The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy) (4 page)

A man must know how to defy opinion; a woman how to submit to it. 
—Mme de Stäel

Evening had fallen. The lamps had been lit. Maddie paused in the hallway outside her papa’s study, wondering what she —  or Penn, or Benjie —  had done to rouse his wrath this time. Had Sir Owen learned of Benjie’s turn-up with the stable boy? Of her own presence at the Burlington House masquerade?

A footman stood staring into space. Maddie moved forward, and he sprang to open the door.

Sir Owen was waiting by the fireplace. He gave her a stern glance. The fine art of intimidation. Maddie repressed an impulse to stick out her tongue.

Instead, she took a seat.

He didn’t
look
like a domestic tyrant, being short and stout and balding; however, not without good reason was Sir Owen Osborne known as ‘The Bludgeon’ in the House. Maddie’s father was a staunch member of the Whig party, and therefore an enemy to the Regent: the Whigs had never forgiven Prinny for not ousting his father’s Tory ministers from office when he came into power. “I’m told you’re going out,” he said.

Maddie wondered which of the servants had informed on her. “Viscount Ashcroft is escorting me to a musicale.”

 Critically, Sir Owen examined her. “That gown don’t suit you. You resemble a Maypole in those ribbons and stripes. Still, it’s not beyond hope we may make you another advantageous match. A pity you’ve let so many opportunities slip through your fingers, but we won’t speak of that.”

If they did not, it would be the first time. “Viscount Ashcroft—”

“More hair than sense.” Sir Owen didn’t explain to whom this sobriquet applied. “I don’t hear Ashcroft
asking me for your hand.”

Nor would he, for which Maddie was grateful. “I am but newly out of mourning. It is too soon for me to think of marrying again.”

“You spent over two years in mourning. That is more than enough.”

Forever wouldn’t be too long to wait before enduring another arranged marriage. “Is it not for me to say? I
am
of age.”

Sir Owen scowled. “What you are is long in the tooth. The boys will be going to school in a few months. Time you started planning for your future.”

If she
had
a future, Maddie silently amended. If the pharaoh didn’t track her down and bash in her skull. Which might be preferable to marrying another of her father’s political allies.

A footman interrupted to announce that Viscount Ashcroft had arrived.

Sir Owen glowered at Tony, who had dressed for the evening’s entertainment in a long-tailed deep blue coat with covered buttons, and black pantaloons; high starched cravat and frilled shirt and leather pumps; satin waistcoat embroidered with bright butterflies. The viscount fidgeted. “Don’t mean to rush you —  Maman’s waiting in the carriage —  Maman don’t
like
to be kept waiting —  Wouldn’t wish her to fly into the boughs!”

Sir Owen didn’t air his desire that the devil might fly off with both the viscount and his mama, but Maddie understood it was a close thing. He waved a dismissive hand. “Be off with you, then.”

Maddie collected her shawl and reticule. “Your father don’t like me,” muttered Tony, when they were safely out-of-doors. “I don’t mind it, because I don’t like him either. The man gives me a cold grue.”

“Oh, dear!” murmured Maddie. “He speaks so well of you.”

Tony rolled an ironic eye. “He calls me a frippery fribble. You may
think that’s a compliment, but I know otherwise. I see what it is, you’re bamming me again. I wish you would not! We should lock your father and my mother away somewhere together, and they could cut up at each other, and leave the both of us in peace.” They had arrived at the carriage, where Tony’s mama waited. He handed Maddie inside and climbed in himself, knocked on the carriage roof to instruct the coachman to move on.

Lady Georgiana bore a marked resemblance to her son, despite her person being more slender, her hair darker, and her complexion freckle-free. She was all exhausted elegance in a lilac silk gown, a sheer embroidered muslin scarf draped around her shoulders, and a charming lace cap perched atop her curls. “Good evening, my dear,” she said, as Maddie settled beside her on the carriage seat. “How well you look. Tony! Have you told Madalyn how well she looks tonight?”

Tony flushed. “Of course I did! Top of the trees! First rate! But I have to say, those stripes ain’t the thing.”

Maddie was aware, even without her father’s scolding, that ribbons and stripes did not suit her figure. “I like stripes,” she said.

“Yes, and I like cherry tarts!” retorted Tony. “Which don’t mean I should eat them for every meal.”

“Son!” moaned Lady Georgiana. “Pray try not to be a cabbage-head.”     

Before the viscount could respond in kind, Maddie smiled at his mama. “It is good of you to invite me to accompany you tonight.”

Lady Georgiana patted her hand. “Nothing of the sort! We must not permit you to withdraw from society.
You
are hardly at fault for the gossips puffing it around that you were to marry Earl Dorset. Scant wonder the poor man ran off to Gretna Green.”

Not deserving to be the subject of gossip did not lessen the embarrassment of it, reflected Maddie. The most embarrassing thing about this particular rumor was that it was unanimously held to be absurd.

Tony left off contemplating his cherry tart consumption, which had increased so alarmingly since his recent retirement from games of chance that he had been inspired to acquaint himself with corset design. Thus far he had studied long stays, short stays, a ‘pregnant stay’ which enveloped the body from the shoulders to below the hips, and various other devices designed to ‘repress that fullness which some ladies (and gentlemen) find inconvenient in the present state of dress.’ “I say—”

“Must you?” his mama inquired.

“Yes, I must!” said Tony. “You may rip up at me all you want, though I’d prefer you didn’t, not that
that
will signify, but for you to poke at Maddie goes beyond the line.
She
ain’t related to you, so you’ve no call to be unkind.”

“
Poke?”
Lady Georgiana fumbled for her smelling-salts. “As if I would!”

“Gammon! You said Dorset sloped off because of Maddie, and it was no such thing.”

Maddie had grown accustomed to the viscount’s means of interaction with his mama. Since she neither cared to join in the hostilities nor had a hope of halting them, she withheld comment.

Lady Georgiana misunderstood Maddie’s silence. “I did not mean to suggest you are responsible for the earl’s elopement. How could you be? You barely knew the man.” She continued in this vein until they arrived at their destination, a classical brick house in Wimpole Street.

As they descended from the carriage, Lady Georgiana grasped Maddie’s elbow and whispered in her ear. “It must be clear to a fond mama —  which everyone knows I am! —  that Tony’s affections are on the verge of being fixed. And so I am going to offer you some advice: gentlemen resemble horses in that they can be led to water, but must be given a little
encouragement
before they condescend to imbibe.” Maddie glanced at Tony, who looked less like a lovesick swain than a felon faced with the hangman’s noose. His fond mama approached their hostess, who stood waiting at the top of the stair, and made a pretense of kissing that lady’s cheek. “Beatrice, allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Tate. She is my son’s dear,
dear
friend. Madalyn, meet Mrs. Denny, wife of our cousin Corbin. Ah! There is poor dear Hannah. I must speak with her.” The lady in question wore a black gown and a sour expression. Upon glimpsing Lady Georgiana, she whisked herself out of the hallway.

Beatrice, Mrs. Denny, was a slender, honey-haired woman. An amused twinkle lit her hazel eyes. “I am pleased you were able to attend our little gathering, Mrs. Tate. I’m told you have an enchanting voice. I hope we may induce you to sing.” She turned to the viscount. “And were
you
to perform for us, your mama would be would be torn between deploring your musical ability as ungentlemanly and wishing to claim the credit for your talent herself.”

Tony brightened. Mrs. Denny patted his cheek. “Just so. Now try and enjoy yourselves.” She drifted off to speak with her other guests.

“I like Cousin Bea,” said Tony. “Maman don’t, especially. She says it’s a pity Angel is the beauty of that family. Not that she likes
him,
either. Sometimes I think Maman don’t like anyone. Excepting you, that is. Which I understand, because I like you myself, but—  Don’t mind dangling at your slipper-strings, I swear I don’t, but as for stepping into parson’s mousetrap, I’d sooner slice my own throat.”

“Throat-cutting is so final,” protested Maddie. “Surely it would be simpler to chew off your foot.” The viscount stared at her with horror. “Never mind,” she soothed. “It will not come to that.”

An archway opened into an elegant drawing-room where the evening’s musical entertainment was underway. As a damsel rose from the pianoforte, her cheeks pink with pleasure at the applause, Maddie settled into a chair. She loved music in its various guises, including amateur performances such as these. Tony sat down beside her, looking glum.

The program was varied. Beethoven, Mozart, Haydn; selections from Corissimi, Scarlatti, and Gluck; all executed with varying degrees of success by a series of earnest young women who believed they might ensnare a bridegroom with the lure of musical proficiency. Maddie had never sung to Mr. Tate. He would have called her lunatic.

Perhaps she was. Maddie recalled a certain masked cavalier. What did it say of her that she could enjoy a stranger’s kisses after having witnessed violence being done?

Could the desire for kisses be a natural reaction to witnessing such things?

If she
had
witnessed violence, and not a piece of exceptionally realistic playacting, in which case one had to wonder: to what end?

Would the pharaoh recognize her, should they meet again? Would she recognize him?

Was he among the guests tonight?

An unwise attempt at an aria from
The Marriage of Figaro
roused Maddie from her reflections. The soprano was wishing love might provide her comfort. Tony looked fit to leap out of his chair.

I am sure of nothing so little as my own intentions. 
—Lord Byron

If it would not be altogether correct to claim that Mr. Jarrow had forgotten the Burlington House
bal masque
, the business had not much exercised his mind. Numerous more urgent matters demanded his attention, and his time. Angel was rich almost as Croesus, a fascination with inventions and investments and scientific progress having enabled him to increase a respectable fortune fifty-fold. His legendary laziness did not extend to affairs of business and finance. Nor did it allow him to ignore familial obligations, and so he set out.

London might be less crowded than before the decampment of the Allied Sovereigns, but even as they departed Wellington had returned to make his first appearance in the House of Lords, which did nothing to ease congestion in the streets. Marshal Blücher of Prussia and Count Platoff, Hetman of the Cossacks, had remained behind when their respective sovereigns set sail, and a sighting of any one of these three was enough to bring traffic to a halt.

Since none of those dignitaries were present in the vicinity of Wimpole Street tonight, Angel arrived without mishap at his sister’s house. The strains of Beethoven’s Sonata #8 in C Minor, the
Pathetique,
as adapted for the harp, drifted out into the street.

“Tony,” explained Beatrice as she kissed her brother’s cheek. “I begged him to salvage the evening before my guests made their excuses and fled. That last poor child should never have attempted something so ambitious. Or so unsuitable! I hold her mother to blame.”

The viscount moved on to
Quasi una fantasia
, ‘Almost a Fantasy’, which reminded Angel of moonlight reflecting off a lake. “Isabella isn’t here?” he asked.

“No, you goose! I warned her away. You had much better settle this business between the two of you, you know.”

So he should. Angel wished he could. “Poor Bea, you are caught between us, are you not?”

Mr. Jarrow’s arrival in his sister’s drawing room caused a ripple of reaction, for the gentleman adored the ladies, individually, plurally, in their various phases and permutations, and the not-so-ladylike as well; and the ladies and the not-so-ladylike doted on him in return. Angel was generous and charming, his sense of humor irrepressible; he didn’t turn ill-tempered if a jealous mistress flung breakable objects at his head. Consequently, his legion of ex-lovers bore him no ill-will even after his fickle affection faded and he flitted (as one jilted ladylove had put it) like a seraph from cloud to cloud. Only Angel’s estranged wife was so uncharitable as to proclaim he had the attention span of a gnat.

He murmured a greeting to this person, and another; spoke briefly with Lady Georgiana; managed to wrest the glimmer of a smile from the most critical of his sister’s guests. Tony moved from the harp to the piano. A dark-haired female wearing an unfortunate combination of green stripes and white ribbons stood up and began to sing.

“Well met, well met, my own true love    

Well met, well met, cried he

I’ve just returned from the salt, salt sea

And it’s all for the love of thee.”

She might have chosen to showcase her sumptuous sensual voice with a complex sophisticated piece, but instead had selected a simple —  some might have said unsuitable —  song and with it held her audience entranced.

Angel’s toes curled in his evening shoes. “Diana,” he breathed.

“Madalyn Tate,” his sister responded. “As you would know if you paid the slightest attention to respectable females. Mrs. Tate is a widow with two young sons and a political papa. Lady Georgiana claims she is Tony’s ‘dear,
dear
friend,’ but I’ll wager that horse won’t fly.”

Angel didn’t bother pointing out that horses, in general, weren’t prone to levitation. “Why not?”

“I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I know you weren’t. I recall the occasion. Nasty squally brat you were. Thank God you improved with time.”

Beatrice pinched his arm. “You haven’t! Now hush.”

Angel said no more, content to listen and watch. Madalyn Tate had the voice of the celestial being he was not, and it affected him more powerfully than the most explicit suggestion ever whispered in his ear.

She had progressed from demon lovers to gypsy laddies.

 “ ‘
What hills, what hills are those, my love

 That are so dark and low?’

 Those are the hills of Hell, my love

 Where you and I must go.”

 “Mrs. Tate will sing for her supper, but she insists on ballads,” explained Bea.

Applause followed the performance, and an intermission. Guests flocked round Mrs. Tate, who appeared uncomfortable with so much attention. “Introduce me,” Angel said.

Beatrice slipped her arm through his. “The lady is hardly in your style. You needn’t frown. I am your sister and therefore obliged to say these things.”

“I am your older brother,” replied Angel. “And can still turn you over my knee.”

She twinkled at him. “Denny would hardly permit that.”

“And where is your estimable husband tonight?”

The twinkle faded. “He regrets that he could not be here.”

Angel regretted that his sister had married Corbin Denny. “You malign me, Bea. I do not attempt to seduce every
female who crosses my path.”

 “No, merely the majority of them. Very well, I will provide your introduction. You may ingratiate yourself with Mrs. Tate by bringing her a lemonade.”

Angel refrained from remarking on either his sister’s errant spouse or her erroneous assumption that he needed to impress young women by fetching them beverages.

This young woman’s back was to them. If her gown failed to flatter her shapely person, her dark hair was attractively arranged, twisted up behind in a chignon that revealed her graceful shoulders and the slender column of her neck.

“
Brava!”
applauded Beatrice. “Mrs. Tate, I have now heard the music of the spheres. Permit me to make known to you my brother, Mr. Angelo Jarrow. Since singing is thirsty work, he has brought you lemonade.” Mrs. Tate turned toward them, granting Angel his first clear glimpse of her face, which was both ordinary and extraordinary, though he could not have explained why it struck him that way. Upon her first clear glimpse of
his
face, she looked horrified.

Had it come to this? he wondered. Had he become a figure of such mythic reputation that a young woman blanched corpse-white at sight of him?

Or at the realization she had kissed him? Angel snatched back the glass before she could spill lemonade down his waistcoat. “You have a glorious voice, Mrs. Tate. Unforgettable, in fact.”

She gaped at him as if he were a genie who’d popped out of the piano. Looking amused, Beatrice shepherded her other guests toward the room where refreshments were being served.

Angel positioned himself between his quarry and the doorway, handed her the glass. “Fate has conspired for our paths to cross again, ‘o goddess excellently bright’. I daresay you didn’t expect to find me here.
I
didn’t expect to be here, but my sister commanded me to attend. I am grateful to her. Otherwise, I would not have heard you sing.”

The lady glanced around them. “You are mistaken. We’ve not met before.”

 This plump little wren with the voice of a nightingale didn’t care to claim him? Angel found himself intrigued. “Too little too late, my goddess. I recognized you straightaway. You have an especially fine earlobe. Not to mention that prim little mouth.”

“Prim?”

“Prim
and
disapproving. Do you really wish to turn me into a stag so I may be eaten by my own hounds?”

“What I wish is that you would stop this nonsense!” Mrs. Tate hissed.

“So much for my pretensions.” Angel was enjoying himself, to his admitted discredit, but after all he was a rogue and what else could one expect? “I daresay you’ve forgotten. That would explain why you haven’t apologized.”

“Apologized?”

“First you almost knocked me down and, when I had begun to recover from the shock, you practically ravished
me, ma’am.”

“I—”

Angel took her glass from her and set it aside, but retained possession of her hand. “Never think I minded! You may ravish me again whenever you like. Although if you don’t mind, we might skip the almost-knocking-me-down bit first.”

Mrs. Tate said, with feeling, “You are the
most
outrageous man!”

“I am, I admit it.” Angel leaned closer. “And then there is the peppermint.”

“Peppermint? Oh!” She removed her hand from his. “My sons are fond of peppermint. I said goodnight to them before I left.”

Sons? Ah, yes. Bea had mentioned something of the sort. Angel was accustomed to widows, but unsure how he felt about widows with offspring.

Nevertheless, he persevered. “I understand. Some temptations are too tantalizing to be withstood. Do you care to know what tempts me, Mrs. Tate?”

“I am certain I do not!”

“A pity. You would have liked it, I think.”

He expected to see her splendid bosom swell with indignation, but she surprised him with a chuckle. “
Y
ou are determined to unsettle me. I wonder why that is.”

 “Unfair! It is not I who am unsettling. You
did
kiss me, if you will recall. Were you toying with me? Cruel Diana! To first engage my heart and then throw me to the hounds.”

She regarded him with irony. “I doubt your heart was engaged.”

“Well, something certainly was!” He smiled to see her blush. “I am unkind to tease you. And I am monopolizing you as well when others are waiting to compliment your voice. I hope I may soon claim the privilege of speaking with you again. ” He bowed and moved away.