She wanted
to beguile him back into her bed, but Daphne was not such a ninnyhammer as to tell him so. “I wished to apologize for my behavior on our last meeting,” she said, and leaned closer, crushing her breasts against his arm.
Angel started, swore, and brought his horses back under control.
Daphne gave a little jiggle, in case Angel failed to notice the proximity of her bosom. “You have been very good to me,” she purred. “As am I good to you, when you will allow it, as I hope you will today.”
She was rubbing against him with less lust than desperation. Angel concluded that the conte had been bullying her again. Daphne’s domestic difficulties were none of his concern, but still—
Wishing he were in truth a heartless rake, Angel flicked the reins.
You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.
—William Blake
London had been struck by a plague of peevishness. Not only were Angel Jarrow and Lord Castlereagh snappish, along with their Regent, Viscount Ashcroft’s mama also shared that state. Although choler was not unusual for Lady Georgiana, in this instance she rang such a peal over Tony that he decided to join Mrs. Tate and her twins and their tutor, who had gone to view the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange, a large brick building on the north side of the Strand.
Exeter Exchange had once been a handsome structure with an arcade in front and a galley above, both containing shops; but with time the arcade had been filled in, the gallery put into service as shopkeepers’ lodgings, and a natural history exhibit set up. On the front of the building hung plaques painted with likenesses of animals — a Bengal Royal Male Tiger, the Pelican of the Wilderness, a vulture from South America, a Nyl-ghau or horned horse. ‘Pidcock’s Menagerie’ was painted in large characters on the eastern wall, and the roars of the big cats struck fear in the hearts of unwary passersby. Tony hesitated, decided his mama’s roar was louder, and approached the main entrance, which was manned by a doorman in the costume of a Yeoman of the Guard. A dirty urchin scurried around the corner of the building and out of sight.
The collection was divided into three sections, the doorman informed Tony; the price of admission one shilling per section per visitor, or two shillings and sixpence for the whole. Tony supposed Maddie’s twins would demand to view every exhibition. And therefore so would he.
A staircase led to the cages and dens housed on the second floor of the Exchange. The pungent scent of animals grew stronger with each reluctant step he took.
The viscount found Mrs. Tate and her party inspecting the elephant enclosure, its walls painted with scenery intended to recall the creature’s native habitat. Maddie was wearing a white walking dress figured with medallions and — to Tony’s exasperation — stripes.
“Elephants,” the tutor was explaining, “live an average of sixty years in the wild and eighty in c-captivity. They eat ten p-percent of their body weight per d-day.”
The tutor, Tony considered a very knowing sort of chap, and the twins an excellent indication of why a fellow should avoid the matrimonial state. He plucked at Maddie’s sleeve. She started. “Tony! I’m surprised to see you here.”
“And so you should be,” panted Tony. “I’m surprised to see me here myself because I didn’t mean to come. Not that I can
see
myself precisely, but you know what I mean. Thing is, Maman’s taken the notion that Angel Jarrow is going to steal a march on me. Not that Angel can marry you, because he has a wife, and not that
I
want to marry you — no offense intended! — but there it is. Maman says if I’m not careful Angel will render you unmarriageable.”
His voice had risen, attracting the attention of the enclosure’s occupant, which gently raised its trunk. An elephant, as Matthew might have informed them, breathed through two nostrils at the end of its trunk, which was an extension of its nose. The elephant also used its trunk to ingest water and food, sucking up water, curling the trunk, and squirting the water into its mouth. The trunk had a prehensile grasping extension at the tip, which the elephant employed like a finger or a scoop, for example in this instance, when it snatched off Tony’s hat.
“I say!” cried Tony. “Give that back!”
The tiger growled. The Nyl-ghau whinnied. “Calm yourself!” begged Maddie. “You’re upsetting the animals.”
“What if I am? They’re upsetting me! That hat, I’ll have you know, was made by Lock.”
The elephant inspected Mr. Lock’s creation, and found it wanting. “Look,” said Maddie. “He’s returning it to you.”
Gingerly, Tony retrieved his hat from the elephant’s trunk. Lock wouldn’t recognize his creation, now squashed in the center until it resembled a figure eight.
In most seasons of the year the elephant was a timid animal, Matthew explained, and more likely to flee a foe than to mount an attack, the exception being solitary rogues. An elephant charged with its trunk tightly curled up; trampled its victim with feet or knees, or pinned him to the ground with its tusks. This particular elephant, Chunee, had been brought to London from India in 1810. Chunee liked to hold a sixpence in his trunk before returning it to visitors. He whisked off hats, opened doors, wielded a whip, and in general behaved so well that Lord Byron had expressed a desire to hire him as a butler.
The elephant reached again for Tony. Tony clutched his hat to his chest. Chunee rested his trunk on Tony’s shoulder and gently exhaled.
“I'm supposed to make you see the error of your ways,” said Tony glumly, as Maddie wiped elephant effluvium from his shoulder with her handkerchief. “Persuade you not to throw your bonnet over the windmill. I
like
Angel, damned if I don't, but I like you too, and Angel could open up a millinery shop with all the bonnets that have been tossed at him.”
Maddie deduced from this somewhat garbled speech that the viscount was concerned for her. “Your mama, if you’ll forgive me saying so, has the wrong sow by the ear. I haven’t seen Mr. Jarrow since the Carlton House fête.” When he had said he liked her. Angel probably told all his conquests that he liked them before he set about charming them out of their stays.
He’d like her a great deal less for having told him he was spoiled.
Spending time with Angel Jarrow had much the same effect as overindulging in champagne. A giddy, euphoric feeling. A brief, sweet respite from life’s worries and woes. Which too soon came crashing back threefold.
“Maman says you’re going to have to marry someone,” persisted Tony, illustrating the truth of her reflection, “and so it might as well be me. Says she wants to dandle her grandchildren on her knee. Which is more of her twaddle, because when I was a child she never dandled
me
.” He jammed his misshapen hat back on his head and went off to join Matthew at the Bengal Tiger display.
Maddie glanced at her sons, who were on their best behavior, result of an earlier altercation involving Lappy, Sir Owen, and the roast intended for dinner. She recalled Lord Maitland, last seen going in search of lemonade, and hoped they might soon meet again so she could inform his lordship she had no desire for additional offspring, thereby demonstrating that breeding-stock can talk.
“There you are!” Louise Holloway appeared at the top of the stairs. “Your father’s butler informed us that you had come here. How very odd of you.” She wrinkled her nose.
“Not so odd,” pointed out Jordan, who had accompanied his sister. “Maddie has children. Children enjoy this sort of thing. I do myself.” He walked over to the group gathered near the tiger cage. Tony stole a sideways glance at Jordan’s excellently fitting breeches. His own plump posterior would never show to such advantage, no matter how compressive a corset he devised.
Jordan eyed Tony’s battered hat, but withheld comment. “In India,” he remarked, “tigers are revered. The tiger is the guardian of the jungle, carrier of the Mother Goddess, an incarnation of whom came into being as a collective force of all the Gods to fight the evil power of the demon Mahishasura, whose father once fell in love with a water buffalo.”
“A water buffalo?” marveled Tony. “If that don’t beat all.”
Louise clutched Maddie’s arm, claiming her attention. “Have you any news for me? No? I wish you would
try!
Incidentally, I’ve learned what turned Caro Lamb against Lord Byron. If not for Jordan’s interference,
I
might have broke the news first. Aren’t you least bit curious? Then you may wait and read the newssheets, along with everybody else!”
Maddie frowned at her friend. “How is it that you know these things?”
Louise laughed. “There are no secrets, Maddie. Servants can be bribed, as can friends and foes and family members. Of course, they cannot always be believed.” She went on to tell how a certain editor had printed a scandalous, unsubstantiated story
involving Lady W—, as result of which Lord W— stormed into the newspaper office and knocked out several of his teeth. “That doesn’t amuse you either? Really, you have grown quite
dull
.” She flounced off to inspect an exhibit of ostriches and emus.
Dull, am I?
Maddie wished the elephant would snatch off Louise’s pretty bonnet and eat it for lunch.
Jordan strolled up beside her. “The last time I was here the exhibit included a unicorn, a zebra, a kangaroo from Botany Bay, an African ram, a secretary bird that killed snakes, a Fiery Lynx and a Ravenous wolf from Algiers, along with such timely but unrelated items as a French Beheading Machine.”
Maddie kept a cautious eye on the elephant, which had left off hat-snatching for the moment. “When I was a child, I saw a two-headed bovine in a traveling menagerie. One of the heads was allegedly that of a bull, and the other a cow. I do not think I would be so easily convinced now.”
Jordan smiled. “Being grown up, as you are, Mistress Pattern-Card.”
It had not been grown-up of Maddie to mention this man to her father, rather in the manner of dragging a red herring across her track, nor had it been particularly wise. She had done a great many unwise things of late, beginning with the Burlington House masquerade.
And she was about to do another. “I have a favor to ask.”
“You may ask, but I don’t guarantee my answer,” Jordan replied. “Have you reconsidered your decision?”
“Decision?”
“Regarding Louise.”
Maddie tucked her arm through his. “This has nothing to do with your sister. Do you recall when we were young, and you rescued me from scrapes?”
Did you think the lion was sleeping because he didn’t roar?
—Johann Christoph Frederick von Schiller
The sun shone feebly down on London, filtering through coal smoke and fog. The streets were crowded with carts and carriages, citizens and street vendors hurrying to and fro. Those residents fortunate enough to have a few moments’ leisure scurried to the parks to see what progress was being made in preparation for the Great Fair, of greatest current interest the tons of rock salt being thrown into the Serpentine in an attempt to turn it into a proper sea, assisted by large quantities of cockle-shells and periwinkles, razor-fish and sand strewn along the banks. Countless people lined the shore and watched with bated breath as several ladies dipped their fingers into the briny deep and proclaimed the waters every bit as good as any seaside resort. An eminent chemist was blending sea-weed and verdigris to create the proper shade of azure-green.
Of considerable more interest to the politically inclined was the re-election of Lord Cochrane, that daring captain of the Napoleonic Wars whom the French nicknamed
Le Loup des Mers,
who had as result of his alleged involvement in the Great Stock Exchange Fraud been dismissed from the Royal Navy and expelled from his Parliamentary seat, at which point the electors had promptly decided he was a fit and proper person to represent the City of Westminster and voted him back in.
A great crowd had assembled in Covent Garden to witness the official proceedings, scheduled to take place in front of St. Paul’s Church, a stone-faced towerless rectangle with tall arched windows, a massive portico, and an overhanging roof.
Sir Francis Burdett (who had himself a few years past been imprisoned in the Tower), accompanied by the Westminster Committee, stepped out onto the temporary platform from which candidates addressed the electors. A universal shout of “Cochrane! Cochrane!” went round. The shouting continued while the high bailiff read the speaker’s warrant for a new election, and took the oaths administered to insure a fair and impartial return.
Sir Frances moved forward. The crowd quieted, at least enough so that some of them might hear him speak. “Electors of Westminster— Gentlemen, in pursuance of the unanimous resolution of the electors latest assembled in Palace-yard
...
”
Horus worked his way through the throng. Today his chest and head were covered, and the mask he wore was the one he presented to his peers.
The question of Lord Cochrane’s innocence or guilt, following a career conspicuous for courage, continued to be the subject of much debate. Many believed that his lordship had been tried and sentenced on insufficient evidence, his conviction due less to his well-timed disposal of Omnium shares than to his outspoken criticisms of corruption in the Navy and the conduct of the war.
Others pointed out that Cochrane was an excellent argument for keeping one’s opinions to oneself.
Innocent or no, his lordship had been fined, sentenced to twelve months’ imprisonment, and ordered to stand in the pillory opposite the Royal Exchange for one hour. His name had been struck off the Admiralty’s list of Naval Lords. The Knight Companions of Bath were considering the propriety of expelling him from their ranks.
“
...
an occasion so novel and momentous,” continued Sir Francis. His audience responded with applause.
The Westminster hustings, or parliamentary elections, had since the previous century been held at the east end of St Paul’s Church, which dominated the west side of Covent Garden Piazza, usually with bitter feelings on both sides. Curious people crowded the windows of the buildings overhead.
“... the great cause of liberty, which never fails to vibrate in the incorruptible hearts of Englishmen!” pronounced Sir Francis, earning further cheers and claps. “Wherever we turn, we see hoaxes. We see a hoax on the Serpentine River; we see another in St. James’s Park; and in the greatest hoax of all, we are informed all this is meant to please the people.” Laughter and applause drowned out his further words.
Another hoax lay right under their noses. Horus grew impatient waiting for them to sniff it out.
Covent Garden was a large square in the center of London, the houses on the north and east sides sustained by stone pillars that formed a covered pathway. In the center lay the greatest market in England for the sale of herbs and fruits and flowers, composed of a central arcade and two side rows of shops. Horus paused by the market’s entrance to inspect a flower girl’s wares. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of St. Paul’s.
“Lord Cochrane forever!” shouted the crowd. “The Gallant Lord Cochrane!” The high bailiff announced that Lord Cochrane was duly returned as representative in Parliament for Westminster, earning additional ear-splitting huzzas and cheers. Soon thereafter, the meeting broke up, and the Westminster Committee repaired to the King’s Bench prison to congratulate his lordship on the result. Which was well and good, but re-election wouldn’t free Cochrane from gaol.
The main entrance of St. Paul’s, by the west door, opened onto a small graveyard. The first victim of the Great Plague lay buried there, beyond the wrought iron bars: Margaret Ponteus, a doctor’s daughter, who had died in 1665.
Horus chose a posy, tossed the flower-girl a coin; watched as several people entered the church, perhaps to pray for Cochrane’s well-being or, alternately, for his speedy descent to hell. He placed a wager with himself as to how much more time would pass before someone realized that the figure propped against one of the old gravestones was not dead drunk, but merely dead.
Dead, and in a most unpleasant state of decomposition, which was not immediately evident due to the fur-trimmed metallic brocade coat, purple tunic, and velvet hat. At first glance the casual observer would assume an actor from nearby Covent Garden theatre had slipped inside the iron railing to take his rest. On second glance, however—
Alcohol-preserved bodies resisted decay, to some extent. When removed from the liquid they were typically discolored, wrinkled, distorted, skeletal-looking and devoid of elasticity. In addition they smelled foul and rotted rapidly when exposed to air.
Horus raised the posy to his nose.
At last, the sounds he’d been awaiting. A shriek, an oath, a babble of raised voices—
He strolled out of the square.