The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy)

by Maggie MacKeever

  Maddie didn’t trust herself to speak. Silently, she accompanied Louise through the drawing-room archway, and up the stair.

  Halfway down the upper hallway, a man and a woman stood close together, engaged in intense conversation, their backs turned to the stairwell. Maddie had no desire to eavesdrop. But when she started toward the withdrawing room, Louise grabbed her arm and pulled her into the shadows cast by a trio of tall potted ferns. “It’s Isabella Jarrow!” she breathed.

  Maddie peered through the fern fronds. The lady was, indeed, Angel’s wife. Mrs. Jarrow’s peony red crepe gown fitted her so well that one had to wonder what garments, if any, she wore underneath.

  Scowling down at her was a tall man with close-cropped chestnut hair. He demanded, “Are you mad?”

  “The piper must be paid,” responded Isabella. “Or have you forgot that you dance to my tune? An unfortunate mix of metaphors, perhaps, but you take my point.”

  “I’d like to see you dance,” he snarled. “At the end of a rope. Christ, Bella! Not here, not now.”

  “Precisely here and now.” Isabella reached behind her and opened a door. “Unless you want your wife to know what you have been doing when you are absent from her side, and with whom you have been doing it.”

  He frowned all the more ferociously. “Are you wholly without scruples? She considers you her friend.”

  “There are many kinds of friendship.” Isabella smoothed his sleeve. “And scruples are so dull. You are dull tonight. I am growing bored.”

  He clamped his hand around her wrist but didn’t remove her fingers from his arm. “You really are a bloody bitch.”

  “Whereas you’re a bastard. See how well we suit?”

  “Gracious!” exclaimed Louise, after the door closed behind them. “Say what you may about my Frederick, he never flaunted his intrigues with other women right under my nose.”

  Maddie freed herself from the fern fronds. Either the haut ton had misplaced their morals while she’d been rusticating or her younger self had been astonishingly naïve. “Who was that man?”

  Louise’s green eyes glittered with excitement. “Corbin Denny. What a splendid scandal, Angel Jarrow’s sister’s husband and his estranged wife! And before you try and stop me making use of this new information, you might consider what would happen if Sir Owen were to learn you have been dallying with Angel. He would probably lock you up in Bedlam and take away your sons.” She hurried down the steps.

  Maddie hesitated at the top of the stair. She didn’t doubt Louise would make good her threat. Maddie didn’t even dare warn Mrs. Denny, who would most likely not believe her anyway, and have her ejected from the house, thereby creating yet another crisis that would set her father frothing at the mouth.

  She heard a noise behind her. Was someone in the hall? Maddie started to turn— but a hand hit her squarely in the middle of her back. She grabbed for the rail, and missed, and went tumbling down the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  An event has happened, upon which it is difficult to speak, and impossible to be silent. —Edmund Burke

  The London newspapers were, as usual, filled with information, some true and some not: Percy Bysshe Shelly had abandoned his pregnant wife to run away with Mary Godwin, daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, the author of A Vindication of the Rights of Women, who was a mere sixteen, the same age his current and now-abandoned wife had been when he eloped with her; the Whigs were fretting over the circumstance that the Princess of Wales had agreed to have her allowance increased, disregarding advice to the contrary presented her by much wiser heads. The latter had made for stimulating discourse in the Commons, the Whigs protesting the princess’s avowed intention to leave England, thereby severely restricting her usefulness to their party, though no one said the latter aloud. Lord Castlereagh countered that the House, in voting for the increase in her Royal Highness’s income, had no intention of imprisoning her in the country, nor either of preventing her from residing wherever she pleased. All this was interesting enough, but the Morning Chronicle trounced its competition with the exposé of a scandalous liaison between I— J— and C— D—.Furthermore — and if the gossips couldn’t determine exactly how this related, that didn’t deter them from putting forth conjectures — Maddie Tate had taken a tumble down Beatrice Denny’s stair.

  It was this latter intelligence that brought Angel Jarrow and Lord Saxe to Sir Owen Osborne’s drawing room, where they found Mrs. Tate settled on a shield-back sofa, surrounded by the morning newspapers. She was bruised and scraped, her left wrist neatly bandaged and arranged in a sling; dressed in an incongruously cheerful morning gown, primrose striped with Pomona green. The spicy smell of arnica hung heavy in the air.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” Maddie assured them. “Merely bumps and bruises and scrapes, except for my sprained wrist. I have a headache, but that’s because I lay awake all night wondering who might have pushed me, and why.”

  At her invitation, Kane sat down on a chair drawn up by the sofa. Angel moved to a window and stood staring out, the room behind him reflected in the glass.

  “I’ve told no one else that I was pushed,” Maddie added. “Sir Owen wouldn’t believe me, and my sons are already driving me to distraction demanding how it felt to fall. Their tutor has taken them to see Jean Robert Argand attempt to demonstrate the fundamental theorem of algebra. You have caught me in a rare moment of solitude.”

  Kane suspected she would prefer to be left alone. “Do you know what the fundamental theorem is, Mrs. Tate?”

  “ ‘Every polynomial equation of degree n with complex coefficients has n roots in the complex numbers’,” she recited. “And before you ask, I’ve not the faintest notion what it means. Do you believe someone pushed me down the stair?”

  She seemed a genuinely nice person, decided Kane. For what appearances were worth. In any event, it didn’t serve his purpose that she get her neck broke. “Verity Vaughan, the actress who recently went missing, also attended the masquerade dressed as Diana. Her body was discovered this morning, stuffed into a sarcophagus at the British Museum. Miss Vaughan was last seen in company with a mysterious ‘Mr. Falconer.’ I suspect he and your pharaoh are one and the same. Mr. Falconer must be searching for Dianas. It is impossible to take your mishap too seriously, Mrs. Tate.”

  Color drained from Maddie’s cheeks. She fell silent for a moment, then spoke. “Louise Holloway was meant to go to Burlington House that night, not me. The costume I wore was hers. Fanny Arbuthnot arranged for her invitation. Louise owned up to it last night.”

  Louise Holloway was Jordan Rhodes’s half-sister. Kane wondered what, if anything, he should make of that. “I’ll have a word with Mrs. Holloway. You must take every precaution until we get to the bottom of this business. Go nowhere without an adequate escort.”

  “If it was up to me,” Maddie said, with feeling, “I wouldn’t set foot out of the house.”

  He rose. “Don’t bother ringing for a footman. I will see myself to the door.”

  Silence settled on the room after his departure. Maddie picked up a newspaper, dropped it in her lap; worried her lower lip between her teeth; and at last met Angel’s eyes. “Louise was with me at your sister’s soirée. We overheard a conversation between Corbin Denny and your wife. Unfortunately, Louise has a fondness for gossip. All in all, I consider it a great pity she wasn’t the one who fell down the stair.”

  Angel didn’t care if Isabella intrigued with an entire regiment of Hussars, which, knowing Bella, she might well have done; but he did care for his sister’s feelings, and consequently felt extremely uncharitable toward Louise Holloway. “Could Mrs. Holloway have pushed you?”

  “Louise had already gone downstairs.”

  Angel approached the sofa. Her wrist was bandaged, her jaw painful shades of purple and green. How many other bruises and contusions hid beneath that whimsical gown? “You must be more careful. Your injuries could have been far worse.”

  “So they co
uld,” agreed Maddie. “It’s thanks to Matthew they are not. After a worker was injured in a similar manner at Meadowmount, he taught the boys how to take a fall. One makes oneself as small as possible and rolls, while at the same time protecting one’s head and neck and trying to relax. Mr. Tate decided I too should learn.” Her smile was wry.

  “In case he succumbed to the temptation to push you down the stairs?” Angel inquired.

  Maddie’s smile faded. “It was more in Mr. Tate’s nature to badger one to death. I am glad to see you. After our last meeting— I feared I had said or done something to make you take me in dislike.”

  Angel recalled what she had done, what they had done, on that occasion. And what she had said. “I took advantage, and owe you an apology. As for taking you in dislike, I don’t think I could.”

  Maddie shifted positions, gingerly. “I imagine this business with your wife might do it. I am so sorry! I did try to stop Louise.”

  She was obviously unhappy. Angel wanted to sit beside her on the chaise and soothe away her woes. Or, even better, to place her on his lap and allow her to soothe his. Instead, he remained where he was.

  Conscience made a damned uncomfortable companion. He wished it would go away. “Isabella wanted to embarrass the family, and she did. If Louise Holloway hadn’t spread the scandal, someone else would have.”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “Little that Isabella does surprises me,” Angel responded drily. “In spite of his numerous infidelities, Corbin is devoted to Bea. Indeed, as to those infidelities, he has behaved no differently than most married men of his class. Including myself, as may not need be pointed out.”

  “No differently, that is, save for his involvement with his brother-in-law’s estranged wife!” Maddie retorted. “Which makes it impossible for you to sue for divorce without plunging your own sister into the scandal-broth.”

  “My sister informs me she is not so fragile. Whether she will reconcile with Corbin remains to be seen.” Angel gazed down on her bent head. “I don’t regret many things, but I regret involving you in this.”

  “As I recall events, I involved myself,” Maddie said, ruefully.

  So she had, she’d kissed him, and Angel hadn’t forgot it yet.

  Kane had been right, and Bea; he should never have gone near Maddie Tate. He’d placed her in an impossible position, with his thoughtless, careless ways. And made her unhappy as well. It was far from the first time Angel had made a female unhappy. But this female’s unhappiness made him unhappy in turn.

  Angel disliked being unhappy. Nor, at the moment, was he overly fond of himself. “However it came about, you are involved in the business, and the scandal that surrounds my family will grow even worse. You must allow me to arrange matters so that you and your sons are tarred no more with Isabella’s brush.”

  Maddie stiffened, as if she realized he was bidding her farewell. “That sounds so final. I’d hoped we were still friends.”

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for friendship. At least, not friendship with you.” Briefly, he rested one hand on her shoulder. “Promise me you will take care.”

  In a strained voice, she said, “And you.”

  Angel turned and left her, without another word.

  He arrived in Wimpole Street as his brother-in-law was leaving, a malacca cane tucked under his arm. “On your way out, are you?” Angel inquired, with more civility than he felt.

  Corbin clapped his curly-brimmed beaver hat on his head. “I believed you treated Bella badly. Now I realize you didn’t treat her badly enough. I’d like to wring her neck.”

  “You’ll have to stand in line,” said Angel. “I’ve wished to wring her neck for years.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I cannot say what the truth may be; I say the tale as ‘twas told to me. —Sir Walter Scott

  Devotees of dirty laundry were delighted with the progression of the Denny-Jarrow scandal during the next few days, Mr. and Mrs. Jarrow having given in to temper during a public confrontation wherein she berated him as the most selfish creature in creation, and he called her a shrew; she promised she’d see him brought to Point Non Plus, and he informed her she might well find the boot was on the other leg. The general consensus among the ton was that a divorce was in the offing, and everyone — or almost everyone, Madalyn Tate and Beatrice Denny being notable exceptions — looked forward to the shocks and titillations such a proceeding must entail. On a more somber note, a shrewd correspondent had made a connection between the deaths of two of the guests present at the Burlington House bal masque, and gleefully conjectured who among the other invitees might be murdered next, and for the readers’ edification provided a list of all those present, including Maddie Tate, which was not shocking in itself but gave rise to speculation about why her Whiggish father had countenanced her attendance at a Tory fête. Meanwhile, preparations for the Great Fair continued apace, a Chinese pagoda and picturesque yellow bridge ornamented with black tiles and a bright blue roof having sprung up in St James’s Park; and in Greek Park a gothic castle over a hundred feet square; while Hyde Park was making do with ornamental booths and stalls, arcades and kiosks, swings and round-abouts .

  Daphne did not read these tidings in the newspapers — little Daisy Butts’s reading lessons, which involved the Bible and a ruler, hadn’t left her eager to try and sound out another word — but heard them from her servants, who were on an unusually familiar footing with their mistress, result of the sporadic manner in which they received their wages.

  Her own staff felt sorry for her. Daphne kicked an ottoman out of her way. Then she righted it, and dropped down on the hippopotamus sofa, and rubbed her bruised toes. After a few moments, she rose and limped to the window. London was being battered by rain and thunderstorms. Lightening so frequent as to make candles unneeded. Hailstones the size of hen’s eggs. Daphne wished one might strike her spouse.

  The conte had expected Angel to line his pockets. Daphne had expected Angel to offer her carte blanche. Both of them were in a fair way to having their hopes dashed. Angel’s wife, meantime, pursued some mysterious purpose of her own.

  Daphne glanced at the closed door. All day, she had expected Mrs. Jarrow to arrive, and at the same time prayed that she would not. Daphne had enough troubles of her own brewing without her nemesis popping in to stir the pot.

  A plate of marzipan sat on the sideboard. She selected a piece.

  Daphne didn’t regret that she’d known Angel, in the biblical sense or otherwise. She only regretted the relationship was coming to an end.

  Of course, she’d known from the beginning it must end.

  Daphne wasn’t the sort of woman men cleaved to. Or was it clove?

  Her own husband wasn’t faithful to her. Nor did he expect fidelity of her. He did expect her infidelities to prove profitable to him.

  She might as well have remained in the brothel and become a proper whore. Depressing thought.

  Daphne understood now why it was so important to Angel that no one realize Mrs. Tate had attended the bal masque. Dianas were being disposed of, and Mrs. Tate had been a Diana, and that Angel believed one thing related to the other was as plain as the nose on Daphne’s face.

  What she was to do with this information, she wasn’t certain. Daphne hesitated to share it with either Isabella or the conte.

  One considered carefully before sharing anything with Isabella or the conte.

  Too, advantage to be gained or no, she’d given Angel her word.

  And wasn’t it curious that gentlemen were so much easier to deal with when the passions weren’t involved?

  Daphne hadn’t dealt with many gentlemen when their passions weren’t involved.

  She thought of Mrs. Tate, whose position was almost as precarious as her own. No matter how many times Angel Jarrow took Maddie Tate up in his phaeton, she had no better chance than Daphne of becoming a permanent fixture in his life. No woman held Angel’s interest long, save Isabella. Daphne did
n’t think she’d care to keep a gentleman on those terms.

  She didn’t know that she’d care to keep this gentleman at all, given the choice, Daphne reflected, as her husband strode into the room. The conte was a man of medium stature, twice her age, with extravagant side-whiskers, pomaded brown curls, pale skin that saw less of sunlight than the inside of gaming hells.

  His title had deceived her. She’d assumed a man who held a title must also possess some nobility of nature. The conte was no more noble than a louse.

  The louse was in a temper. He slapped a hand so hard on the sideboard that one of the candlesticks toppled over and rolled onto the floor. “Diavolo! What is this I hear? The wife of Angel Jarrow makes herself a byword and he quarrels with her in public! Where were you in this, I ask myself? Of a surety he was not dangling at your slipper strings, as he should have been.”

  In other words, Angel should have been buying her expensive presents. Daphne didn’t bother pointing out that Angel wasn’t one to dangle, even at the height of an affaire.

  Rather, she was dangling after him. Pursuing and waylaying him. Making improper suggestions, which he ignored more often than not.

  Daphne eyed her husband, who was glowering at her whilst weaving gently on his feet.

  He sneered. “You have let a fine fat fish slip off your hook and now it must be replaced immediatamente. Porca miseria! Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  Daphne would have liked to say many things, none of them prudent. And when had she become this paltry creature who couldn’t say boo to a goose?

  “Idiota!” spat the conte, further provoked by her silence. “Imbecille!”

  He stank of cheap perfume and stale cigar smoke. Daphne wrinkled her nose. Clearly her husband had passed the night with one mistress or another, carousing in some gaming hell.