Free The Purloined Heart (The Tyburn Trilogy) by Maggie MacKeever Page B

‘nice’.”
    “Ah, but I kissed you !” she reminded him. “And I haven’t had half —  a quarter —  a tenth! —  of your experience along those lines. For you, it would have been an enjoyable moment among countless other enjoyable moments. One pair of lips is much like another. You cannot be expected to remember them all.”
    But Angel did remember, rather to his surprise. Granted, the circumstances had been unusual. “Burlington House,” he reminded her.
    Her amusement faded. Maddie related what she’d seen and heard. Thought Angel: Damn and blast. “And how did you come to witness this encounter?” he inquired.
    She regarded her gloved hands. “I was peering through the keyhole.”
    “What shocking behavior. You were not entirely sober, I suspect. Few people present were. To continue: in your not-entirely-sober state you witnessed a curious encounter between an Egyptian pharaoh and Henry VIII.”
     “I’m not sure what I saw,” confessed Maddie. “Certainly the pharaoh saw me. I’ve been trying to convince myself he couldn’t have known who I was in that ridiculous costume.”
    “It’s your voice he would remember. Did you speak to him?”
     “No. I did speak with Henry earlier that evening; he quoted Shakespeare, whichI found odd. There were several Dianas present. Perhaps he mistook me for someone else.”
    Angel suspected this could well have been the case. “It might be wise to keep this between ourselves.”
     “You think—”
    “I don’t know what to think. Other than that you should be on your guard.”
    They had arrived at the northwest corner of the park. Tucked into the shrubbery was a keeper’s lodge. Beneath a row of trees, running parallel with the keeper’s garden, were two springs, one used for drinking and the other employed in bathing sore eyes. At the former sat a woman, beside her a table and glasses for the convenience of visitors.
    Sightseeing being a thirsty business, the attendant busily dispersed glasses of mineral water, while a milkmaid handed out glasses of milk. It was a scene of serene bucolic activity —  until a large, damp, shaggy dog came splashing through the mineral spring. Once arrived on solid ground, he briskly shook himself.
    Muddy water flew everywhere. Horrified by this intrusion, which was against the park rules, the attendant shrieked. The dog interpreted her cry as an invitation. He bounded toward her, tail a-wag.
    The attendant shrieked again. The dog rested one huge paw on her knee and gave her face a great wet lick. The attendant gasped, gurgled and fainted dead away, overturning both the table and her chair.
    “Milk of a red cow!” called the milkmaid; and then, “Murder! Eek!” The dog abandoned his efforts to revive the supine attendant by dragging her into the spring —  the silly female, in his opinion, had a poor notion of play —  and galloped, barking, toward the milkmaid, who screamed loud enough to rattle the bones buried in the churchyard of St. Martin’s-in-the-Field.
     Cows scattered. Sightseers fled. Maddie clutched the edge of her seat. Angel kept a steady grip on his reins. The horses were restive but not reactive, having embarrassed themselves already over the incident of the swan.
    The most stalwart of the sightseers, with the assistance of a cowman, maneuvered the dog into a corner. The creature dropped down on its haunches and peered around, though it was questionable how much he could see through the fur hanging in front of his eyes. The mineral spring attendant clambered to her feet, holding the chair in front of her as if to fend off a wild beast.
    Her nerves, she declared, had been forever shattered. Vengeance, she vowed, would be hers. No, argued the cowman, vengeance would be his ; the excitement had undoubtedly put his animals off their feed. The milkmaid insisted she should be repaid for emotional distress caused by the antics of the foul fiend; and left off lamenting only after the cowman boxed her