  Others pointed out that Cochrane was an excellent argument for keeping one’s opinions to oneself.

  Innocent or no, his lordship had been fined, sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment, and ordered to stand in the pillory opposite the Royal Exchange for one hour. His name had been struck off the Admiralty’s list of Naval Lords. The Knight Companions of Bath were considering the propriety of expelling him from their ranks.

  “...an occasion so novel and momentous,” continued Sir Francis. His audience responded with applause.

  The Westminster hustings, or parliamentary elections, had since the previous century been held at the east end of St Paul’s Church, which dominated the west side of Covent Garden Piazza, usually with bitter feelings on both sides. Curious people crowded the windows of the buildings overhead.

  “... the great cause of liberty, which never fails to vibrate in the incorruptible hearts of Englishmen!” pronounced Sir Francis, earning further cheers and claps. “Wherever we turn, we see hoaxes. We see a hoax on the Serpentine River; we see another in St. James’s Park; and in the greatest hoax of all, we are informed all this is meant to please the people.” Laughter and applause drowned out his further words.

  Another hoax lay right under their noses. Horus grew impatient waiting for them to sniff it out.

  Covent Garden was a large square in the center of London, the houses on the north and east sides sustained by stone pillars that formed a covered pathway. In the center lay the greatest market in England for the sale of herbs and fruits and flowers, composed of a central arcade and two side rows of shops. Horus paused by the market’s entrance to inspect a flower girl’s wares. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of St. Paul’s.

  “Lord Cochrane forever!” shouted the crowd. “The Gallant Lord Cochrane!” The high bailiff announced that Lord Cochrane was duly returned as representative in Parliament for Westminster, earning additional ear-splitting huzzas and cheers. Soon thereafter, the meeting broke up, and the Westminster Committee repaired to the King’s Bench prison to congratulate his lordship on the result. Which was well and good, but re-election wouldn’t free Cochrane from gaol.

  The main entrance of St. Paul’s, by the west door, opened onto a small graveyard. The first victim of the Great Plague lay buried there, beyond the wrought iron bars: Margaret Ponteus, a doctor’s daughter, who had died in 1665.

  Horus chose a posy, tossed the flower-girl a coin; watched as several people entered the church, perhaps to pray for Cochrane’s well-being or, alternately, for his speedy descent to hell. He placed a wager with himself as to how much more time would pass before someone realized that the figure propped against one of the old gravestones was not dead drunk, but merely dead.

  Dead, and in a most unpleasant state of decomposition, which was not immediately evident due to the fur-trimmed metallic brocade coat, purple tunic, and velvet hat. At first glance the casual observer would assume an actor from nearby Covent Garden theatre had slipped inside the iron railing to take his rest. On second glance, however—

  Alcohol-preserved bodies resisted decay, to some extent. When removed from the liquid they were typically discolored, wrinkled, distorted, skeletal-looking and devoid of elasticity. In addition they smelled foul and rotted rapidly when exposed to air.

  Horus raised the posy to his nose.

  At last, the sounds he’d been awaiting. A shriek, an oath, a babble of raised voices—

  He strolled out of the square.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The devil hath not, in all his quiver’s choice, an arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. —Lord Byron

  Of the many entertainments available to him this evening, Mr. Jarrow chose to present himself at a venerable mansion house in Piccadilly, where he was greeted with respect and affection, the house’s owner being a distant relative. As he climbed the great stone stair, one of the architectural features for which the ancient pile was noted, he reflected that his life would be much simpler had he not attended a certain masquerade.

  The sweet strains of a harp greeted him in the upper hallway, and a familiar toe-twitching voice.

  “But oh, fell Death’s untimely frost

  That nipt my Flower sae early!

  Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,

  That wraps my Highland Mary.”

  What was Maddie thinking? So much for playing least-in-sight.

  The double drawing-rooms were furnished with mahogany, ormolu, buhl, brass and satinwood; upholstered in yellow satin and silk. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Fitted Wilton carpets covered the floors.

  The atmosphere was hushed. Such was the power of Maddie’s voice that the majority of her audience had temporarily ceased vilifying one another to listen to her sing. Accompanying her on a tall pedal harp was Viscount Ashcroft, subdued in evening garb and a black waistcoat. Jordan Rhodes stood nearest the performers, to Lord Maitland’s obvious annoyance, and clearly had no intention of surrendering his place. Lady Georgiana looked displeased, and Louise Holloway bored. Maddie wore a long-sleeved, high-waisted gown of white gauze striped with blue, satin slippers, and a fetching satin cap. In her gloved hands, folded at her waist, she held a fan of pierced horn leaves.

  Angel was deve
loping an appreciation for stripes.

  He threaded his way through the crowd in search of his hostess, glimpsed Daphne and her conte squashed into a corner, pretended not to notice her beckoning to him. Angel’s inamorata was prone to appallingly energetic notions of late, and he was not as gymnastically inclined as he had been in his youth.

  “There you are, you scapegrace.” Lady Rutherford — a plump dowager decked out in diamonds and feathers and a great deal of purple satin — took advantage of the fact that she had known Angel from the cradle to dare and pinch his cheek. “I believe you are acquainted with Mrs. Tate?” She grasped his arm and plowed through her guests, if not knocking them over like bowling pins, at the least causing bruises to bloom on assorted ribs.

  Lord Maitland set his jaw and greeted Angel with a curt nod. Jordan Rhodes smiled, amused. Mrs. Holloway brightened, as had every other female Angel passed, save Lady Georgiana, whose mouth snapped sourly shut. Viscount Ashcroft glanced at his mama, and at Angel, and rolled his eyes.

  Tony fingered a final flourish on the harp. Maddie bowed her head. “So moving!” announced Lady Rutherford, and applied a lacy handkerchief to the corner of one eye, while the other guests applauded and called out for more. “No, no, we must not strain that exquisite voice. Mr. Rhodes, will you be so good as to bring Mrs. Tate a lemonade?”

  What was it about hostesses and lemonade? Angel’s sister had taken a similar notion — although, unlike Lady Rutherford, she hadn’t slipped him a wink. Jordan Rhodes departed, as suggested, but not before awarding Angel a speculative glance.

  Before anyone else could claim her attention, Angel offered Maddie his arm. Aware of listening ears, he said, “I must speak with you on a matter of some urgency. It concerns the dog.”

  “And I you, sir!” Maddie allowed him to cut her from the crowd. “At my suggestion, Matthew took the boys to view a locomotion exhibit — they are fascinated with the steam railroad and talk incessantly about the ‘Catch-me-who-can’ and the ‘Salamanca’, and ‘Puffing Billy’. On the way home, they encountered a herd of cows.”

  Angel winced. “The dog accompanied them?”

  “The dog accompanies them everywhere. Sir Owen was presented with a staggering accounting of damages. It made him very cross.”

  “I see how it might. You have my sympathy, Mrs. Tate. How may I regain your favor? Shall I show you Lady Rutherford’s gardens? They are considered very fine.” Behind them, the strains of Handel’s ‘Air on a G String,’ as performed on the harp, wafted on the air.

  Mrs. Tate being agreeable to the suggestion, Angel escorted her out onto the small terrace behind the house and down stone steps into the garden proper, which stretched back to the stable block, the whole lit by lamps set at intervals in the old stone walls. “You may not be surprised to learn that I have made a study of London gardens,” he said amiably. “This one has many nice features. Pray permit me to point them out. Notice, if you will, the straight gravel walks that enclose small grass plots and flower beds, the trellised trees against the walls: walnuts, tulip, and ailanthus, all cleverly lit. See how the pink damask roses and purple lilacs and yellow laburnums flourish. And over there—”

  She turned toward him, one hand upraised. “I admit that I was rude. You need not rub it in. I apologize for saying you are spoiled.”

  “But I am spoiled,” admitted Angel. “Or so my sister says. And while you should never apologize for speaking the truth, your delivery left much to be desired. To properly convey disdain, you must draw back and survey me along the length of your nose. Not an easy thing, I grant you, when I am so much taller—”

  Maddie’s fingers curled, if she wished to swat him. “But I didn’t wish to convey disdain!”

  “I applaud your forbearance.” Angel drew her along a central stone-paved path, past a winged cherub standing on a pedestal, into a red brick pavilion containing a high-backed hardwood bench, where he sat her down. “Bea has been scolding me. For that matter, so has Kane. But that isn’t what I want to talk to you about.”

  Maddie looked up at him, her expression somber. “I have been hearing the most disturbing things.”

  Angel supposed it had been too much to hope that he might break the news to her. Everyone with the power of speech was speculating upon the identity of the body discovered in the churchyard of St. Paul’s. Since the cadaver had worn theatrical costume, the most likely candidate seems to be Verity Vaughan, but those people privileged to be present pointed out that the actress would have had to shrink a good six inches, as well as change the shape of her nose and chin.

  Maddie gripped her fan. “Was it Miss Arbuthnot?”

  Angel sat beside her on the bench. “Unfortunately, yes. Fanny was your Henry VIII. Did it not occur to you that it was unwise to sing tonight?”

  “Of course it occurred to me! I could hardly refuse when Lady Rutherford asked me to perform.”

  Angel caught Maddie’s hands before she could squeeze her fan to splinters. She added, “It didn’t occur to me that Henry might have been female. If only I might pack up the boys and Matthew and return to Meadowmount!”

  Mr. Jarrow enjoyed a moment’s madness, in which he considered leaving Maddie’s father and his wife behind, along with Kane and Lord Castlereagh. “If you desire to depart London, I daresay something might be arranged.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Are you offering me a slip on the shoulder? Because I have it on good authority that I’m not that sort of female.”

  Angel wondered what numbskull had told her that taradiddle. “Would it be so terrible if I did?”

  “I daresay it wouldn’t be terrible at all,” Maddie responded frankly. “But I must think of Benjie and Penn. Sir Owen frequently threatens to remove them from my keeping on the grounds I haven’t the good sense of a goose. Beside, you are married, sir.”

  She displayed less outrage at his suggestion than Angel felt himself. “You believe in marital fidelity?”

  “I am aware that is a provincial point of view.”

  “Ah. Mr. Tate did not believe in marital fidelity.”

  “I do not care to discuss Mr. Tate.”

  Angel knew from long experience when a woman needed kissing, and this woman needed kissing now. By him. Here in Lady Rutherford’s garden. Where they were seated, once again, on a convenient bench.

  He’d give her a friendly kiss, Angel decided, as atonement for his unsettling talk of danger and death; an affectionate kiss, not the kind that scorched paint off every building in the vicinity. He would soothe instead of arouse, and enable her to forget her troubles for a brief space of time.

  At least that was Angel’s intention when he took her in his arms.

  She said faintly, “We must not,” and relaxed against him nonetheless.

  Angel knew they mustn’t. But her breasts were soft against his chest, and she smelled of peppermint again.

  By the time Angel managed to wrestle his baser instincts into submission, which was no little while later, Mrs. Tate was again arranged across his lap. Angel had no notion how she’d gotten there. He didn’t want her to leave. She nipped his earlobe. He groaned.

  Maddie opened her eyes, regarded him with bemusement, and then sprang to her feet. She tugged up her bodice, twitched down her skirt, smoothed her hair, so flagrantly flustered that he experienced another sharp stab of desire. He wanted to drag her beneath him on the bench, feel her body arch against his, hear her beg him for completion, notions so heady that it took him a moment to realize Maddie was indeed speaking to him. She concluded, “I fear I have little self-control where you are concerned.”

  Angel smiled up at her. “Whereas I have none at all.”

  “Why should you?” she said somberly. “When females are forever flinging themselves at your feet? This cannot happen again. I am not for you, or you for me.”

  Angel didn’t follow her out of the pavilion. He was in the grip of some strong emotion. It took him several moments to recognize it as regret.

&n
bsp; Chapter Twenty-Four

  Vanity, working on a weak head, produces every sort of mischief. —Jane Austen

  Tony had concluded his harp recital with Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Deserving’ and was — again — listening to his mama scold. Lady Georgiana was indignant that Maddie had — again — gone into a garden with Angel Jarrow. ‘Amorous vagaries’ were mentioned, and ‘evil toils’. She pulled her son into a corner, where they might not be overheard.

  “Now that,” interrupted Tony, “is doing it too brown. Even if Angel is a scapegrace, that don’t mean his toils are evil. What are toils, anyway? Tolls I understand, and trolls, not that I’ve ever met one and don’t expect I will. A troll, that is! Anyway, I’m not sure Angel is as much of a rogue as everybody claims. For one thing, he ain’t got no by-blows, or if he does he’s kept them well hid because nobody knows about them yet.”

  “By-blows!” gasped Lady Georgiana, elegant in lilac crepe vandyked round the hem and a turban with a lilac ostrich plume. “Not in polite company!”

  “I never heard he did that, either!” Tony protested. “And I would have heard it if he’d done it, and so would everybody else. You want to lock Maddie away like poor Princess Charlotte so you can make certain Angel ain’t included in the list of visitors she’s allowed to see. That’s a bag of moonshine. Maddie’s no green girl.”

  “Certainly not, if she’s sneaking into gardens with Angel Jarrow!” Lady Georgiana hissed.

  Retorted Tony, with relish, “I don’t think you can call it ‘sneaking’ when everyone present saw them go.”

  His mama’s jowls quivered with outrage. “Are you smiling? How dare you smile! This is a disaster, and you are to blame.”

  What was a disaster? wondered Tony. And how was it his fault? “I didn’t do anything.”