The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy)

by Maggie MacKeever

  Startled, Maddie stared at him. “Lappy is my chaperone. We’re hardly alone.”

  “Your chaperone is asleep,” Jordan pointed out.

  Maddie heard the husky note in his voice; saw the warm expression in his eye. She had dreamed of kissing Jordan as a girl. Now, as an adult, she wondered how his kisses might compare.

  There was one way to find out. Moving closer, she murmured, “So he is.”

  Much as he admired Maddie’s bosom, Jordan hadn’t meant to try and seduce her, preferring females of low morals, or no morals at all. However, her lips were soft and warm and sweet. Jordan was fond of sweets. He drew her closer so that he might better savor this new confection he’d unexpectedly found on his plate.

  Kissing, Maddie decided, was a queer business. She wondered who had first formed the idea of pressing mouths together, for it wasn’t a natural thing. Dogs didn’t go around sticking their tongues into each other’s mouths — a good thing in light of what other things dogs got up to with their tongues — or cats, or horses, or pigs. Mr. Tate had been proud of the pigs raised at Meadowmount.

  Curious, how one man’s touch could cause a woman’s pulse to flutter, and another man’s caress rouse no reaction at all. Here she was, kissing her childhood idol, and thinking of pigs. Maddie opened her eyes to find Jordan studying her face. “Speaking as an old friend,” he began. “That is, I have more experience with the world than you—”

  Maddie drew away from him. “You mean, experience with the ways of gentlemen of the world.” She recalled the sensations she’d experienced while perched on Angel’s lap. Instead of squawking like a squeamish virgin she should have had her way with him, providing he had let her, which after being scolded by both his sister and Lord Saxe, he most likely would not. “Since you are not a parent, you may be unaware that when you tell someone he cannot have something, that becomes the thing he wants most.”

  Jordan clasped her hand. “Point taken. Let us change the subject. I am aware that there is a great deal my sister isn’t telling me.”

  There was a great deal she wasn’t telling him, Maddie thought unhappily. “If Louise was this goosish as a girl, I wonder you didn’t drown her in the pond.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Marriage resembles a pair of sheers, so joined that they cannot be separated; often moving in opposite directions, yet always punishing anyone who comes between them. —Sir Sidney Smith

  Mr. Jarrow presented himself at the front door of the King Street Academy. He was ushered into the proprietress’s small sitting room, where he found Lord Saxe lounging on the loveseat, a bottle on the table beside him and a glass in his hand.

  Angel took a nearby chair. “You look as if you’ve recently emerged from a several-day debauch. Just because you haven’t been to your bed doesn’t mean you should drag me from mine.”

  The baron regarded his friend without appreciation. Kane had been engaged in nothing so pleasant as debauchery; while Angel, who spent considerable time in that pastime, looked as unsullied as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word. “I’ve been to Worthing.” He poured wine into a second glass.

  “Felt the need for sea air, did you?” inquired Angel. Worthing was a popular seaside resort situated at the foot of the South Downs, the country around it noted for Stone Age flint mines and an Iron Age fort.

  Lord Saxe didn’t, as result of his recent journey, harbor an appreciation for either Worthing or sea air. “Castlereagh is offering Princess Caroline an annuity of fifty thousand in place of her present income of twenty-two thousand a year.”

  Angel half-pitied the princess, who was neither graceful nor elegant, didn’t conduct herself in a royal fashion, and was as repugnant to her husband as Prinny was to her. “And you delivered this proposition? I daresay she had a great deal to say.”

  Kane raised his glass. “I asked her what she knew of Fanny Arbuthnot. Caroline muttered about ingratitude but refused to say another word. The princess is still angry that she wasn’t invited to the Burlington House masquerade, though she says she shouldn’t be surprised because she isn’t invited anywhere. Foreign kings and emperors ignore her; her husband torments her; the Whigs tell her where to go and what time to arrive there and in general annoy her with their advice, which is intended more for their benefit than hers. She informed me that she means to visit Napoleon since he at least will speak with her. Apropos of speaking, I hear you have again gone strolling in a dark garden with Mrs. Tate. One would think, after all those horticultural investigations, that the lady might be persuaded to confide in you, but far be it from me to suggest you may be losing your touch. Isabella will not like your interest there, you know.”

  “Since Isabella likes nothing that I do, that point is moot.” And since Lilah kept an excellent cellar, Angel broke his own rule against drinking before a certain hour. “Mrs. Tate needed to be warned about Fanny Arbuthnot.”

  She was not the only one who stood in need of warning, thought Kane. Angel was demonstrating himself deaf to good advice. “I daresay you are aware of Mrs. Tate’s friendship with Jordan Rhodes. Perhaps you should inform him of the lady’s situation. Rhodes not only smokes hashish with maharajahs, he has sufficient influence to persuade them that it was against their best interests to take up arms alongside the French. He numbers no less than Wellington among his friends, and possesses wealth so immense that Prinny is in his debt.” Not that this was a commendation: money ran through the Regent’s fingers like water through a sieve. Kane recalled the occasion on which Prinny had lost several thousand pounds betting on twenty turkeys racing against twenty geese. “In light of all that, foiling a nefarious pharaoh might be child’s play.”

  Angel scowled. Kane considered his point made. “I am curious as to why Fanny Arbuthnot’s corpse showed up in St. Paul’s.” And why a certain Bow Street Runner had so little to report. “If Horus meant to make a political statement, he should have been more precise.”

  “Horus?” Lilah echoed, from the threshold of the room.

  Kane rose from his chair. “What do you know of Horus?” he asked.

  Lilah closed the door behind her. “I’ve never met the man, nor do I care to. Horus has his fingers in a great many nasty pies. It’s said he will supply any service, providing the purchaser has sufficient coin.”

  Now it was Kane who frowned. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Lilah said drily, “A great deal, I should think.”

  Kane drew her down beside him on the loveseat. “Shall I make you confess?”

  She smiled. “You may try.”

  Angel cleared his throat, “Much as I would like to stay and savor this stimulating conversation, my presence is required elsewhere.”

  The sky outside had grown no brighter. Angel didn’t mind. A good gloomy thunderstorm would suit his state of mind. He reclaimed his horse and set out down St. James’s, sympathizing with his Regent, for he knew well the annoyance of a troublesome estranged wife.

  Isabella wouldn’t agree to live abroad for twice fifty thousand pounds per annum. Were there an ocean between them, she would find it much more difficult to be a thorn in his side.

  And speaking of thorns in his side—

  Angel longed to apply his fist to the nose of the influential Mr. Rhodes.

  This was a novel notion, not because Angel had never before had a rival, but because he had never before cared.

  Rival? Angel wasn’t accustomed to considering rivals in relation to himself, for all the nonsense females were prone to whisper in his ear, due to the fact that he had a wife.

  And because of that wife, he reminded himself, he had no right to sulk like a child told to share a favorite toy.

  It was a short ride to Brook Street. Angel dismounted, handed his reins to a waiting groom. The front door opened. An impassive servant took his hat. “The contessa is expecting you, sir.”

  The contessa was damned sure of herself, reflected Angel, as he mounted the stair.

  Daphne’s fanciful b
oudoir was fitted out with expensive paper on the walls and costly carpets on the floor, ornate furniture and fanciful sconces and much mirrored glass. The bed stood in an alcove, divided from the rest of the room by flower-wreathed pillars. More flowers embellished the white satin bed hangings, along with artificial moss, spangles, beads and shells.

  The lady had appalling taste.

  She waited by a window, half-wearing a deliciously decadent — and damnably expensive — confection of cobwebby black lace. Angel said, “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, my treasure, but where is the conte?”

  Daphne pouted. “You might at least say good afternoon before you start accusing me of things. I don’t know where the conte is, and I don’t care. He is a loose fish.”

  “He is your loose fish. I’ve told you before that I’m not a pigeon for your plucking, my sweet.”

  Daphne reflected, crudely, that it wasn’t plucking she had in mind. She crossed the crowded room, skirting a dressing stand and stool, and surreptitiously locked the door.

  Angel walked to the window. Daphne pointed out a convenient tree. “In case you feel the need for a quick retreat.”

  He didn’t disabuse her of the notion. “Why the urgent summons? What is it you want?”

  Daphne searched for traces of affection in his expression, found none. She stepped closer, slid her arms around his neck, and whispered, “You.”

  Angel grasped her elbows and set her away from him. “I doubt you do. In any event, the feeling is not mutual. What is this matter of such grave importance that you summoned me?”

  “All in good time.” Daphne crowded against him, breast to thigh. He stiffened, but in no helpful manner. She clutched the lapels of his coat and pulled his face down to hers, pressed her lips against his.

  She had meant to ravish his mouth with her tongue, but Angel kept his teeth clamped together. Again he set her away from him.

  He stepped back. Daphne followed. Matters progressed in this manner for several moments — she was determined to demonstrate how good she could be both to and for him, while he was equally determined she should not — until Daphne tripped over her dressing-table stool. Angel caught her arm, preventing her from landing on her nose.

  Finally, she had his attention. Daphne gave a little wiggle. The peignoir slipped off her shoulder, exposing the slope of one breast.

  Angel released her elbow. “Give it up, Daphne. I’m in no mood for amorous pursuits. I don’t care to make like a wheelbarrow, or a turtle, or a fruit tree. I don’t want to kneel, or squat, or to be backed against a wall; watch you dangle from a trapeze, or stand on your head.”

  Daphne yanked her peignoir back into place. He didn’t want her, Angel meant.

  The conte would be furious. As would Isabella. Privately, Daphne was relieved about the trapeze.

  But there was more than one way to roast a rooster. “Since you insist, I shall cut to the chase. I saw Fanny Arbuthnot talking to a Diana at the Burlington House masquerade.”

  Angel frowned. “You were acquainted with Fanny Arbuthnot?”

  “I am also acquainted with a little seamstress. Since stitching seams doesn’t earn her enough money to remain beforehand with the world, she supplements her income by other means, which is how she came to my notice, because the Conte likes a bit of— But never mind that! It turns out that she made alterations to a certain costume. A Diana costume. Need I say more?”

  Apparently she did. Angel was staring at her as if she had changed from a pretty poppet into something with sharp teeth.

  Were circumstances different—

  But they were not. “Mrs. Tate wore that costume. And if you don’t do as I ask, I will tell the world.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea. —Henry Fielding

  A crush of carriages blocked the street outside Lady Denny’s brick house in Wimpole Street, where another musical evening was underway. Mrs. Tate was not scheduled to sing tonight, to the disappointment of those who had hoped to hear ‘Queen Mary’s Lamentation’, ‘The Poor Little Gypsy’, and ‘Begone, Dull Care’. The guests were further disappointed to discover Mr. Jarrow was not in attendance, and immediately began to wonder whether the lady had fallen from grace.

  Maddie wondered that same thing as she stood conversing with Lord Maitland, who had not offered to fetch her lemonade tonight. His lordship was apparently under the impression that Maddie cared for political affairs; he informed her that, in spite of the furor attendant on the discovery of a murdered body in St. Paul’s, Lord Cochrane was not forgot. Lord Ebrington had recently brought forward a motion for a petition to remit that part of his lordship’s sentence which related to the pillory. After allowing an animated debate to rage through the House for two hours, Lord Castlereagh informed the members that the Prince Regent was pleased to oblige; however, lest the country believe his lordship less guilty than his fellow conspirators, the pillory would be dispensed with in those cases also. This extension of mercy did not derive from any doubt about the guilt of the parties, or the propriety of their sentence, Lord Castlereagh additionally explained, but was being granted because the crime committed was so rare that there was little probability of its recurrence. This led Sir Francis Burdett to remark that if he were to state in the Lobby that frauds on the Stock Exchange were rare, everyone would laugh in his face.

  Lady Georgiana swooped down on them, orchid draperies aflutter. “There you are! You will excuse us, Maitland. I require a private moment with Mrs. Tate. What a charming gown, and not a stripe in sight unless one counts the shawl. But really, so many beaux— It is a trifle vulgar, don’t you think? Such a crush! These rooms are stifling. Cousin Beatrice has a splendid garden. Since you are so fond of gardens, Tony will escort you there.”

  “No, Tony won’t!” protested that gentleman, who was trailing after his mama. “What with that Arbuthnot woman turning up dead as a doornail, I don’t know why a fellow should care to poke his nose outside.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” snapped Lady Georgiana. “That Arbuthnot woman was obviously doing something she should not, and got no more than she deserved. Now, be off with you!” She gave them a none-too-gentle nudge.

  “I’m supposed to be cutting out your other admirers,” confessed Tony, when Lady Georgiana was out of earshot. “Even though I don’t admire you, but Maman don’t give a fig for that. Or wouldn’t give a fig if she did know, which she don’t. At least I think she don’t. Which ain’t to say I don’t like you well enough, because I do, but that’s no reason for a fellow to poke his head in the noose. Anyway, Cousin Bea’s garden ain’t as splendid as Maman makes out.”

  Maddie squeezed his arm. “It’s all right, Tony. I don’t want to see the garden. Here is your cousin Bea.”

  Lady Denny came toward them, radiant in raw gold silk. “I am so pleased you could join us, Mrs. Tate. This is quite a family affair, save that my brother won’t be joining us: his wife wished to attend and it is much more comfortable for the rest of us if they aren’t under the same roof. Tony, your mama isn’t looking. You can make your escape.” Another guest drew her attention, and she moved away. As did Tony, to take refuge in the chamber where a game of billiards was underway.

  The rooms were warm, and crowded. Everyone who was anyone was present here this evening — except Mr. Jarrow — and speculating on the circumstance that Mrs. Tate had been elevated from performer to the status of honored guest. Mrs. Tate, who had not misunderstood Beatrice Denny’s none-too-subtle reminder of her brother’s marital status, set out for the withdrawing room on an upper floor.

  “Running away, are you?” Louise Holloway, wearing a modish gown fashioned from a cashmere scarf, slipped her arm through Maddie’s. “I warned you how it would be. Angel Jarrow took it in his head to flirt with you, and no one can imagine why, so you are the cynosure of all eyes. Again. At least this time no one is speculating that you will wed.”

  Maddie reminded herself they were in a public place
, and therefore she must not box Louise’s ears. “Where is your brother?” she asked.

  “He may have had an assignation.” Smugly, Louise smiled. “Or he may have thought he had. Clandestine communications can so easily be misunderstood. You needn’t be so disapproving! Jordan will barely let me breathe. I am aware my brother is pretending to admire you, by the bye.”

  Maddie was growing tired of being told she was unworthy of admiration. Were there a pond nearby, she might drown Louise in it herself.

  But not before she learned some answers. “Did you know Fanny Arbuthnot?”

  Louise’s smile faded. “Fanny who?”

  “Fanny-who-was-found-dead-in-St-Paul’s-churchyard-dressed-as-Henry-VIII! Doing it rather too brown, Louise.”

  “Oh, that Fanny! Of course I knew her. She arranged my invitation to the bal masque. I must have told you that.”

  Maddie would bet her pretty striped shawl that Louise knew full well she hadn’t. Impossible to imagine her companion mixed up in political machinations or murder, but stolen documents weren’t beyond the realm of possibility. “Why was it so important you attend?”

  “Has your memory failed you? I must maintain my position in the world. And that reminds me, I’ve a crow to pluck with you. Angel Jarrow is worth his weight in gossip. But you, my closest friend, are close-mouthed as a clam.”

  Maddie drew back to stare at her ‘closest’ friend. “You’d toss me into the scandal broth?”

  Louise tittered. “I’d toss in my own brother if he would be so obliging as to do something shocking enough that I might benefit from it! Don’t look so appalled. I have your best interests at heart. Angel Jarrow is faithless as a flounder. You are not up to his weight. But should you choose to ignore my warnings, I must be first with the details!”