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

in the small sitting room.
    As Kane contemplated her painted likeness, Mrs. Kingston contemplated him. Usually she was about her business by this time of day. There were doxies to be dealt with, magistrates to be bought off, and expenses to be paid.
    Instead here she sat, sipping chocolate and indulging herself with Lord Saxe.
    Theirs was an affair of the flesh, not of the heart; an unusual friendship, the rake and the whore. Neither had expectations of the other, least of all fidelity. If either possessed a heart, it was kept safely locked away.
    Lilah had her secrets, Kane had his. And since they each kept their own council, the baron did not know he was the only lover she allowed to spend the night sleeping in her bed.
    Kane glanced from the nude Lilah to the well-wrapped version who sat beside him on the loveseat, a hundred tiny buttons marching up the bodice of her gown. Mrs. Kingston was aware that a man appreciated a challenge. “I’ve asked someone to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”
    Lilah regarded him ironically. “That depends on who it is.”
     “Pritchett.”
    “A Bow Street Runner? One must have some standards, my lord.”
    Kane awarded her his lazy bone-melting smile. “Must one? You disappoint me.”
    If Lilah’s bones didn’t melt, her expression softened. “Poor Pritchett. What do you mean for him now?”
    “Be patient and you’ll find out. Meantime, while we are waiting—”
    Several moments later, there came a tap at the door. In this house, no servant entered a room unannounced. Lilah straightened her gown and called, “Enter.” Kane leaned back on the love seat.
    “Mr. Pritchett,” announced the liveried servant. A neat little man stepped past him and into the room. The newcomer wore a dark coat and trousers, white linen, plaid vest, carefully shined shoes. On his nose perched wire-rimmed spectacles, on his thinning hair a bowl-shaped hat. Pritchett had more the look of a clerk than a Bow Street thief-taker, save for the gilt-topped baton tucked under one arm.
    He averted his gaze from the artwork above the fireplace. Lilah and Kane exchanged an amused glance.
    “May I offer you refreshment, Mr. Pritchett?” asked Lilah. “You look about as happy as if you’d come to have a tooth drawn.”
    “Less,” amended Kane. “But we must all sleep in the beds we’ve made.”
    Pritchett didn’t care to consider beds in these surroundings. A man of his social standing, or lack thereof, would never be welcomed as a customer in this house. Lord Saxe lounged on that loveseat like a well-pleasured oriental pasha, his dark hair tousled, his expression that of a cat well-fed with cream. And as for that cream—  Pritchett couldn’t encounter Lilah Kingston without wondering how many men had had her, and how many men she’d ruined.
    Said Lilah, watching the Runner’s face, “Have you breakfasted, Mr. Pritchett? My French chef has a wonderfully light hand with pastry. Can I tempt you with a brioche? A croissant? A baguette with jam?”
    She tempted him to bid her to be damned, but Pritchett didn’t dare. He said to Lord Saxe, “You have a job of work for me, my lord?” The regular pay from the Police Office being less than enough to support a family, most Bow Street officers supplemented their income with blood money and other rewards. They were free to take private inquiry work for anyone who could afford them. Some earned a guinea a night standing in theater lobbies and keeping a sharp eye out for miscreants.
    Pritchett earned much more.
    Except when he worked for Lord Saxe.
    Sworn to uphold the law, Pritchett had broken it more times than he could count, until one too many misdeeds led to the moment when he’d had to choose between dancing to the baron’s tune and dangling in the sheriff’s picture frame. A fellow might find in it a most salutary moral, if he cared to search.
    Lord Saxe issued his instructions. Pritchett didn’t blink an eye. The Runner’s reputation wasn’t for