No consideration for his fellows prompted Mr. Jarrow to forgo his Regent’s Centennial celebrations. An unsatisfactory session with his solicitor had left him in no mood for frivolities. And so, he barricaded himself in the library of his house in Curzon Street, a brandy decanter on the desk before him, alongside Plutarch’s On the Malice of Herodotus. Though the ton might titter to be told that Angel Jarrow was bookish, he had perused a great many of the volumes in this room. Angel wasn’t reading at the moment, but gazing blankly at a bust of Cesar and wishing he might break it over his estranged wife’s head.
There was no way to rid himself of Isabella without creating further scandal. Divorce could only be decided by an ecclesiastical court, after a successful criminal conversion action in civil court, during which witnesses were called, and every variety of salacious detail aired. The solicitor believed that Mrs. Jarrow was deriving vast satisfaction from the controversy she’d caused, and wouldn’t be persuaded to simply go away.
Not for the first time, Angel refilled his brandy glass. He had decided to get soused. His efforts were interrupted by his long-suffering butler, Wallock, who announced that a female had come to the front door. She refused — not surprisingly, considering whose threshold she had stormed — to give her name.
Angel wondered if Daphne meant to try and persuade him to attempt some new sexual excess. Or if Bella had come to gloat, in which case he had a great deal to say to her. Or if his uninvited caller was some other female altogether, strange females showing up on his doorstep from time to time, thanks to the broadsheets that published his address. He growled, “Why didn’t you send her away?”
Said the butler, stiffly, “She seemed to be in distress.”
He was in distress, thought Angel. “You must try to curb these tender feelings, Wallock. But since you’ve let her cross the threshold, you might as well show her in.”
He supposed it would be unchivalrous, were he to hide beneath his desk.
Angel rose and moved to the fireplace, stood gazing down at the cold hearth. Behind him he heard the door open and close. Fabric rustled, then was silent. Without turning, he snarled, “I’m not feeling hospitable. State your business and be gone.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” a familiar voice replied.
Angel spun around so fast he almost lost his balance. Not Daphne, or Isabella, or an Unknown had interrupted his debauch, but Maddie Tate.
‘In distress,’ Wallock had said. Her face was pale, her manner agitated, as if she had suffered some great blow.
His pleasure at seeing her turned quickly to concern. “What are you doing here?”
She flinched. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but—”
Angel strode toward her. “ ‘Disturb’ is much too mild a word. Are you unaware of the risk you take in coming here? Do you lack sufficient sense to at least attempt a disguise?”
She bit her lip, but didn’t budge, possibly because he gripped her shoulders. Remembering her bruises, Angel dropped his hands. “You’re not leaving, are you? I’m going to be forced to read you a lecture on ruining your reputation — and yes, I grasp the irony of me doing so. Damnation, woman, for the first time in my life, I’m trying to put someone else’s welfare ahead of my own. A man is told he’ll feel better as result of such selflessness, but I don’t recall that I’ve ever felt worse. While on the other hand I’m certain I would enjoy selfishly seducing you, so you’d be wise to leave.”
Maddie roused from her anxious abstraction long enough to glare. “Let me understand this. If you didn’t care for me you would seduce me without thinking, but since you do care for me you will not seduce me, although if I was the sort of female who has more experience with such matters, then you would.”
Angel winced at this assessment of his character. Maddie added, “I was wrong to come here. I had hoped you might help me, but clearly you are cast away.”
“Yes, I have been drinking. And no, I am not drunk.” Certainly he was not as drunk as he’d been mere moments ago. “I might say the same of you. Because if you are not cast away, I must conclude you want your body to be stuffed into a sarcophagus with various vital organs removed. Or propped up against a gravestone in St. Paul’s.”
Ashen, she sank into a chair. “Vital organs removed?”
Angel felt ashamed of himself, a frequent thing for him these days. He could not recall that he had ever felt ashamed of himself before meeting Mrs. Tate. “Never mind that now. Why are you here?”
“The boys begged to see the balloon ascension. I couldn’t refuse. I know it was foolish, but we were not alone, and matters went on well enough until Lady Georgiana’s mishap with the dog. By the time things got sorted out, the boys were nowhere in sight.” Maddie rose and began to pace. “Everyone is looking for them, but they don’t realize— I dare not involve Sir Owen. I am already in disgrace. And we are wasting time! I’m afraid my sons have been kidnapped, and so I came to you, hoping that Lord Saxe might know what to do.”
Angel also hoped so. He dashed off a note, rang for a footman, and asked that it be delivered post haste.
Maddie was still pacing. She had, now that he looked more closely — or more soberly — not the least appearance of a female bent on being seduced. Wondering when he’d become a coxcomb, Angel poured brandy into a second glass. “You said ‘everyone’ is searching for the boys. Who does that include?”
Maddie took the glass, swallowed, and coughed. “The people in the park with us. Matthew. Tony. Not Lady Georgiana; she went home to recuperate. Jordan Rhodes and—” She hesitated. “The Contessa de Luca.”
Angel hoped Mr. Rhodes was fond of amorous athletics. “Contrary to common opinion, Daphne and I have not been intimate for some time.”
Maddie didn’t react to this admission with either gratification or relief, but gazed at Angel desperately. He longed to comfort her, and was chagrined to realize he didn’t know where to start.
Comfort not being among the things he generally offered females.
Lowering reflection. By the time this business ended, he’d have no opinion of himself at all. “We can’t be sure your sons’ disappearance has anything to do with the other business,” he said, in what he hoped were soothing tones. “You told me yourself that the boys have been kept cooped up. An opportunity to explore was probably more temptation than they could withstand.”
Maddie appeared unconvinced. Angel tried again. “Let us say, for the sake of argument, that your sons went off of their own accord. Where might they have gone?”
“Where— Oh! They wished to see the Battle of Trafalgar enacted on the Serpentine.”
“Then that’s where we shall start.”
Mr. Jarrow, when roused to action, proved remarkably efficient. He issued instructions to his servants, donned his outer garments, bundled Mrs. Tate into a hooded cloak appropriated from one of the maidservants. Still, night had fallen by the time he escorted her outside.
The streets around nearby Hyde Park were crowded with pedestrians and vehicles, vendors peddling their wares. Angel threaded his way through the noisy throng and into the park, Maddie staying close by his side. Bright lamps and lanterns, assisted by the light of the full moon, illuminated acrobats and troubadours; stands for the sale of gin and ale, gingerbread and apple stalls, false curls and patent elastic repelling corsets; a temporary structure that housed a printing press. People crowded both sides of the Serpentine, eager for a bird’s-eye view of the celebrated maneuver practiced by the immortal Admiral Lord Nelson at Trafalgar, when twenty-seven British ships of the line defeated thirty-three French and Spanish vessels, as re-enacted by three-foot-long scale replicas of the war ships.
The naval engagement had commenced earlier, with a cannonade between the foremost vessels, after which an interval of an hour and a half elapsed. The more impatient spectators regretted they’d not gone to the Green Park, where redcoats with blackened faces crept through the dark with glittering bayonets, and diabolical Frenchmen gesticulated on the b
attlements of the Castle of Discord. Only a few wondered why one of the miniature Serpentine fleets had hoisted American flags.
The English fleet formed at last, and came down with a fair wind to attack. Spectators pressed close around them, Angel and Maddie paused to watch. After a tremendous cannonade, the opposing fleet — whether French, American or Spanish, no one much cared at this point — made its way back to shore.
A ginger-haired young man elbowed his way toward them. Doubtfully, he eyed Maddie’s cloak. “M-Mrs. Tate?”
“Matthew! Have you found the boys?
The tutor had not. However, he was encouraged by reports of chaos following in the wake of two boys and a large dog.
Maddie sagged with relief. “Thank God!” She raised up on her tiptoes, as if an additional couple inches would make it easier to locate the twins in the huge crowd.
On the Serpentine, a ship burst into fire. The crowd gasped, and muttered, and broke into cheers. One enemy warship after another sank in flames, as the National Anthem played in the background band the Serpentine swans screeched. After the destruction of the enemy fleet by fire-ships, a water-rocket display began. The rockets whirled on the surface of the water, imitating the rotary motion of a mill-wheel, then evolved into a fountain which, after spouting elegantly for several moments, burst forth with a loud report into water-snakes. After spinning up into the air, the water-snakes submerged themselves in the water briefly before rising a few feet away. The wheels bounded about in all directions, in the water and out of it, inspiring the spectators with such enthusiasm that several of them ventured too near the water and fell in.
The spectacle ended with a last loud explosion. “Now that be something like!” approved a voice at Angel’s elbow.
He glanced down at a gap-toothed gamine wearing a shabby dress. The young female gazed back unabashed. “I’m to say the mislaid articles be at The Three Pigeons in Covent Garden,” she announced.
Angel knew of The Three Pigeons. It was far from a fashionable address. “Told by whom?”
The urchin rolled her eyes. “Who’s been paid good coin to keep an eye out for trouble? Mr. Pritchett, o’course.”
Hard to think this curly-haired moppet might be the tool of villains, but still— “How did you know where to find me?”
She held out one grubby hand. “Mr. Pritchett has his ways.”
Pritchett, Angel knew, was Kane’s Bow Street Runner. He dropped a shilling onto the girl’s palm. The hand remained outstretched. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver half-crown. “This is yours if you will take us to those mislaid articles.”
She beamed at him. “Sure and it’s a pure pleasure doing business with ye, guv.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang oft a’gley. —Robert Burns
Brilliant rockets streaked across the dark sky, rose in golden clusters, descended in sheets of fire. Maroons and jerbs, Roman-candles and catherine-wheels, serpents and stars and flower-pots succeeded one another with spectacular effect. In the Green Park, the canvas walls of the Castle of Discord rose to reveal the Grand Revolving Temple of Peace, each side displaying an allegorical scene, the fourth panel unanimously decreed the most striking, displaying as it did a colossal statue of the Prince Regent being crowned by Victory, while Britannia looked up to Heaven with gratitude for the blessings of his government. At almost the same time, the Pagoda in St. James’s Park burst unexpectedly into flames which spread so rapidly that, despite the efforts of several fire companies, the five upper towers were destroyed and fell into the lake.
Mrs. Tate witnessed none of these marvels. During those exciting moments she was exiting Mr. Jarrow’s carriage, which was drawn up not far from Covent Garden, in the company of Angel and Matthew and the urchin, who claimed her name was Frankie. Generously, she allowed that Mr. Jarrow’s carriage was the finest she’d ever ridden in.
“The only one you’ve ridden in, I’ll warrant,” Angel said.
“That’s as may be.” She cast Maddie an assessing glance. The nippers were right as trivets, Frankie assured her, and just waiting to be reclaimed, Mr. Pritchett not being inclined to let them back out in the streets alone. Howsomever, the tavern they were about to enter wasn’t accustomed to numbering gentry morts among its clientele, so madam might wish to appear more doxyish, lest her presence raise a rumpus, and draw attention to them that they would do better without.
Angel, speaking quietly with his coachman, did not hear this good advice. Maddie drew her borrowed cloak more tightly around her, wondering if she should abandon it entirely, along with her corset, the better to pass herself off as a barque of frailty. Matthew peered curiously around, these not being streets he would dare frequent after dark. Though the theaters were closed due to Prinny’s celebrations, and the market sheds and stalls long since shuttered for the night, the public establishments remained open, as well as the hackney coachmen’s watering houses nearby. On the night air wafted voices, music, the whine and snarl of a dog.
At least, Maddie hoped the sound came from a dog.
Fog wreathed the arcaded houses to the north and east, and to the west, St. Paul’s Church. An occasional laggard rocket lit the distant sky.
They must pretend to be chirping merry, Frankie informed them. Stupefied with spirits. Unable to walk in a straight line. Angel draped an arm around Maddie’s shoulders. His warmth was comforting. They set off down the street. Matthew strolled beside them, whistling tunelessly.
Frankie halted in front of a tavern. A wooden sign bearing a faded painting of three pigeons hung from its eaves. “Here we are. Look sharp about you,” she hissed. Angel twitched the hood of Maddie’s cloak so low she could barely see to place her feet before her, and drew her closer to his side. They passed through a time-warped doorway, along a narrow passage, into a lighted space where tobacco smoke hung heavy in the air and sawdust lay thick on the floor; through another doorway, up a flight of stairs, along another hall, and at last into a small, well-lit chamber. The door closed behind them. Maddie pushed back her hood.
“Mama!” Benjie sprang up from the bed. “We’ve had the grandest adventure—”
Penn flung his arms around Maddie and hugged her so hard that her bruised ribs ached. “I don’t like adventures. I want to go home.”
Maddie longed to smother her sons with kisses and at the same time shake them until they squealed. Trusting herself to do neither, she stepped away from them. The small, mean room was furnished with a narrow bed and wooden table, the window secured with shutters and heavy drapes. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have allowed you to leave the house.”
“No,” Matthew protested. “It is the b-boys who are at fault. And they are also cowards if they let you take the b-blame.”
Exchanging guilty glances, Penn and Benjie retreated to the bed. Lappy plopped panting on the floor at their feet. All three were at least as filthy as Frankie.
Even filthier was the stranger slumped senseless on the floor. Beside him, holding a gilt-headed baton, stood a dapper little man with thinning hair. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles, a dark coat and trousers, plain vest, and carefully polished shoes.
Angel said, “You would be Mr. Pritchett?” Before the dapper little man could answer, the supine stranger stirred.
Pritchett restored him to unconsciousness with a deft application of his baton. “Two miscreants tried to make off with the lads,” he explained. “They didn’t reckon with the dog.”
“Lappy bit one on the bum,” added Benjie. “The other one ran away.”
“They told us they knew the best place to see the Naumachia,” put in Penn.
“But instead,” Benjie went on, “they tossed burlap sacks over our heads and threw us in a cart. Lappy — we’d found him by then, or he found us — insisted on coming along. He thought it was a game.”
“You should be c-confined to the schoolroom for the remainder of the year.” Matthew went to stand by the bed. “Excepting the
d-dog.”
“I saw the nippers steal off and followed them,” said Pritchett to Angel. “Mrs. Tate seemed safe enough where she was. It was what we in the business refer to as a judgment call.”
“I seemed safe?” repeated Maddie, before Angel could respond. “Who is this man?”
“He works for Bow Street, mama!” explained Benjie. “Mr. Pritchett was hired to keep watch on you.”
“He was what?”
Said the Runner, apologetically, “It’s that sorry I am that I couldn’t nab them both. But what’s done is done and no amount of weeping over spilt milk will put it back in the pail. So I sent Frankie to fetch you here.”
Angel fixed a stern eye on that young person. “And paid her beforehand, I’ll warrant. You are a brass-faced little thatch-gallows, my girl.”
Frankie grinned. “I knew from the minute I clapped me glaziers on ye that ye was a right knowing one, guv. Should ye be in the way of wishing to continue our acquaintance, ye may ask for me here.”
“I’ll ask for you in Newgate.” Angel turned back to Pritchett. “How did you find me?”
“Ah, now, everyone knows Bow Street is your man when it comes to keeping an eye out,” said Pritchett genially. “And Runners are as gossipy a bunch as any old biddies settled down to drink their tea.”
“Someone’s set a watch on me?”
“Witness the shoe on the other foot,” murmured Maddie. She looked closely at the urchin for the first time, recognized the child Tony had tossed a coin. Wondering when Bow Street had begun employing children, she moved closer to the stranger on the floor. He was little more than a boy himself, probably not even twenty years of age. “I want to talk to him.”
Pritchett poked his captive with the toe of his shoe. “You heard the lady. Up on your feet.”
As he clambered to his feet, the young man cast a furtive glance at the door where Frankie lounged. In one hand she held a little pistol that she had retrieved from somewhere on her person. It was pointed at his belly. “You’ll see the wisdom of putting that notion right out of your head,” said Pritchett, giving him another prod. “This lady wants to speak with you. Show her some respect.”
The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy) Page 18
