“That is my point.” The viscount’s fond parent glared at him. “I told you Angel Jarrow would ruin Maddie, but did you listen? You did not.”
Tony thought it might not be a bad thing if Angel did render Maddie unmarriageable. If Maddie became unmarriageable, his mama would stop insisting that Tony marry her.
Or maybe Maman wouldn’t. Maybe she’d insist that Tony play the knight errant and rescue the damsel in distress.
Lady Georgiana wrinkled her nose. “What’s that scent? Patchouli? Have you taken to wearing perfume?”
What was wrong with patchouli? Tony liked the smell. Patchouli was an excellent antidote for venomous snakebites and warded off moths as well.
Alas, it did not ward off venomous mamas. “How,” demanded Lady Georgiana, “did I give birth to so unnatural a son?” Without waiting for an answer, she returned to the topic of rogues leading innocent young women up the garden path.
“Where else would he lead her?” inquired Tony, returning to the fray. “They’ve gone into the garden. Naturally there will be paths.”
“I didn’t mean that sort of path, you ninny!”
“If there’s another sort of path, I wish you’d tell me what it is.” Tony had the satisfaction of hearing his mama grind her teeth. “Beside, Maddie ain’t all that young. She’s six-and-twenty if she’s a day. For that matter, I don’t know how innocent she is.”
His mama looked astonished. Tony flushed. “That’s not what I meant! I ain’t—”
“I don’t want to know what you are not!” interrupted Lady Georgiana. “Madalyn has been married and widowed and therefore should know better than to allow herself to be drawn into a clandestine liaison.”
Tony had a notion that young widows were prone to allow just that. “You can’t be sure Maddie is liaising,” he protested.
“If she isn’t, she will be! Mark my words.”
Tony’s mama sounded like, given half a chance, she would liaise with Angel herself, which wasn’t a notion a fellow liked to dwell upon. Before Tony could share this opinion with her, Lady Georgiana reached out and snagged the arm of the nearest passing guest. This happened to be Louise Holloway, who had been scheming how best to escape the brother who was sticking as close as a court-plaster, at the moment hovering by the elbow Lady Georgiana hadn’t clutched.
“My dear,” cooed Lady Georgiana, after they had exchanged greetings. “What a charming gown! Or it would be, had you chosen another color. Redheads shouldn’t wear coquelicot.”
Louise curled her lip. “My hair is russet, not red.”
Lady Georgiana tutted. “You may call a persimmon a potato but it remains a persimmon all the same. That combination of copper hair and poppy red must draw every eye. Or perhaps that was your intention, in which case it has worked well. What do you know about this corpse found at St. Paul’s? I am appalled. Bodies lying about in graveyards — it simply is not done!”
Since his mama was of the opposite opinion, Tony decided that Louise looked splendid in poppy red. “Why not? Seems to me that graveyards are where bodies belong.”
Lady Georgiana’s brows drew downward. “Buried properly belowground!”
Louise attempted to remove her arm from Lady Georgiana’s grasp. “Isn’t Maddie with you?”
“She’s gone with Angel into the gardens,” explained Tony. “Maman says his intentions are dishonorable.”
Lady Georgiana did release Louise then, so that she might pinch her son. “I said no such thing!”
“Beg pardon. I must have mistook what you’ve been nattering about the past half hour.”
Jordan Rhodes had been quietly enjoying this exchange. Now he said, “Maddie’s gone into the garden? I’ll fetch her back.”
“No! Tony will fetch her.” Lady Georgiana gave her son an ungentle shove. “Don’t stand there gaping like a gaby. Shoo!”
With as much dignity as he could muster, Tony escaped to the terrace. Next thing he knew, Maman would have him challenging Angel to a duel, no matter that Angel was a crack shot while Tony was not. He would fight a duel, and get a bullet in him, and die a painful prolonged death. Then Maman might regret not having appreciated him all these years.
More probably, she would not.
In any event, he wasn’t anxious to get shot.
Tony wasn’t anxious to get married either. Unfortunately, his not wanting something had made no difference thus far in the overall scheme of things.
He walked down the steps into the gardens, chose a random graveled path. The bushes beside him rustled, and he jumped. It was a small animal, Tony soothed himself. Or someone who had stolen away from the drawing-rooms to agitate the shrubbery, in which case they were as beetle-headed as his mama claimed he was.
“Hah!” he said aloud. This so excellently expressed his feelings that he said it again. As he did so, a young woman burst out of the bushes in front of him.
Tony caught her by the shoulders before she could bowl him over. “Oof!” she wheezed.
The skin beneath his hands was warm and smooth and porcelain-perfect, draped in diaphanous muslin worn in the French style over flesh-colored tights. Dampened petticoats made the gown cling to every dip and curve. Tony wondered if he should warn this young woman that mere months earlier the Empress Josephine had died of the muslin disease, after strolling in a similarly moist condition with Czar Alexander in the gardens of Malmaison.
“You aren’t Angel,” the young woman announced, in disappointed tones.
Tony was flattered that anyone should even for a moment mistake him for Angel. “There may be a faint resemblance,” he suggested modestly. “I’m Ashcroft.”
The young woman dimpled at him. “And I am the Contessa DeLuca. Are you searching for Angel, too?”
The Contessa DeLuca? Tony raised his gaze from the yards of dampened muslin to its wearer’s face. Chestnut hair, pouting lips, big blue eyes—
Here was a pretty pickle. Tony could hardly tell Angel’s mistress that he’d been sent to rescue another female from her protector’s clutches. “No. Why should I? Don’t like strolling about in gardens. Don’t even like gardens, if you want the truth. Thing is, Angel’s well enough — some would say better than well enough — but he ain’t to my taste.” Had he insulted his companion? Hastily, Tony added, “But I can see how he might be to yours!”
“I’m not sure he is.” The contessa leaned closer, and sniffed. “Patchouli? How nice. Blended with several other fragrances, I believe. Did you procure it from Floris in Jermyn Street, or Harris in St. James’s?”
“Floris.” Tony was impressed by his companion’s clever nose. “I prefer Harris for shaving supplies and soaps and creams.” The contessa confessed that she liked Harris for her flower water. She slipped her arm through his and they continued down the path.
Tony asked if she wasn’t cold, the rectangular silk gauze shawl draped over her elbows incapable of providing much warmth. The contessa confided that she had recently purchased a satin-lined opera cloak of cherry-red velvet, braided and ruched, but had not brought it tonight. Tony in turn described his own newly-acquired top coat of tan broadcloth with a collar of gold velvet. They discovered a shared unfavorable opinion of mamaluke sleeves; and agreed that whereas Lady Rutherford dressed her age, Tony’s mama dressed rather less.
It occurred to Tony that he was strolling through the garden with a female of dubious morals. He wasn’t sure how he should address her. He wasn’t sure he should address her at all, lest she take it into her head that he was offering her a slip on the shoulder, which he definitely was not, lovely shoulders though they were. As was the rest of her, from the kid slippers on her slender feet to the intricate arrangement of her curls. One didn’t achieve that degree of perfection without effort, as Tony knew from the hours he spent in front of his own looking-glass.
And even if he were of an inclination to go about shoulder-slipping, which of course he wasn’t, such a perfect creature could only laugh at him. Or call him a cork-brained mooncalf. Tony lapsed int
o silence, feeling ill-used.
Daphne stole a sideways glance at her companion. She had no fondness for the company of her own thoughts. As result of Angel’s recent coolness, she had quarreled again with her husband. Forever short of funds, the conte had no intention of allowing so rich a prize to escape his net.
No more did Isabella. It was all well and good to talk about being more adventurous in the bedchamber, but Daphne didn’t know how much more adventurous she could get without damaging herself. Next she’d be dressing like a dairy maid and tempting Angel to act the randy bull.
Not long ago, the prospect might have filled her with anticipation. It did not do so now.
However, her prospects were improving, a viscount in the hand being worth any number of disobliging angels flitting around the bush.
Daphne liked Mrs. Bell in King Street for her gypsy hats and bonnets and ladies Chapeau Bras, she informed Tony, as if their conversation had never lapsed. Tony in turn praised Lock’s for men’s hats; and spoke well of Mr. John Weston in Bond Street for gentlemen’s attire. Daphne confided that, while her favorite modiste was Mme Devy in Grafton Street, she preferred Mrs. Duval in Bond Street for her tippets, and Mrs. Shabner in Tavistock Street for equestrian wear.
Talk of Tavistock Street, located as it was near Covent Garden, put them both in mind of the corpse recently discovered in the churchyard of St. Paul’s.
The contessa shivered and drew closer to the viscount. She was a small woman and the top of her head didn’t reach his chin. Feeling protective, he bent to pat her hand. His corset protested. Tony flinched.
“I creaked,” he confessed. “As you must have heard. Truth is, I’m designing a corset for gentlemen, and haven’t perfected the design. Maman says if I exercised a little self-control I wouldn’t need a corset. But when times are trying, nothing lifts the spirits like a cherry tart.”
“I know what you mean!” sympathized Daphne. “The conte tells me that if I don’t stop eating marzipan I shall grow odiously plump.”
Tony was astonished. Impossible that the lady standing before him could ever grow fat. “Tell you what, this conte of yours sounds like a loose fish.”
Daphne sniffled. “I’m afraid he is.”
Tony felt the need to offer further consolation. Even — startling notion — to draw the contessa into his arms. He wasn’t accustomed to consoling ladies, but beside him stood no lady, and he suspected she wouldn’t be averse. As he was considering how to go about the business — one didn’t just grab a female, surely; more finesse must be involved — footsteps sounded on the gravel path. The contessa stepped back into the shrubbery, drawing him with her, as Mrs. Tate came into view.
Tony held very still. He’d told Maddie she should have nothing to do with the contessa, and here he was doing something — what, he wasn’t certain — with her himself. As Maddie passed by them, he noticed the queer expression on her face.
Daphne recognized that expression, and had no doubt as to its source. “I’ll leave you now,” she murmured, and slipped down the pathway along which Mrs. Tate had come.
Chapter Twenty-Five
What peaceful hours I once enjoyed! How sweet their memory still. —William Cowper
As might have been expected, the identity of the corpse discovered in St. Paul’s churchyard found its way into the newssheets. Fanny Arbuthnot’s presence at the Burlington House bal masque was mentioned, and the circumstance that she had been an intimate of Princess Caroline and consequently unloved by the princess’s spouse. If the publishers were too prudent to further slander their Regent, the readers were less circumspect. Before long London hummed with speculation that Prinny had at the least known of this nasty business, may have had a hand in it, or at the worst (or best, depending upon one’s political allegiance), committed the foul deed himself. All this conjecturing resulted in renewed sympathy for Princess Caroline, who had lost a confidante, and renewed curiosity also, which led the princess to comment that she didn’t know who plagued her more, her enemies or her friends.
There was much political maneuvering afoot, even more than usual, which was saying a great deal, politicians being prone to preen and posture and make use of every opportunity to pontificate that came their way; and if opportunity did not come along in a timely manner, to manufacture it wholesale. The Whigs had the upper hand at the moment, the British public not having been allowed to forget that Prinny was still keeping his uncooperative daughter under close watch.
A few people recalled the missing actress, Verity Vaughan. Since no one could figure how to use her disappearance to advantage, not much was made of this.
Sir Owen tapped his fingers on the desk. His fellow Whigs might be satisfied with the way matters had fallen out (with the exception of those who held some fondness for the deceased Fanny Arbuthnot), but Sir Owen was not. Any pleasure he might derive from Prinny being made to seem even more heartless than usual was offset by his awareness of certain missing documents, and his concern for where those documents had got to now.
What’s more, Sir Owen was displeased with his daughter, currently seated before him in his study and looking as guilty as if she’d taken up stealing secret correspondence and sneaking around dressed as a man.
He picked up a broadsheet from his desk. “‘One cannot but wonder how A— J—’s wife must feel about his newly developed habit of disappearing into darkened gardens with M— T—.’ And how do you explain this?”
Maddie shuddered to imagine what might result if her father learned the details of those expeditions. “The gardens were hardly dark. Mr. Jarrow wanted to talk about the dog.”
“That dog!” said Sir Owen with loathing. The canine’s champion was wearing another unflattering dress, this one cream muslin with alternating stripes of orange and blue. Her hair curled as wildly as if it had never met a brush, and dark shadows lurked beneath her eyes. “Damned if I can see it,” he muttered.
Maddie fought an urge to fidget. “See what, sir?”
“Maitland. Ashcroft. Rhodes. Why the deuce are so many gentlemen dangling after you?”
Because she had fallen into the habit of exploring darkened gardens with Angel Jarrow, of course. Maddie nurtured no illusions regarding her newfound popularity. She did not share this explanation with her sire.
Sir Owen tossed aside the broadsheet. “Why do you look so queer? Are you taking ill?”
Maddie didn’t bother making an excuse. Her father wouldn’t listen, anyway. “That poor woman. Fanny Arbuthnot. What happened to her, have you heard? Why was her body left at St. Paul’s?”
“I’ve not the faintest notion,” Sir Owen said, with rare honesty. He had given himself a headache pondering the significance of the corpse being discovered where it was. St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, was Inigo Jones’s response to the Earl of Bedford’s request for a simple church ‘not much better than a barn’. The church had a long association with the theater, due to the proximity of the Royal Opera House and the Theater Royal. The first performance of the ‘Italian puppet play’, featuring Punchinello, had taken place under the portico.
Was Fanny Arbuthnot in the nature of a puppet? Was there significance in the fact that her body had been draped across the grave of Edward ‘Ned’ Kynaston, a popular Restoration actor who specialized in playing female roles, including Desdemona, who disappointed her father, eloped with a Moor, and was murdered by her estranged spouse?
So far as Sir Owen knew, Fanny lacked a spouse. He couldn’t speak as to the Moor.
Was the discovery of her body linked to the hustings, and the re-election of Cochrane?
“As to what happened to her,” Sir Owen added, “I’ve heard her throat was slashed, or her body mutilated, or her head bashed in. You may take your pick.” A father concerned for his daughter’s sensibilities might not be so blunt, but he had never been one for mollycoddling, and saw no reason to start now.
A footman entered the room, bearing a pasteboard card on a silver tray. He presented the tray to Maddi
e. She glanced at the card. “Inform Mr. Rhodes that I will join him in a few moments,” she said, and rose. Deprived of his daughter, Sir Owen picked up his pen and set out to compose a scathing denunciation of the current government, to be published in the Morning Chronicle under the pseudonym ‘Arion’.
Outside in the hallway, Maddie collected Lappy, whose leash she’d left wound around a sturdy table-leg. The dog greeted her with what might have been canine concern, but was more likely curiosity about when he might next be allowed to chase a cow. He’d been banished from the schoolroom, so that the twins might concentrate on ‘An Account of the Oxidation of Silver by the Hindoos by means of vegetable substances with some observations on the milk of plants’.
She should ask if Louise had known Fanny Arbuthnot. She would ask Louise when next given the chance. Maddie entered the drawing room, Lappy at her side.
Jordan Rhodes stood by the hearth. Today he wore a dark blue coat, similarly colored waistcoat with a paler stripe, fawn colored pantaloons and Hessian boots.
Lappy ambled across the room to inspect those boots, was rebuffed, and stretched out on the hearth. “Louise isn’t with you?” Maddie asked.
Jordan grinned. “I left Louise playing cribbage with Great-Aunt Mathilda. She isn’t happy with me. Great-Aunt Mathilda cheats.”
Maddie felt as if she too was cheating. “Does Louise know why you are pretending to admire me?”
“Anything that Louise knows, the rest of the world knows also.” Jordan walked toward her. “This ruse won’t fool anyone for long. It is no secret that matrimony plays no part in my plans.”
“I wouldn’t have you if you did want me,” Maddie retorted, her pride stung. “I only need stall Sir Owen until the boys are in school and out of his reach.”
Jordan hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings. The truth was that he found polite society dull and was eager to see his business, and his sister, settled as soon as possible, so he could escape.
But first, his childhood friend needed to be taught a lesson. He tucked a finger under Maddie’s chin and tilted up her face. “I didn’t say I didn’t want you. How far are you prepared to go with this mock courtship? Shall I steal a kiss, since we are — shockingly — alone?”
The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy) Page 13