The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy)

by Maggie MacKeever

  Kane gestured to the folded newspaper lying beside him on the seat. “You are not capable of being in two places at the same time.”

  With an unpleasant premonition, Angel unfolded the Post. Surely Maddie had not—

  But she had, the Post informed him, and in far more detail than Angel deemed seemly. While he was doing his damnedest to save her reputation, she’d shredded it instead.

  He folded the newspaper, and tossed it on the seat. “She makes it sound as if we enjoyed a lover’s tryst. It was nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh?” inquired Kane. “You didn’t—”

  “No.”

  “I see. She didn’t wish to?”

  Angel gave his friend a look.

  “You expect me to believe you didn’t wish to?” Kane said skeptically.

  “Of course I wished to. But at the last moment I developed scruples — damned odd in me, I admit — and decided I would not. Then temptation overcame me, and I would have done, but she wouldn’t let me, though I know damned well she wished to as much as I. Don’t smirk; it doesn’t suit you. Nor need you point out that these things happen when a man goes around kissing Dianas. This paper is several days old. What took you so long?”

  “I was in no position to take the lady’s word.” Or anybody else’s, reflected Kane. “And there were other revelations to deal with as well. It turns out that Princess Caroline came into possession of those damned documents during the invasion of the Allied Sovereigns. She was in alt until one of her servants, acting for the Whigs, stole the documents from her. They were next given to Sir Owen Osborne for safekeeping. Fanny Arbuthnot in turn stole the documents from him. The two of them were, let us say, engaged in an amour.”

  “Let us not say so!” Angel begged. “My imagination is already over-taxed.”

  “Fanny must have pilfered the papers on Caroline’s behalf and then decided to use them herself. As to how she learned they were in Sir Owen’s possession, the Whigs are no more capable of keeping secrets than anyone else. You may be interested to learn I received this intelligence from Jordan Rhodes. What with one thing and another, you may want to throttle him. Mr. Rhodes is on his way back to India, with the divine Daphne in tow.”

  Angel gave Daphne his blessing. He was not feeling so charitable toward Mrs. Tate. “Confound it! There was no need for Maddie to broadcast our business to the world.”

  “There was every need,” said Kane. “You stood in serious peril of standing your trial for murder, and Mrs. Tate stood in serious peril of being bullied into another politically expedient marriage. She managed to prevent both things with one simple act.” He paused, quietly added, “You might have trusted me.”

  Might he? Angel was not so certain. Politics, as Shakespeare had observed, made for strange bedmates. “It wasn’t a matter of trust. I was trying to do the right thing.”

  Kane snorted. “Maybe if you had been in the habit of behaving honorably, you might not have botched the attempt.”

  Angel couldn’t argue. “You’re keeping watch on her?”

  “I was. Until she packed up and left town.”

  Chapter Forty

  Curses are like young chickens, they always come home to roost. —Robert Southey

  Meadowmount lay not far from Bourton-on-the-Water, near the River Windrush in the Cotswold district of Gloucestershire. If not grand enough to boast hot-houses or a Chinese garden or even a folly, the Tate family estate was still of impressive size. Fashioned from yellow Cotswold stone, the manor house possessed projecting gables, mullioned windows and stone hoodmolds over the doors, and was surrounded by pretty lawns and stately beech trees.

  Life at Meadowmount had, with the return of Mrs. Tate and her sons, settled back into its usual routine. The boys were busy with their studies and their rural expeditions, and Lappy with new vistas to explore. Viscount Ashcroft was in residence also, having abandoned Lady Georgiana to her hartshorn and vinaigrette, both of which had been required, along with burnt feathers, when he informed her that he intended to spend some time rusticating in company with the young woman she had recently been determined to thrust into his arms, before Mrs. Tate had shown herself so lost to propriety as to tryst with Angel Jarrow in a Covent Garden tavern, and one could only guess what else. Tony had argued that, no matter what the gossips said, Mrs. Tate and Angel alone knew the truth of that rendezvous, which was as it should be because it was no one’s business but their own; and furthermore, the world would be a better place if fewer people nattered on about things that were none of their affair. Lady Georgiana informed her son he had no more brains than a beetle; Tony informed his mama she was like one of those nasty insects that devoured its own young. Lady Georgiana had threatened to have a spasm and vowed he would be sorry for his heartless behavior when, as a result, she turned up her toes. Tony had promised to provide her a fine funeral, snatched up his hat and stalked out of the house.

  This morning found the family, along with the boys’ tutor and Viscount Ashcroft, gathered in the breakfast room. Lappy was stretched out under the table, sulking because he hadn’t been invited to join in his companions’ feast of potted beef and partridge, cold fowl and ham.

  “Clearly she didn’t have a spasm,” continued Tony. “Or if she did, she is enough recovered to be scribbling letters about wrong-headed sons deserting her in her hour of need, and begging that I behave like a gentleman at all times lest my intentions be mistook — and why she should think I wouldn’t behave like a gentleman, I don’t know, because ain’t I one born and bred? Tell you what it is, Maman requires someone to rake over the coals on a daily basis, and I’m tired of that someone being me.”

  “Hire a companion for her,” suggested Maddie, who was as grateful for Tony’s company as she was weary of his conversation. “You must have some impoverished relative who would be willing to tolerate Lady Georgiana’s megrims in exchange for fresh food on the table and a warm place to sleep.”

  Tony chewed over this suggestion. Maddie was as clear-thinking as any female, he reminded himself, except in certain recent instances that no gentleman should mention, when she most definitely had not been.

  He squinted at his mama’s latest letter. “Maman claims it ain’t proper for me to be staying here. She has much to say about spoilt reputations. I ain’t sure if she means yours or mine. But since you’ve already made a byword of yourself, I don’t see why it should make a difference whether I stay here or not. Just so long as— ” Tony broke off, realizing he’d mentioned what he’d decided he should not.

  Matthew, meantime, was explaining the earliest evidence of human activity near Bourton-on-the-Water. “Neolithic pottery was d-discovered in the Slaughter B-Bridge gravel spread,” he stated, and went on to explain what the Neolithic period was, and when it had been. Tony wondered if Matthew might be persuaded to bear-lead Lady Georgiana, thereby causing her to realize she wasn’t awake on every suit, though she’d poke out her own eye before she admitted such a thing; but quickly abandoned the idea. He admired Matthew too much to wish on him a fate worse than death by dismemberment, no matter that he didn’t understand half of what the tutor said.

  The viscount did not admire his mama, nor did he miss her one iota. He did miss his music. “You don’t even have a pianoforte,” Tony complained.

  “Oh, but we do,” Maddie assured him. “Stored in the attics with various other instruments. Mr. Tate was not musical.” Mention of the attics sparked a general curiosity. The breakfast party trooped off, Matthew still speaking of ancient pottery and coins found in the village, Lappy trailing behind.

  Maddie remained at the breakfast table. With an idle finger, she nudged the salt cellar and sugar pot in more pleasing proximity to a vase formed like a rabbit carrying a pot on its back. By means of the newspapers, she contrived to keep current with what was happening in London, and therefore was aware that no further murders had been committed, or at least no bodies had come to light. Princess Caroline had departed Worthing on the frigate Jason. Lord
Cochrane had been ousted from the order of the Bath, his banner kicked down the steps.

  Isabella Jarrow’s funeral merited several inches of newsprint. A great many members of the ton had accompanied the hearse and mourning coach to the family mausoleum, after which they refreshed themselves with burnt wine and Savoy biscuits and were given additional biscuits to take home, these wrapped in paper printed on one side with appropriate verses and illustrated with a skull and an hourglass, and secured on the other side with black sealing-wax. With unprecedented prudence, the newssheets made no mention of Mrs. Jarrow’s tendency to disport herself with husbands other than her own.

  Scour the newsprint as she might, until her vision blurred and her hands were black with ink, Maddie found no mention of Angel Jarrow beyond the simple statement that he had been released from gaol. For what may have been the thousandth time, she recalled when she had first kissed him, or he kissed her, or they kissed each other, at the Burlington House bal masque. After she abandoned Tony, and encountered an inebriated Elizabethan courtier, and Henry VIII had flung an arm around her shoulders and—

  Maddie straightened so abruptly that she knocked the rabbit on its ear. Flowers and water splashed on the table, dribbled to the floor. Ignoring the mess, she shoved back her chair, hurried down the hall, the stairs, through the kitchens and across the courtyard to the coach house, where a friendly chicken known to the family as Clara Cluck met her at the door. Maddie hurried to the tack room, a large stone-paved chamber where carriage parts and harness and other miscellaneous items were stored. The coach house was empty of servants at this hour.

  She threw open the shutters. Daylight streaked through the large rectangular windows, illuminated the far corner of the room, and her travelling trunk.

  Maddie threaded her way around bits and bridles, cruppers and girths, traces and shafts, an upright wagon wheel. She dragged the trunk out into the room and raised the lid. Clara perched on the wagon wheel and watched as Maddie unpacked chiton and girdle, sandals, blonde wig. “Yes, I went out in public dressed like that,” Maddie informed her. “Mr. Tate would have been appalled.” Clara fluffed her feathers. She knew more about her mistress’s travails with the late Mr. Tate than any chicken should.

  At the bottom of the trunk, Maddie found the quiver. She pulled out the arrows, reached inside; rocked back on her heels, staring at the papers in her hand.

  “I’ll have those, if you please,” said a voice behind her. Maddie glanced over her shoulder. A tall dark-haired man blocked the doorway.

  She recognized him immediately, though she didn’t know him at all. The man’s gaze was fixed unwavering on her. His eyes were cold as death. Slowly, she rose to her feet.

  Ironic, reflected Horus, that so insignificant a female had caused him such monumental problems. A pity he must deny himself the satisfaction of providing her a long, lingering death. Introducing her to a nest of vipers. Laying her body open with his embalming tools. “We meet again, Diana. You can give me those papers or I can take them from you. It’s all the same to me.” As it would be all the same to her, in the end.

  She clutched the papers so tightly that her knuckles gleamed white. “You tried to steal my sons?”

  “I merely set the scheme in motion, being required elsewhere at the time,” Horus informed her. “Thus proving once again the maxim that if one wants something done properly, one must do it oneself.”

  “You were busy murdering Isabella Jarrow. You also killed those other women. Why?”

  Because he could. Because he wished to. When his heart was weighed against the feather of Ma’at, during the judgment of the dead in the Hall of the Two Truths, Horus would not join the ancient gods in the Field of Reeds, but be devoured by the daemon Ammut.

  He moved across the room until he stood close enough to touch her. Mrs. Tate tried to edge backward, but a horse collar barred her way. “I had arranged to buy the documents from Fanny Arbuthnot,” he said. “She reneged on our agreement, as you happened to observe. I believed Verity Vaughan was my Diana, which as it turned out she was not. Isabella Jarrow was by way of being a red herring dragged across the track. And that is enough conversation. I have an appointment to keep.”

  This madman meant to kill her. Maddie must defend herself, but how? The bow and arrow were useless. She had only one strong wrist. The window was too far away to reach before he reached her.

  Horus snapped his fingers. “I’d prefer you didn’t bleed on the documents, madam. Give them here.”

  Maddie hesitated. Clara cocked her head, looked from one of them to the other and inquired, “Baaawwk?”

  Reminded of Clara’s presence, Maddie snatched up the chicken and hurled her at the pharaoh. Distressed by this indignity, Clara shrieked — “Ba ba bock bock bock!” — and flapped her wings. Horus flung up his hands to protect his eyes.

  He cursed, Clara thrashed about, Maddie darted toward the door, where she collided with Tony, who was carrying a small triangular wire-strung harp. Lappy crowded close on his heels. “I say!” the viscount protested, as Maddie snatched the harp; and “Egad!” as the stranger reached into his coat and pulled out a knife with a thin curved blade.

  Meanwhile, Lappy spied the chicken. He had scant interest in how humans chose to entertain themselves but a great deal of interest in fine fleshy fowl. With a happy woof, he bounded forward, the best repast, in his opinion, being one he brought to ground himself. But Clara was of no mind to be a breakfast. She squawked and flapped and skittered around in circles, the dog snapping so close at her tail-feathers that he caught several in his mouth. In his attempt to avoid being swept up in the skirmish, Horus collided with the wagon wheel. Before he could regain his balance, Maddie ran across the room; and brought the harp down, hard, on his skull.

  As he had once brought down his scepter on the skull of a certain Henry VIII.

  Wood splintered. Strings screeched and broke. Horus crumpled, hitting his head on a corner of the trunk as he fell.

  Distracted from dreams of chicken dinner, Lappy moved to investigate. Tony grabbed the dog’s collar before it could stick its nose in the fallen man’s ear. “Tell me you didn’t kill him,” the viscount begged.

  Maddie edged cautiously closer to the bleeding body. “Bawk!” cackled Clara, as one last harp string twanged and broke.

  Chapter Forty-One

  To all, to each, a fair goodnight and pleasing dreams, and slumbers light. —Sir Walter Scott

  Mr. Jarrow arrived at Meadowmount to find the household on its ear. He left his horse in the care of a goggling groom and followed a babble of voices into the coach house.

  Angel paused, unnoticed, in the doorway of the tack room, a small chamber crowded with harness bits and carriage pieces, assorted people and animal life. The sight of Maddie standing by an opened trunk, a chicken tucked under one arm and a wicked-looking knife in her other hand, left him giddy with relief. She looked like a warrior princess, eyes bright with the light of battle, glorious hair tumbling out of its pins and cascading down her back.

  Viscount Ashcroft was gripping both Lappy’s collar and the remnants of a small triangular harp. The boys’ tutor was explaining that the harp had been in existence since the sixth century and probably before. “In t-traditional Gaelic society every clan of consequence had a resident harp p-player who composed eulogies and elegies, or p-planxties, in honor of the leader and chief warriors of the clan. Mrs. Tate would have had a p-planxty composed to her were we living in that t-time.”

  Matthew blushed. Maddie thanked him. Angel walked into the room. Lappy — who had been drooling at the chicken, which was staring balefully back at him — uttered several joyous barks on sight of his old friend. The boys reacted to Mr. Jarrow’s arrival with equal enthusiasm, and vied with each other in an attempt to tell him everything that had transpired since last they met.

  “Don’t know why you’re here,” said Tony, after Angel had shaken the boys’ hands and scratched the dog’s ear. “Or why you wasn’t here soone
r, but you must know your business best. Not that I ain’t glad to see you! You’ll know what we should do with this.” He jerked his head toward a gentleman seated on the floor, trussed up with various bits of harness and, further indignity, a ragged remnant of horse blanket stuffed into his mouth, this latter courtesy of Penn— “He was cursing something fierce,” said that young man disapprovingly; “Mama shouldn’t have to listen to such stuff.” Benjie, not to be outdone, had got in a couple good kicks.

  The captive was dusty and disheveled, wearing what appeared to be part of Tony’s harp, and looking as if he wished to spit nails. Bright blood oozed from his forehead, dripped down the side of his face, puddled on his coat. Angel said, “Horus, I presume.”

  “I don’t know anything about a Horus,” Tony retorted. “But Maddie says this chap has been going around murdering females. I say he must have windmills in his head! Much as a fellow might want to murder females, acting on it ain’t the thing.”

  Angel wondered how Maddie had managed not to murder Tony. “I don’t imagine Meadowmount boasts a dungeon? Or an oubliette?”

  “It does not.” Maddie closed the trunk and sat down on the lid. “However, we do have a root cellar. Which is dark and damp and escape-proof, as the head gardener discovered when the boys locked him in.”

  Angel glanced at Tony. “Do you suppose you might escort the prisoner there and then send word of his capture to Lord Saxe?”

  Tony supposed he might do nothing of the sort. He wanted to know what manner of planxty Matthew might compose in Maddie’s behalf. And what did Angel mean, looking at him in that queer way? The viscount’s mental gears engaged then, and he realized that since the two persons involved in recent instances of muddled thinking were together in the same room for the first time since those instances took place, they might benefit from a private chat. “I’ll see to that, shall I?” he said, and summoned two strong stablemen. Tony, Matthew, the stablemen and Lappy departed en masse, bearing the pharaoh off to his makeshift prison cell, the boys leading the way, Tony still clutching the fractured harp.