The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy) Read Online Free PDF Page A

could banish the matterfrom his mind. He rose. “You are as always a veritable font of information, my sweet.”
     “Your sweet simpleton, you mean. I know what people say.” Daphne leaned toward him, displaying the enticing valley between her breasts. “If you are only going to stay five minutes, I don’t know why you bothered to visit me at all.”
    “But you are a sweet simpleton. It is a large part of your charm.” Angel watched with mild amusement as a storm gathered on her face. “You are turning purple. The shade doesn’t become you, but you must suit yourself.”
     Daphne pouted. “You are a brute, sir, to use me in this shabby way!”
     “It’s you who means to use me, I think. You will not, you know.” Angel trailed one gloved finger along her jaw.
    “Um.” Daphne’s eyelids fluttered closed as she savored the sensation of soft leather smoothing along her skin.
    The mantle clock chimed. Angel withdrew his hand. “We must part now, my heart’s delight. I am late for an appointment with Richard Tattersall. Don’t disturb yourself. I will show myself to the door.” He strolled out of the room.
    Tattersall's? He left her to go inspect a horse? Daphne marched to the mantle, snatched up the plate of marzipan, and flung it at the wall.

Chapter Five
     
     
    Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.  —Jane Austen
     
     
    Lord Saxe’s favorite house of civil reception, The Academy in King Street, was not open for business this early in the day. Its residents were still recuperating from the excesses of the night before, which had involved a reenactment of mischief among the immortals, performed to the satisfaction of all concerned except the doxy chosen to portray Leda with the swan, who greatly disliked feathers and complained that Zeus was entirely too well-endowed. But there was no pleasing trollops, as the proprietress of the establishment well knew, and a person in her position must always strive to keep an ankle ahead of the competition, no easy task when London boasted some three thousand brothels, and some fifty thousand whores, and lists of prostitutes could be purchased —  stating their particulars, specialties and locations —  from any London bookseller for two shillings and sixpence.
    Lilah Kingston did not resemble the popular perception of a bawdy house abbess. Her slender body was covered from neck to toe, shoulder to wrist in a modest gown; her face bore not the slightest hint of rouge, lip salve or kohl; her thick chestnut hair lay simply coiled at the nape of her neck. There was, however, no disguising the cynical expression in her lavender eyes as she listened to her companion’s scandalous accounts of hijinks among the haut ton. Mrs. Kingston did not move in such exalted circles, though many members of those circles often visited her house. “You jest,” she protested.
    “I seldom jest.” The baron, unlike his hostess, was en déshabillé in shirt and breeches and an exotic banyan she had purchased for his use. In truth, he found little enough to jest about these days. The wars with the French had caused serious civilian distress, the price of food climbing monstrous high while wages fell because the supply of labor far exceeded the demand. It was widely hoped, now the conflict in Europe had ended, that Lord Liverpool’s government might concentrate on sorely needed social reforms.
    Kane wasn’t holding his breath.
    He had been in the employ of the British government since he reached his majority and knew how these things played out.
    And, when he found himself weary of the business, as he often did, he took refuge here.
    Not even Castlereagh would dare disturb him at The Academy.
    The brothel was richly appointed, its interior designed in the style of the Adams Brothers, its furnishings inspired by Sheraton and Heppelwhite. Kane’s gaze lingered on the large oil painting of Lilah, nude by firelight, which hung above the fireplace