The Peacock Throne (10 page)

“Opening the door for France to invade England,” Lydia finished for him, her face paling.

“Precisely,” said Marcus, with a grim smile. “There are many among the various Rajahs, Sultans, and so forth, who would welcome a unified banner that they could join without losing face or the possibility of ceding part of their territory or authority to a local rival. The Marathas are among the most vocal and difficult of the local chieftains who have expressed dissatisfaction with English influence in their land, and unfortunately, we have not handled
Indian affairs as well as we might. Technically, of course, it is the East India Company, not the British government, involved in India, but that is changing.

“Pitt is well aware of the threat of violence in the area. The India Act he authored and pushed through Parliament to re-organize the East India Company was only one of his efforts to reform the corrupt elements of the system; elements which cause such resentment. War in India could be devastating, not only in opening England up to invasion, but also economically, since India is such an important trading partner. Either way, Bonaparte's hand is strengthened, and England is in trouble.”

“What can we do to help?” Danbury asked.

Marcus blinked. He had not expected such easy acquiescence. “What do you mean?”

“There must be a way to stop old Boney or you wouldn't be here.”

“Ah. Well, I believe you are correct. We must find the throne. It's vital to keep it out of French hands. And I want to accompany you on this expedition.”

Lydia might have saved Danbury the effort of trying to dissuade Mr Harting from his intention of joining the expedition. She had already experienced how unreasonable the man could be when he wanted something. Unsurprisingly he remained adamant in his conviction that he must participate in the venture.

But perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to have Harting along. If nothing else, he could do his own prying. Since he'd taken Lord Danbury into his confidence, did that mean she was released from any obligation to ferret about for proof of disloyalty?

“Other than the captain, no one will know of our plan to put in at Mahe except you and me,” Danbury explained to Harting.

Lydia blinked and straightened in her seat. “And me. I'm going too.”

Lord Danbury pulled his head back. “This journey will be far too dangerous for a young lady.”

“Young ladies frequently make the journey out to India, and this voyage to Mahe should be shorter than that,” Lydia said.

“Those ladies do not have murderers following them,” Lord Danbury pointed out. He wore the longsuffering expression of a parent dealing with a recalcitrant child.

Heart in her throat, Lydia nevertheless persisted. “I would be pleased to pay you for my passage.”

“This has nothing to do with the expense. It would be too…”

Lydia cut him off. “I appreciate your concern. But I was under the impression that you are a man of your word. Indeed I was assured so very recently. We agreed that I would pursue my cousin's murderer along with you.”

“I'm sure you would be a great asset, but I would be constantly fearful for your safety.”

“Lord Danbury, I have lost as much—even more than you. I am not only bereft of a beloved relative, but a home as well. In direct proportion I am determined to see someone brought to justice. I am responsible for my own safety, and I promise to be careful. Please, I beg you. I must be part of this.”

He sighed and set aside his glass.

She flung out her last argument. “And if I remain here alone, who is to protect me from the French? What if they should make me tell them of your plans?” She forced a tear. “What if they murder me as they did my dear cousin?” Her cheeks and lips burned as with fever, but she did not retract the argument. Lord forgive her, but she would see justice done, not just for his Lordship, but also for poor Mr Wolfe. Who would care for him and his case if not her?

Her last words seemed to have struck a chord within Danbury. She held her breath.

He sighed again. Lydia scented victory but had the sense to keep quiet. Harting's head swivelled between the two of them as if at a tennis match, but he also waited in silence.

“All right,” Lord Danbury said at last. “But you must be cautious.”

“I will be very careful,” Lydia tried to reassure him.

“If that is settled?” Harting waited for acknowledgment. “Danbury, I suggest you also be exceedingly careful of the crew you take on. Loyal and honest men can be hard to come by. It would be an unpleasant irony to be murdered for the throne by your own crew. You wouldn't want to harbour a viper in your bosom.”

Lydia flushed and looked down at her plate. Even her ears burned with embarrassment, knowing that she was her own breed of viper.

A midnight hush blanketed the house. Lydia eased open her door and poked her head into the hall. Satisfied that no one was about she slipped from her room. The delicate lawn of her new nightdress brushed her legs, while the heavy brocade of her dressing gown weighed down her shoulders. She had never owned such fine things in all her life. Sighing, Lydia headed for the stairs. Time to pay the piper.

The door to Lord Danbury's study stood ajar. It creaked loudly as she crept through. Her heart lodged in her throat. Of late it seemed to have taken up permanent residence in that unsuitable location.

She dropped a small vial of headache powder beneath a chair. It was not much of a ruse, but if anyone discovered her here, she needed some sort of story, and it was the best she had been able to manufacture.

Taking her seat at his Lordship's desk, Lydia stared at the piles of papers. Whether Danbury would be formally accused of treachery had yet to be proved, but no one would ever accuse him of being overly neat.

She reached for the nearest pile. For a moment she could not read the documents. Tears of shame and frustration blurred her vision. She blinked them away. This was a necessary evil. Lord
Danbury would be angry with her if she was discovered going through his papers in search of any evidence that might tie him to France, Fouche, or Le Faucon, but really she was helping him. Not only would she prove him innocent, she would get Harting refocused on searching for the real traitor. If he knew her motives, Danbury would thank her.

Lydia stood in the courtyard watching the loading of an immense amount of baggage—so much that both of the Danbury landaus had been pressed into service for the trip. A flurry of activity had galvanized the household in recent days. From footmen to maids, it seemed everyone had an errand to run.

Legacy
awaited them in Portsmouth. Was it really possible that she was about to set sail for an exotic island in the Indian Ocean? She shook her head at the vagaries of her existence.

Mrs Malloy tapped her on the shoulder. “This is for you.” She extended a small paper-covered parcel.

“Dear Mrs Malloy, you have been so good to me.” Lydia embraced the older woman. They had grown close over the weeks of Lydia's sojourn in the house. Mrs Malloy had taken her under her wing and Lydia had learned much about the running of a large household, offering in exchange her own expertise in managing the household expenses. Now when they returned to London, she might have another possible avenue of employment. And perhaps even a letter of reference from Mrs Malloy, which would be worth far more than its weight in gold. Beyond all that, Lydia would miss her. She had been an oasis of calm practicality.

“Take care. And come back soon. I need your help with the accounts.” Mrs Malloy smiled despite the tears pooling in her grey eyes.

“I shall miss you, Mrs Malloy. Thank you for all your kindness.” Lydia sniffed and held her eyes open wide.

“I'll be praying for you, girl. But remember, justice is one thing and vengeance is another.” With one last squeeze of her hand, Mrs Malloy stepped back.

Lord Danbury and Mr Harting awaited her. She turned and climbed into the carriage, blinking rapidly. She would not cry. Lord Danbury would have her out of the carriage in a trice if he suspected the slightest weakness. She needed something to distract her mind.

Lydia leaned forward and watched as London rattled past in all its stateliness and shabbiness, splendour and grime. Would she ever see it again?

It was not until they left the city behind them, and the gentlemen were involved in desultory conversation about mutual acquaintances, that Lydia opened Mrs Malloy's package. Inside she found a small Bible. Used, but still an expensive gift on a housekeeper's salary. Lydia bit her lip. She had taken her father's Bible with her to the Green Peacock after his death, but it had disappeared like all her other meagre treasures. She cracked open the spine and turned to the first whisper-thin page.

Lydia blinked furiously. Tears could wait. They had to wait.

The carriages kept up a steady pace throughout the long morning, stopping only to change horses and allow the passengers to eat at noon. Despite the landaus' excellent springs, the road was in terrible
repair, and the passengers were jostled until Lydia thought her teeth might rattle loose from her head.

Conversation had long since languished. Lydia could not read any longer and it even grew difficult to think. Every thought was jarred out of place as soon as it formed.

A dismal rain began to fall. The roads degenerated into lengthy tracks of mud. As they entered the small hamlet of Lower Ditton, the lead carriage sank almost to its axels in thick country mire.

Passengers, footmen and coachmen piled out into the cold drizzle to take stock of the situation. Fixing his hat lower on his head, Lord Danbury sent Lydia ahead to the inn to fetch assistance and, she suspected, to get out of the rain. He and Harting stayed to direct the servants in extricating their vehicle.

Lydia slogged through the mud. Her pattens helped some, but she held her skirts high anyway. She was not going to allow a new gown to be ruined so soon.

The inn looked grumpy and dilapidated, with sagging eaves like an old man's lowering eyebrows. As if the rain had washed away any veneer of good manners, the innkeeper sniffed in apparent disapproval of her bedraggled appearance. Not that he was a fashion plate himself: his boots were down at the heels, shirt cuffs frayed, apron a constellation of spatters and stains. Lydia peered back out through the deluge; it was the only inn visible. One would have thought that on such a well-travelled route there would be more accommodations to hand.

Lydia shoved sodden tendrils of hair away from her face, and pasted on a cheery smile. “Good evening, sir. Our coach has had a mishap, and we are in need of assistance and lodging.”

In a few moments, Lydia dispatched the post boy with a team of horses to help drag the landau from the mire, and arranged for rooms and a hot meal. The cook put kettles of water on the fire so the gentlemen could wash when they came in.

Taking possession of the most comfortable nook in the threadbare private sitting room, Lydia reserved the seats nearest the
fire for the gentlemen. They would be as cold as Fenn's heart after their set-to with rain and mud.

Some twenty minutes passed before a flurry of activity announced the arrival of the sopping and disgruntled gentlemen. Lydia poured two steaming cups of tea and added healthy doses of sugar to help ward off a chill.

“I'm sure you are near frozen. This ought…” She glanced up and broke off in mid-sentence.

They looked as if they had been in a wrestling match with the earth. From head to foot they were smeared with gelatinous muck. Lydia opened her mouth but Lord Danbury preempted her with an admonitory hand.

“Don't ask.” A glob of mud dropped from his raised arm and landed with a loud plop on the wooden slats of the parlour floor.

Lydia bit her lip—hard. A sense of the absurd tickled the back of her throat. She couldn't help it. A chuckle slipped out, and then another. More laughter burbled up, clamouring to escape.

Lord Danbury held his glower for a moment, but then she caught his glance sliding over to Harting. The grim line of his mouth tremored. For an instant he seemed to struggle with his composure. He lost the battle; an explosive guffaw escaped. In an instant they were all laughing.

Standing half bent, Danbury clutched his side. “Harting,” he wheezed, after a long moment, “you look ridiculous.”

Lydia bustled about, showing the footmen where they could get warm and clean, and directing the inn's sleepy-eyed maid to take the hot water up to their chambers. Lord Danbury reappeared, freshly bathed, and attired in a clean suit of warm wool. He sank, sighing, into the chair Lydia had reserved for him and propped his feet on the grate.

Harting appeared a few moments later, shooting his cuffs and sniffing the air in appreciation as the meal was brought in. Piping
hot beef stew, and crusty bread along with warm apple cider filled the platters presented by the innkeeper and his wife. The simple, hearty fare proved warm and filling.

“This establishment isn't exactly prepossessing, but you have managed to goad the staff into a credible showing.” Lord Danbury pushed his bowl away, sighing in contentment.

Lydia nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment. “I trust you are recovered from your… exertions?”

“Almost. You mustn't rush a man's recovery. It is highly dangerous to all concerned.” He stretched his feet towards the fire again, warming them lazily against the grate. He looked like a self-satisfied cat, sunning itself in a window.

“What damage was done to the landau?”

Lord Danbury grimaced, his indolent satisfaction disappearing. “We were quite lucky. There was no real damage to the carriage. We cannot proceed, however, until this abysmal weather clears up.” He shrugged in almost Gallic fashion. “The post boy is apparently a bit of a sage regarding the weather. He advises me that the rain will stop within the hour. Then we simply wait for things to dry out a bit. As it is, we wouldn't make a mile before becoming stuck again.”

Glum silence descended, as drenching as the rain. Lydia picked at a loose thread from her wrap. She crossed her ankles in ladylike fashion; but one heel bobbed up and down in incessant rhythm. Each time she realized what she was doing, she stopped and shifted positions. In a few minutes she would catch herself at it again. The minutes hobbled by.

The murderer seemed to be slipping right through her fingers. She'd been so busy with the preparations that she hadn't thought about the possibility that the killer wouldn't be lured by their grand plan. But what if he learned of the expedition and simply decided to wait for them to bring the throne back to England and then steal it? If that were the case, she supposed, they would have an opportunity to catch him when they returned. At some point he must make a
move for the treasure he murdered to obtain. It was a good plan. It had to work.

Once more she stilled the nervous movement of her foot. She couldn't help it. Her body knew they had no business sitting here when a murderer roamed loose. But what could they do? They were trapped.

Unable to bear the dour restiveness that pervaded their parlour, Anthony took refuge in his room, but he carried the atmosphere within him like a disease. He'd no sooner entered than he set to pacing. There must be a way to get to Portsmouth more quickly. If the roads weren't dry in the morning he'd take one of the horses and ride south on his own. The others could follow later.

He stopped. Was that a sob coming from the next room? Ears aquiver he waited in tense expectation. Small though it was, he detected the sound again. His frown deepened and he ran his fingers through his hair.

Heaven knew Miss Garrett had had things to cry about in their short acquaintance, but she had never uttered a word of complaint. What could have happened to provoke her to it now? Abstracted, he lay down on the lumpy bed.

Perhaps she was unequal to storming about the world trying to track down a murderer. The more he thought about it, the more he could not believe how reckless he had been to bring her with him. He couldn't imagine now why he had allowed it—though he rather enjoyed having her nearby. She was certainly different from the society misses of his acquaintance. Not hardened or unladylike, but certainly more experienced in the ways of the world and consequently more independent. And to his mind, more vital.

A vision of her glowing face and shining eyes as she showed him the island's name in the diary flashed before his mind's eye. At times
her loveliness caught him entirely off guard, and made the breath catch in his throat.

Still, expecting a young lady to face the danger inherent in their investigations, and the rigours of travel, was a bit much. Ladies had delicate constitutions; such stresses could cause collapse in the best of them. He would speak to her before his departure in the morning. She would see that it was best for her to return to London.

Marcus lay awake, though fatigue bludgeoned him like a battering ram. Sleep no longer heeded his summons. He lay supine, and tried to convince his conscious mind to retreat. If only rest were a dog to be lured with sweetmeats.