“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.
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 Maddie. 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?”
Startled, Maddie stared at him. “Lappy is my chaperone. We’re hardly alone.”
“Your chaperone is asleep,” Jordan pointed out.
Maddie heard the husky note in his voice; saw the warm expression in his eye. She had dreamed of kissing Jordan as a girl. Now, as an adult, she wondered how his kisses might compare.
There was one way to find out. Moving closer, she murmured, “So he is.”
Much as he admired Maddie’s bosom, Jordan hadn’t meant to try and seduce her, preferring females of low morals, or no morals at all. However, her lips were soft and warm and sweet. Jordan was fond of sweets. He drew her closer so that he might better savor this new confection he’d unexpectedly found on his plate.
Kissing, Maddie decided, was a queer business. She wondered who had first formed the idea of pressing mouths together, for it wasn’t a natural thing. Dogs didn’t go around sticking their tongues into each other’s mouths — a good thing in light of what other things dogs got up to with their tongues — or cats, or horses, or pigs. Mr. Tate had been proud of the pigs raised at Meadowmount.
Curious, how one man’s touch could cause a woman’s pulse to flutter, and another man’s caress rouse no reaction at all. Here she was, kissing her childhood idol, and thinking of pigs. Maddie opened her eyes to find Jordan studying her face. “Speaking as an old friend,” he began. “That is, I have more experience with the world than you—”
Maddie drew away from him. “You mean, experience with the ways of gentlemen of the world.” She recalled the sensations she’d experienced while perched on Angel’s lap. Instead of squawking like a squeamish virgin she should have had her way with him, providing he had let her, which after being scolded by both his sister and Lord Saxe, he most likely would not. “Since you are not a parent, you may be unaware that when you tell someone he cannot have something, that becomes the thing he wants most.”
Jordan clasped her hand. “Point taken. Let us change the subject. I am aware that there is a great deal my sister isn’t telling me.”
There was a great deal
she
wasn’t telling him, Maddie thought unhappily. “If Louise was this goosish as a girl, I wonder you didn’t drown her in the pond.”
Marriage resembles a pair of sheers, so joined that they cannot be separated; often moving in opposite directions, yet always punishing anyone who comes between them
. —Sir Sidney Smith
Mr. Jarrow presented himself at the front door of the King Street Academy. He was ushered into the proprietress’s small sitting room, where he found Lord Saxe lounging on the loveseat, a bottle on the table beside him and a glass in his hand.
Angel took a nearby chair. “You look as if you’ve recently emerged from a several-day debauch. Just because you haven’t been to your bed doesn’t mean you should drag me from mine.”
The baron regarded his friend without appreciation. Kane had been engaged in nothing so pleasant as debauchery; while Angel, who spent considerable time in that pastime, looked as unsullied as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word. “I’ve been to Worthing.” He poured wine into a second glass.
“Felt the need for sea air, did you?” inquired Angel. Worthing was a popular seaside resort situated at the foot of the South Downs, the country around it noted for Stone Age flint mines and an Iron Age fort.
Lord Saxe didn’t, as result of his recent journey, harbor an appreciation for either Worthing or sea air. “Castlereagh is offering Princess Caroline an annuity of fifty thousand in place of her present income of twenty-two thousand a year.”
Angel half-pitied the princess, who was neither graceful nor elegant, didn’t conduct herself in a royal fashion, and was as repugnant to her husband as Prinny was to her. “And you delivered this proposition? I daresay she had a great deal to say.”
Kane raised his glass. “I asked her what she knew of Fanny Arbuthnot. Caroline muttered about ingratitude but refused to say another word. The princess is still angry that she wasn’t invited to the Burlington House masquerade, though she says she shouldn’t be surprised because she isn’t invited anywhere. Foreign kings and emperors ignore her; her husband torments her; the Whigs tell her where to go and what time to arrive there and in general annoy her with their advice, which is intended more for their benefit than hers. She informed me that she means to visit Napoleon since he at least will speak with her. Apropos of speaking, I hear you have again gone strolling in a dark garden with Mrs. Tate. One would think, after all those horticultural investigations, that the lady might be persuaded to confide in you, but far be it from me to suggest you may be losing your touch. Isabella will not like your interest there, you know.”
“Since Isabella likes nothing that I do, that point is moot.” And since Lilah kept an excellent cellar, Angel broke his own rule against drinking before a certain hour. “Mrs. Tate needed to be warned about Fanny Arbuthnot.”
She was not the only one who stood in need of warning, thought Kane. Angel was demonstrating himself deaf to good advice. “I daresay you are aware of Mrs. Tate’s friendship with Jordan Rhodes. Perhaps you should inform
him
of the lady’s situation. Rhodes not only smokes hashish with maharajahs, he has sufficient influence to persuade them that it was against their best interests to take up arms alongside the French. He numbers no less than Wellington among his friends, and possesses wealth so immense that Prinny is in his debt.” Not that this was a commendation: money ran through the Regent’s fingers like water through a sieve. Kane recalled the occasion on which Prinny had lost several thousand pounds betting on twenty turkeys racing against twenty geese. “In light of all that, foiling a nefarious pharaoh might be child’s play.”
Angel scowled. Kane considered his point made. “I am curious as to why Fanny Arbuthnot’s corpse showed up in St. Paul’s.” And why a certain Bow Street Runner had so little to report. “If Horus meant to make a political statement, he should have been more precise.”
“Horus?” Lilah echoed, from the threshold of the room.
Kane rose from his chair. “What do
you
know of Horus?” he asked.
Lilah closed the door behind her. “I’ve never met the man, nor do I care to. Horus has his fingers in a great many nasty pies. It’s said he will supply any service, providing the purchaser has sufficient coin.”
Now it was Kane who frowned. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Lilah said drily, “A great deal, I should think.”
Kane drew her down beside him on the loveseat. “Shall I make you confess?”
She smiled. “You may try.”
Angel cleared his throat, “Much as I would like to stay and savor this stimulating conversation, my presence is required elsewhere.”
The sky outside had grown no brighter. Angel didn’t mind. A good gloomy thunderstorm would suit his state of mind. He reclaimed his horse and set out down St. James’s, sympathizing with his Regent, for he knew well the annoyance of a troublesome estranged wife.
Isabella wouldn’t agree to live abroad for twice fifty thousand pounds per annum. Were there an ocean between them, she would find it much more difficult to be a thorn in his side.
And speaking of thorns in his side—
Angel longed to apply his fist to the nose of the influential Mr. Rhodes.
This was a novel notion, not because Angel had never before had a rival, but because he had never before cared.
Rival? Angel wasn’t accustomed to considering rivals in relation to himself, for all the nonsense females were prone to whisper in his ear, due to the fact that he had a wife.
And because of that wife, he reminded himself, he had no right to sulk like a child told to share a favorite toy.
It was a short ride to Brook Street. Angel dismounted, handed his reins to a waiting groom. The front door opened. An impassive servant took his hat. “The contessa is expecting you, sir.”
The contessa was damned sure of herself, reflected Angel, as he mounted the stair.
Daphne’s fanciful boudoir was fitted out with expensive paper on the walls and costly carpets on the floor, ornate furniture and fanciful sconces and much mirrored glass. The bed stood in an alcove, divided from the rest of the room by flower-wreathed pillars. More flowers embellished the white satin bed hangings, along with artificial moss, spangles, beads and shells.
The lady had appalling taste.
She waited by a window, half-wearing a deliciously decadent — and damnably expensive — confection of cobwebby black lace. Angel said, “It isn’t that I don’t trust you, my treasure, but where is the conte?”
Daphne pouted. “You might at least say good afternoon before you start accusing me of things. I don’t know where the conte is, and I don’t care. He is a loose fish.”
“He is
your
loose fish. I’ve told you before that I’m not a pigeon for your plucking, my sweet.”
Daphne reflected, crudely, that it wasn’t plucking she had in mind. She crossed the crowded room, skirting a dressing stand and stool, and surreptitiously locked the door.
Angel walked to the window. Daphne pointed out a convenient tree. “In case you feel the need for a quick retreat.”
He didn’t disabuse her of the notion. “Why the urgent summons? What is it you want?”
Daphne searched for traces of affection in his expression, found none. She stepped closer, slid her arms around his neck, and whispered, “You.”
Angel grasped her elbows and set her away from him. “I doubt you do. In any event, the feeling is not mutual. What is this matter of such grave importance that you summoned me?”
“All in good time.” Daphne crowded against him, breast to thigh. He stiffened, but in no helpful manner. She clutched the lapels of his coat and pulled his face down to hers, pressed her lips against his.
She had meant to ravish his mouth with her tongue, but Angel kept his teeth clamped together. Again he set her away from him.
He stepped back. Daphne followed. Matters progressed in this manner for several moments — she was determined to demonstrate how good she could be both to and for him, while he was equally determined she should not — until Daphne tripped over her dressing-table stool. Angel caught her arm, preventing her from landing on her nose.
Finally, she had his attention. Daphne gave a little wiggle. The peignoir slipped off her shoulder, exposing the slope of one breast.
Angel released her elbow. “Give it up, Daphne. I’m in no mood for amorous pursuits. I don’t care to make like a wheelbarrow, or a turtle, or a fruit tree. I don’t want to kneel, or squat, or to be backed against a wall; watch you dangle from a trapeze, or stand on your head.”
Daphne yanked her peignoir back into place. He didn’t want
her
, Angel meant.
The conte would be furious. As would Isabella. Privately, Daphne was relieved about the trapeze.
But there was more than one way to roast a rooster. “Since you insist, I shall cut to the chase. I saw Fanny Arbuthnot talking to a Diana at the Burlington House masquerade.”
Angel frowned. “
You
were acquainted with Fanny Arbuthnot?”
“I am also acquainted with a little seamstress. Since stitching seams doesn’t earn her enough money to remain beforehand with the world, she supplements her income by other means, which is how she came to my notice, because the Conte likes a bit of— But never mind that! It turns out that she made alterations to a certain costume. A
Diana
costume. Need I say more?”
Apparently she did. Angel was staring at her as if she had changed from a pretty poppet into something with sharp teeth.
Were circumstances different—
But they were not. “Mrs. Tate wore that costume. And if you don’t do as I ask, I will tell the world.”