The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy)

by Maggie MacKeever

  “Be that as it may,” said Kane, “I argued with Castlereagh. As you’ve seen, to no avail. The lady will be safe enough. I give you my word.”

  “Like the goat staked out in a clearing to draw in the lion is safe?” inquired Angel. “The hunter doesn’t care if the goat gets savaged, so long as the lion is caught.”

  This private conversation between Lord Saxe and Mr. Jarrow had drawn the attention of other club members. Though none dared address the matter of Mrs. Jarrow’s indiscretions with her sister’s husband outright, numerous speculative glances were being cast in Angel’s direction, and wagers entered in the betting book, several by gentlemen who had been intimate with Isabella themselves.

  Coolly, Kane regarded the nearest gawkers. Abashed, they turned away. “How is your sister bearing up?”

  Angel hadn’t missed the byplay. He credited Lord Saxe with no altruistic motives. Kane would be obliged to act as his second, did Angel challenge someone to pistols at dawn. “Corbin is attempting to gain back Bea’s favor. I can’t say whether he’ll succeed. He and Bella quarreled that night, which should surprise no one, since Corbin has a temper and Bella is nothing if not provocative. They were in a water closet— I must be growing old; the idea of trysting in a water closet holds minimal appeal. I do not know the precise details, for which I am grateful, but Bella declared that he was tedious beyond belief and stormed out of the room. Corbin took a moment to, ah, regain his composure, before he followed her out into the hall. Though he can’t be certain, he suspects Bella pushed Mrs. Tate down the stairs.”

  “The woman is unbalanced.” Kane grimaced. “Isabella, that is. You’re going to have to do something about her, you know.”

  “What I would like to do, I can’t. There are laws against that sort of thing. As I have warned my sister. If it had been Bella who was pushed down those stairs, we’d need look no farther than Bea.”

  Kane sympathized. He was experiencing a similar impulse toward the denizens of Fleet Street, especially the editor who was theorizing that Fanny Arbuthnot’s murder was behind Princess Caroline’s decision to travel abroad: ‘Is the much-abused Princess of Wales fleeing in fear for her own life?’ “Since Louise Holloway admits she received her invitation because of Fanny Arbuthnot, we may assume the pilfered papers were to have been passed to her. She claims she knows nothing of a pharaoh. And no, I’m not convinced we can believe a word she says.”

  “No one in his right mind would trust Fanny with important information,” Angel pointed out. “But were such information to come her way, she might well have put it to use. The question remains, what use might that have been?”

  Kane glanced at the window, and the ominous sky outside. “Come October, the Allied Sovereigns will convene in Vienna to redraw the map of Europe. Several of the participants would like to change the playing field.”

  Angel considered those players, who included the skilled Austrian statesman Prince Klemens Wenzel von Metternich, already the target of at least one assassination attempt; Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, French diplomat extraordinaire, betrayer of the Ancien Regime, the Revolution, and Napoleon, each in its, or his, own turn; and Alexander, Tsar of all the Russias, who hid vast ambition beneath religious mysticism and changed his personality depending upon whom he was speaking with at any given time. “Princess Caroline had little or no contact with the delegates while they were in England. Or so the public was led to believe.”

  “I trust I need not point out the unwisdom of trusting to appearances.” Kane regarded his friend. “After his death during the Battle of Trafalgar, Admiral Nelson was transported back to England preserved in a cask of brandy to prevent his body decomposing en route. The recent Burlington House festivities involved a great many barrels of various spirits passing to and fro.”

  “And you suspect that’s how Fanny’s body was removed? I wouldn’t mind at all if you kept your conjectures to yourself.”

  Kane wouldn’t have minded living a life free of conjectures. “Fanny’s skull was crushed. In a change of pace, Verity Vaughan died of suffocation. Both bodies suffered postmortem mutilation, inflicted by what appears to have been a thin carved blade.”

  “Ah,” said Angel. “Let me guess: liver and lungs, stomach and intestines removed, hearts left intact. The ancient Egyptians considered the heart a sacred organ needed for the final judgment. Unlike the brain, which was pulverized by means of a long bronze hook inserted through the nasal cavity, drawn out and thrown away.”

  Kane raised his eyebrows. “Napoleon’s Description de l’Egypte?”

  “The instrument of choice was a knife with a thin curved blade.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong? —Jane Austen

  The morning of the Regents’ Grand Jubilee in celebration of the Centenary of the Accession of the House of Brunswick to the Throne, as well as (if three months prematurely) the Anniversary of the Glorious Victory of the Nile, dawned with darkened sky and torrential rain; but between ten and eleven o’clock the sun broke through the clouds, and people hastened toward the parks. The day’s festivities were scheduled to begin with a balloon ascension in front of Buckingham House, the vehicle to carry as passengers Mr. James Sadler, Jr. and Mrs. H. Johnson, of theatrical renown.

  Chinese lanterns and variegated lights hung from the trees of the Green Park. Handsomely decorated boats bobbed in the Canal. Refreshment booths bordered the lawn, and open marquees where spectators overstimulated by the various excitements might pause to rest. The most elaborate of all the pavilions, the Royal Booth, sheltered the queen and princesses, the Prince Regent and two hundred fifty of his guests.

  Members of the royal family and commoners alike were curious about the mechanism of the Great Balloon. People crammed close to the roped-off enclosure where workers were assembling the casks of hydrogen gas from which the bag would be inflated by means of a hose-pipe, the Duke of Cambridge and Princess Sophia of Gloucester following the process of filling the balloon first-hand. Less privileged spectators had to content themselves with observing from afar.

  Or not content themselves: Mrs. Tate’s sons complained bitterly when denied access to the complicated valves. Their tutor attempted to placate them with an explanation of why balloons rose into the air, utilizing the principle of Archimedes, and Sir Isaac Newton’s law of gravitation as well. When inflation turned out to be a tedious business that took longer than expected, result of a leaking apparatus, those members of the little party unenamored of aeronautics wandered off to inspect the Castle of Discord, which the Regent had helped John Nash design. This stupendous structure boasted ramparts surmounted by a round tower, the entire elevation exceeding ninety feet. Remarked Lady Georgiana, “One hopes dear Prinny doesn’t grow so puffed up that he bursts the royal pantaloons.”

  “I say!” protested Viscount Ashcroft, who could not contemplate bursting breeches with any degree of equanimity. A brisk discussion of reducing diets ensued, result of the viscount having grown — according to his fond mama — as fat as a flawn. Sweating packs and Turkish baths were mentioned, along with vigorous exercise, and masticating one’s food thirty-two times before allowing it to slide down one’s throat. Lady Georgiana wore mulberry sarcenet today, her skirts edged with a demure flounce, her turban sporting a dispirited peacock plume. The viscount carried a green umbrella, lined with yellow, which complimented his green and yellow vest. The third member of the trio was uncharacteristically clad in nary a stripe save for her stockings, which were not on public view. She cradled her injured wrist against the jostling of her fellow spectators.

  Maddie hadn’t forgotten that she’d been warned against venturing out alone. She half-regretted declining Lord Maitland’s invitation to enjoy the festivities in the exclusive section of St. James’s Park, but doubted the people who had purchased those more select accommodations would appreciate the addition of two energetic bo
ys and an even more energetic dog.

  Surely the pharaoh wouldn’t burst out from behind a bush and offer her violence in the midst of so large a crowd? Try as she might to reassure herself, Maddie couldn’t shake off the sensation of being watched.

  “Are you looking for someone?” inquired Lady Georgiana, as they began to retrace their steps. “It can’t be Angel Jarrow; everyone knows you gave him the cut direct. The scandal his wife has made! I doubted the fidelity of my own ears. What can that dreadful woman have been thinking? Indulging in an intimate acquaintance with her brother-in-law! I don’t know when I have been so shocked.”

  “Why?” inquired Tony, strolling on Maddie’s other side. “Was you dallying with Corbin too? No, don’t tell me! I’m sure I shouldn’t hear such stuff. Don’t think anyone else would want to hear it, either. It’s enough to put a fellow off his feed.”

  “Not another word!” huffed Lady Georgiana. “I am most displeased with you. At least Angel has the consideration not to show his face.”

  “I ain’t exactly delighted with you, either,” retorted Tony, still smarting from his mother’s unkind remarks. Maddie meanwhile wondered how Angel felt about striped stockings. She’d have no opportunity to ask. Rather, she could ask, if only he would let her, which he’d made clear he wouldn’t, and she both appreciated his care for her reputation and felt out-of-reason cross.

  Despite the pessimistic predictions put forth in the Press, the crowds were orderly and well-behaved. Spreading over the grass of the royal parks, they settled down to enjoy their treat. Some picnicked under the trees, climbed the branches, vanished into the gaming booths. Others frolicked to the music provided by several bands.

  Mrs. Tate and her companions rejoined their party in time for Matthew’s explanation of the earliest balloon ascension, credited to the Chinese, on the occasion of the coronation of the Emperor Fo-Kien at Pekin. After this event, aeronautics became a lost art. “The next historic record b-belongs in the latter part of the seventeenth century, when Cyrano de B-Bergerac attempted to fly with the aid of b-bags of air attached to his person. He d-did not succeed.”

  “By Jove!” said Tony, impressed by this erudition. Flushing at the praise, Matthew took a firmer grip on Lappy’s leash.

  “There will be no experiments involving air bags,” Maddie informed the boys, as Jordan Rhodes walked up to them. “Louise isn’t with you?” she asked.

  “Louise is confined to the house. Her servants have been warned that anyone who assists her in escaping will be turned off without either a reference or wages owed. Lest you think me wholly heartless, I have redeemed my sister’s pearls.” Since the boys were listening, Jordan went on to describe preparations for the Numachia scheduled to take place in Hyde Park. “Capital!” cried Benjie. “May we see it, Mama?”

  “You may not,” Maddie replied. “We struck a bargain: you may watch the balloon ascension, but afterward must return home.”

  Benjie thrust out his lower lip. Penn muttered an unfilial comment. Maddie pretended to be deaf.

  Sensing an impending brangle, Tony glanced around for an escape route. Was that the urchin he’d given money, lurking by that tree? Giving money to urchins must be akin to giving milk to a stray cat. Next thing he knew he’d find her sunning herself on his doorstep.

  But maybe this wasn’t the same child. Tony lacked sufficient experience with ragamuffins to tell them apart. He returned his attention to the balloon.

  The flexible envelope, festooned with bright blue and red and gold scroll work, swelled until it floated in the air tethered to the ground by ropes. A car hung from the canopy, suspended by a large ring. In it were seats for the aeronauts and oars with which to steer.

  “I have information for you,” Jordan said to Maddie. “Might we speak more privately?”

  “Of course.” Maddie took a step toward him. And then she took no more, because Lady Georgiana grasped her arm.

  “Mr. Rhodes!” scolded Lady Georgiana. “You must not monopolize dear Madalyn. She will miss the excitement. The balloon is about to ascend.”

  The balloon’s departure was delayed, however, due to the discovery that the rope which secured the network to the valve at the top of the balloon had frayed. The Duke of Wellington suggested that the voyage be aborted. Mr. Sadler, who was seventeen years old, dared disagree. Bored, Jordan cast around for diversion and found it in a winsome lady with chestnut curls and big blue eyes, a porcelain complexion and pouting lips, her shapely person attired in a white walking dress, spencer of green and pink, half boots that laced at the side, and a little draw-string bonnet, none of which were practical for strolling in the park, but all of which looked most fetching just the same. Intrigued, Jordan strolled in her direction. She raised her hand and waved, but not to him. “Hallo!” she called. “Viscount Ashcroft!”

  Tony roused from contemplation of the twin horrors of bursting breeches and excessive mastication to see the Contessa de Luca standing some small distance away, beckoning. “The nerve!” gasped Lady Georgiana. “Ignore her, if you please!”

  Tony didn’t please. Instead he ignored his mama’s protests and joined the contessa. Lady Georgiana fumbled for her vinaigrette. “Is that not Mr. Jarrow’s petite amie?” inquired Maddie. “Tony said I shouldn’t have anything to do with her.”

  “Tony shouldn’t have anything to do with her!” said Lady Georgiana. “My son is a puddinghead.”

  Daphne, meantime, was confiding in the viscount. “I have left the conte. He tried to strangle me. It is my experience that a man who tries once to strangle a woman will do so again.”

  Said Tony, fascinated by this glimpse into marital life, “What will you do?”

  Daphne awarded him a winsome, woeful look. “Alas, I do not know. The conte will try and fetch me back. And then he will revenge himself because I hurt his pride.” As well as his ginganbobs, but she didn’t mention that. “If only I knew someone who could protect me from the brute!”

  If Tony had briefly seen himself as a lady’s man — specifically, this lady’s man— the alarm bells clanging in his brain caused the scales to drop from his eyes. For the first time, he noticed that the contessa’s fluttering eyelashes resembled caterpillars, and her plump lips a trout.

  Tony was fond of neither trout nor caterpillars. He inched away. “Would be glad to help! But I don’t know what I might do. Hold you in the highest esteem and all that but— Thing is, I ain’t in the petticoat line!”

  Daphne only half-heard these protestations. Her gaze had been caught by a handsome green-eyed rogue. A rogue with sun-kissed auburn hair, broad shoulders and strong thighs. His brown coat and fawn pantaloons fitted him to perfection: Weston, at a guess. Those Hessian boots could only have been made by Hoby. Here was a gentleman who could afford to buy the best, a circumstance that aroused no little envy in the breast of a lady who didn’t even own the clothes she was wearing on her back.

  A gentleman, moreover, who had recently been dangling after Maddie Tate. Daphne wished she might ask Mrs. Tate how she managed all that dangling. “Mr. Rhodes. At last we meet.”

  Jordan bowed. “We haven’t precisely met, contessa.”

  Tony’s mama might deem him a slow-top, but he recognized a knight errant when one sprang up under his nose. “Allow me!” he said, and introduced the knight to the damsel in distress. The damsel dimpled. The knight offered her his arm. The viscount beat a hasty retreat.

  Mr. Rhodes paid no heed to this cravenly flight. His attention was fixed on the young woman appraising him with an avaricious gleam in her big blue eyes. “Ashcroft isn’t up to your weight,” Jordan informed her. “I would offer you my protection, but you are a particular friend of Angel Jarrow’s, are you not?”

  “I was a friend of Angel’s,” Daphne informed, with a pretty pout. “We have come to a parting of the ways. But you must not leap to the conclusion that I am a highflyer, sir.”

  “No more am I a babe in the woods,” said Jordan, who recognized a woman of low morals
when he saw one, and was pleased to see one now. “I suspect that, were I not returning to India, we might soar higher together than Mr. Sadler’s Great Balloon.”

  “India?” Daphne echoed. “That is prodigiously far away, is it not?”

  Maddie, witnessing this interaction from a distance, was grateful that Sir Owen had little interest in the festivities beyond calculating their cost, and consequently wasn’t present to see Jordan make a dead-set at someone other than herself.

  What had he been about to tell her when Lady Georgiana interfered? And why was Angel Jarrow’s mistress flirting with another man?

  At last the moorings were cast off. As the Great Balloon drifted upward, minus a disappointed Mrs. Johnson, the crowd cheered. People scrambled to collect the favors, programs, and colored parachutes that drifted down in its wake.

  Stirring though these events might be, they mattered little to a dog. Lappy pulled on his leash, but Matthew held firm.

  Lappy looked around. The mulberry lady stood nearby. She’d said she didn’t like dogs, especially him, but he didn’t take that to heart. He would be friendly to the lady, and she would realize she did like him, and they would enjoy a romp.

  He edged forward and gripped the flounce of her gown between his teeth, prepared to give it a gentle tug. In that same moment a woodcock, curious about the hubbub, peeked out of its hiding place, saw a dog, and exploded into the air with a whir of wings. Lappy lunged.

  Lady Georgiana shrieked as she toppled over. Matthew leapt to catch her before she hit the ground. In doing so, he dropped Lappy’s leash. The dog, and the woodcock, disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It is easier to be a lover than a husband for the simple reason that it is more difficult to be witty every day than to say pretty things from time to time. —Honoré de Balzac