The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy) (3 page)

There are certainly not so many men of large fortune in the world as there are pretty women who deserve them. 
—Jane Austen

“As I recall my mythology,” said Lord Saxe, “Diana turned Acteon into a stag. Result of him seeing her naked, I believe.”

“It was Artemis, not Diana,” interjected the third occupant of the study. Both Kane and Angel looked at the Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh. “Artemis was bathing in the woods when Acteon happened upon her. Naturally, he stopped and stared. She punished this impudence by forbidding him to speak. When he heard his hunting party approaching, Acteon called out to them and as a result was changed into a stag, at which point his hounds set on him and tore him to pieces. Now may we please return to the business at hand?” The Burlington House
bal masque
was a matter of interest at No. 16 St. James’s Square.

“One of Diana’s nymphs, sworn to chastity.” Angel had put aside his satin and lace in favor of fawn-colored inexpressibles, brown coat, gleaming Hessian boots. “I am fortunate to have survived. As are you both fortunate, for otherwise I would have been unable to answer your so-urgent summons today.”

Lord Castlereagh was not prone to amusement, an unsurprising circumstance given the various difficulties that beset him. Instrumental in negotiating the quadruple alliance between the United Kingdom, Austria, Russia and Prussia against marauding France, he was now responsible for preventing the Grand Coalition from falling apart as result of internal subterfuges and squabbles. At the same time, Napoleon had to be kept under close watch; even exiled on Elba, the Emperor continued to glean information not only from the countless visitors who flocked to see the Corsican in his cage but also the major newspapers that kept him abreast of current events. Meanwhile agents from other countries spied on him, and on each other, and contrived plots to abduct him, or each other, or both, such political conspiracies offering ample opportunity for any adventurer, liar, or impostor who cared to try his luck.

The beleaguered Foreign Secretary contemplated Angel. “I have failed to acknowledge that it is generous of you to honor us with your presence,” he said.

 “So it is,” responded Angel. “However, I had nothing better to do.”

Kane elevated an eyebrow. “The divine Daphne has begun to pall?”

Angel wandered to the bookshelves. “I passed a charming evening at Burlington House. I believe I danced. I must have been bosky. Even, drunk as a wheelbarrow. Have you ever asked yourself, how does a wheelbarrow get drunk?”

“I ask myself,” said Kane, because Lord Castlereagh appeared to be on the verge of an annoyed rejoinder, “why you are leading us up the garden path.”

“Because I can,” retorted Angel. “But since you insist: as I have already told you, I encountered nothing more remarkable than a Diana running through the halls. She demanded that I kiss her, and I did. We will go on much better if you tell me what’s afoot.”

“Fanny Arbuthnot,” Lord Castlereagh reminded him. “You are acquainted with the lady, I believe?”

Angel searched his quixotic memory. “We enjoyed a brief friendship, as I recall.”

“Fanny attended the masquerade,” said Kane. “She failed to return home. There will be a pretty commotion if she doesn’t do so soon.”

Angel could well imagine. Fanny Arbuthnot was a friend of the Prince Regent’s provoking wife, and featured often in the Whig press. Did she disappear, Prinny would doubtless be blamed, as he was already blamed for causing Princess Caroline’s countless indiscretions on the grounds that he had sent his mistress to receive his bride on her arrival in the country, and spent his wedding night drunk, and more recently prevented her meeting with the visiting sovereigns, not to mention curtailing her visits with her daughter, with whom Fanny Arbuthnot often acted as a go-between.

 “Odd, is it not,” he offered, “how a costume party inspires people to make asses of themselves? To the best of my knowledge, nothing out of the ordinary took place.”

“You forget Diana,” Kane reminded him.

Angel smiled. “Ah, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.”

Kane murmured,
“Touché!”

Lord Castlereagh inquired impatiently, “What did this Diana of yours look like?”

“Past her first youth, with rather nice brown eyes. Earlobes delicately formed and perhaps recognizable if one went around inspecting earlobes, which is hardly practical, though there was a time in my misspent youth—  Ah, well! Chin and jawline firm but unremarkable. Plump little person. Prim little mouth. I cannot tell you the color of her hair; she was wearing a blonde wig.” Diana’s glorious voice, Angel declined to mention. “Whoever the lady may have been, I assure you she was
not
Fanny Arbuthnot.”

“Curious that a connoisseur such as yourself should recall this unremarkable Diana in so much detail,” remarked Lord Castlereagh. “I am eager to learn more about the lady, should you encounter her again.”

If politely phrased, this was an order. Angel inclined his head. “I doubt we shall meet again. And now, if you will excuse me—”

Lord Saxe accompanied his friend out of the study, along the hallway and down the stone staircase; waited while Mr. Jarrow collected his kid gloves and beaver hat. “Why do I suspect you are withholding information?” he inquired.

Because Angel was, of course. “You are catching Castlereagh’s paranoia, my lad. One must maintain one’s perspective at all costs. I recommend a visit to your favorite house of civil reception. A cool tankard, a warm woman—  
Voilà!
An easy mind.” He left the exasperated baron on the doorstep and continued on his way.

Mr. Jarrow might next have stopped by Gentleman Jackson’s Bond Street boxing saloon to exchange blows with the champion himself. He might have visited his clubs. He might even have returned home to deal with the extensive correspondence that his secretary separated into three stacks, the first to do with business, the second social invitations, the third invitations of a different sort, drenched with scent. Instead, he made his way to Brook Street, where his current inamorata resided in a brown-brick structure of three storeys, plus basement and garrets, embellished by three bays. The lady’s obliging spouse was seldom on the premises at this time of day.

Angel was ushered into the drawing room, a pleasantly proportioned chamber overwhelmed by an exuberance of cow and lion heads, gazelle legs and crocodile feet. On a mahogany sideboard with a sectioned cellaret on one side and open shelves on the other, a pair of bronze and ormolu stork candlesticks flanked a plate of marzipan.

He regarded a chair with snarling armrests. The ancient Egyptians believed worldly possessions could be useful in the afterlife. Angel wondered if the divine Daphne wanted her abominable furniture with her in the tomb.

Contessa DeLuca swept smiling through the doorway, porcelain-skinned perfection with chestnut curls and big blue eyes, wafting toward him on a cloud of spotted muslin and flowery perfume. “Angel! What a marvelous surprise.” Daphne’s smile faltered as she noticed the hat her visitor held in one gloved hand. “You are not staying, then?”

He glanced at the mahogany mantel clock. “Alas, I cannot. I have a question to ask you, pet.”

She brightened. “Oh!”

“Not
that
question, my dove. After all, you are married, are you not? Cast back your mind to the Burlington House masquerade.”

Daphne didn’t know what her being married had to do with anything. She would have run off with Angel at the twitch of an eyelid
.

She did not say so. Daphne had learned this much in her almost twenty years: gentlemen did not yearn to discover a woman’s innermost thoughts. She arranged herself on a sofa that bore a startling resemblance to a hippopotamus; positioning herself so the thin fabric of her gown outlined bosom and thigh. “You know that I went as my namesake. Any number of gentlemen said I was fine as fivepence.”

So she had been, a nymph draped with strategically placed laurel leaves. Angel joined her on the couch. “You could be nothing but incomparable, my precious. Did any of your acquaintances dress as Diana, the huntress?”

“I saw a half-dozen Dianas! None of my friends are so dull. Julia went as an Italian peasant boy, and Harry her companion, and Polly a country housemaid.”

Daphne continued to chatter. Angel waited until she ran out of breath. “Did you notice a pharaoh?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean one wasn’t present.” Daphne treated him to her tinkling laugh. “I almost didn’t notice
you!
Julia asked if you were
avoiding me.”

Julia, in Angel’s opinion, was a spiteful little cat. “I was avoiding not you, but your husband
.
He has the oddest notion that I might care to make him a loan. If not a pharaoh, did you notice anything else out of the ordinary?”

Daphne’s mood was not improved by mention of the conte. “The most interesting thing I saw was you, stealing away, you rogue. Don’t bother telling you weren’t going to meet someone, because I know how you are.”

Angel had made his effort on Castlereagh’s behalf, had discovered that his Diana was no courtesan —  which did not surprise him, her kiss having had it in more enthusiasm than expertise —  and now, having discovered nothing useful, could banish the matter
from his mind. He rose. “You are as always a veritable font of information, my sweet.”

 “Your sweet simpleton, you mean. I know what people say.” Daphne leaned toward him, displaying the enticing valley between her breasts. “If you are only going to stay five minutes, I don’t know why you bothered to visit me at all.”

“But you
are
a sweet simpleton. It is a large part of your charm.” Angel watched with mild amusement as a storm gathered on her face. “You are turning purple. The shade doesn’t become you, but you must suit yourself.”

 Daphne pouted. “You are a brute, sir, to use me in this shabby way!”

 “It’s you who means to use me, I think. You will not, you know.” Angel trailed one gloved finger along her jaw.

“Um.” Daphne’s eyelids fluttered closed as she savored the sensation of soft leather smoothing along her skin.

The mantle clock chimed. Angel withdrew his hand. “We must part now, my heart’s delight. I am late for an appointment with Richard Tattersall. Don’t disturb yourself. I will show myself to the door.” He strolled out of the room.

Tattersall's?
He left her to go inspect a
horse?
Daphne marched to the mantle, snatched up the plate of marzipan, and flung it at the wall.

Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. 
—Jane Austen

Lord Saxe’s favorite house of civil reception, The Academy in King Street, was not open for business this early in the day. Its residents were still recuperating from the excesses of the night before, which had involved a reenactment of mischief among the immortals, performed to the satisfaction of all concerned except the doxy chosen to portray Leda with the swan, who greatly disliked feathers and complained that Zeus was entirely too well-endowed. But there was no pleasing trollops, as the proprietress of the establishment well knew, and a person in her position must always strive to keep an ankle ahead of the competition, no easy task when London boasted some three thousand brothels, and some fifty thousand whores, and lists of prostitutes could be purchased —  stating their particulars, specialties and locations —  from any London bookseller for two shillings and sixpence.

Lilah Kingston did not resemble the popular perception of a bawdy house abbess. Her slender body was covered from neck to toe, shoulder to wrist in a modest gown; her face bore not the slightest hint of rouge, lip salve or kohl; her thick chestnut hair lay simply coiled at the nape of her neck. There was, however, no disguising the cynical expression in her lavender eyes as she listened to her companion’s scandalous accounts of hijinks among the haut ton. Mrs. Kingston did not move in such exalted circles, though many members of those circles often visited her house. “You jest,” she protested.

“I seldom jest.” The baron, unlike his hostess, was
en déshabillé
in shirt and breeches and an exotic banyan she had purchased for his use. In truth, he found little enough to jest about these days. The wars with the French had caused serious civilian distress, the price of food climbing monstrous high while wages fell because the supply of labor far exceeded the demand. It was widely hoped, now the conflict in Europe had ended, that Lord Liverpool’s government might concentrate on sorely needed social reforms.

Kane wasn’t holding his breath.

He had been in the employ of the British government since he reached his majority and knew how these things played out.

And, when he found himself weary of the business, as he often did, he took refuge here.

Not even Castlereagh would dare disturb him at The Academy.

The brothel was richly appointed, its interior designed in the style of the Adams Brothers, its furnishings inspired by Sheraton and Heppelwhite. Kane’s gaze lingered on the large oil painting of Lilah, nude by firelight, which hung above the fireplace in the small sitting room.

As Kane contemplated her painted likeness, Mrs. Kingston contemplated him. Usually she was about her business by this time of day. There were doxies to be dealt with, magistrates to be bought off, and expenses to be paid.

Instead here she sat, sipping chocolate and indulging herself with Lord Saxe.

Theirs was an affair of the flesh, not of the heart; an unusual friendship, the rake and the whore. Neither had expectations of the other, least of all fidelity. If either possessed a heart, it was kept safely locked away.

Lilah had her secrets, Kane had his. And since they each kept their own council, the baron did not know he was the only lover she allowed to spend the night sleeping in her bed.

Kane glanced from the nude Lilah to the well-wrapped version who sat beside him on the loveseat, a hundred tiny buttons marching up the bodice of her gown. Mrs. Kingston was aware that a man appreciated a challenge. “I’ve asked someone to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

Lilah regarded him ironically. “That depends on who it is.”

 “Pritchett.”

“A Bow Street Runner? One must have some standards, my lord.”

Kane awarded her his lazy bone-melting smile. “Must one? You disappoint me.”

If Lilah’s bones didn’t melt, her expression softened. “Poor Pritchett. What do you mean for him now?”

“Be patient and you’ll find out. Meantime, while we are waiting—”

Several moments later, there came a tap at the door. In this house, no servant entered a room unannounced. Lilah straightened her gown and called, “Enter.” Kane leaned back on the love seat.

“Mr. Pritchett,” announced the liveried servant. A neat little man stepped past him and into the room. The newcomer wore a dark coat and trousers, white linen, plaid vest, carefully shined shoes. On his nose perched wire-rimmed spectacles, on his thinning hair a bowl-shaped hat. Pritchett had more the look of a clerk than a Bow Street thief-taker, save for the gilt-topped baton tucked under one arm.

He averted his gaze from the artwork above the fireplace. Lilah and Kane exchanged an amused glance.

“May I offer you refreshment, Mr. Pritchett?” asked Lilah. “You look about as happy as if you’d come to have a tooth drawn.”

“Less,” amended Kane. “But we must all sleep in the beds we’ve made.”

Pritchett didn’t care to consider beds in these surroundings. A man of his social standing, or lack thereof, would never be welcomed as a customer in this house. Lord Saxe lounged on that loveseat like a well-pleasured oriental pasha, his dark hair tousled, his expression that of a cat well-fed with cream. And as for that cream—  Pritchett couldn’t encounter Lilah Kingston without wondering how many men had had her, and how many men she’d ruined.

Said Lilah, watching the Runner’s face, “Have you breakfasted, Mr. Pritchett? My French chef has a wonderfully light hand with pastry. Can I tempt you with a brioche? A croissant? A baguette with jam?”

She tempted him to bid her to be damned, but Pritchett didn’t dare. He said to Lord Saxe, “You have a job of work for me, my lord?” The regular pay from the Police Office being less than enough to support a family, most Bow Street officers supplemented their income with blood money and other rewards. They were free to take private inquiry work for anyone who could afford them. Some earned a guinea a night standing in theater lobbies and keeping a sharp eye out for miscreants.

Pritchett earned much more.

Except when he worked for Lord Saxe.

Sworn to uphold the law, Pritchett had broken it more times than he could count, until one too many misdeeds led to the moment when he’d had to choose between dancing to the baron’s tune and dangling in the sheriff’s picture frame. A fellow might find in it a most salutary moral, if he cared to search.

Lord Saxe issued his instructions. Pritchett didn’t blink an eye. The Runner’s reputation wasn’t for fair dealing. He took his leave.

Mrs. Kingston read the gossip sheets, along with the rest of London, and insisted her girls relay any indiscreet pillow-talk. Some of the information thus gleaned, she passed along to Kane; the remainder, she kept for her own use.

The baron’s current purpose, she couldn’t fathom. “May one ask why?”

He rested his hand on her silk-clad leg. “Let us merely say that it is never wise to bet against a dark horse.”