The Peacock Throne (11 page)

The more he came to know Danbury, the more he doubted his involvement in the plot. Drat the girl, but Miss Garrett was most likely right on that score. Still, he had learned to never rely on appearances. The traitor who had gulled the ministry for the last five years was a cunning adversary. He would not give himself away easily.

His mind drifted to Miss Garrett. She presented a conundrum. He had never met a young lady like her. He turned on his side, attempting to punch the meagre down of his pillow into some sort of shape. He gave up. He ought not, but nevertheless he conjured up the girl's image. The spirited gleam in her eye, the graceful arch of her neck, the way she cocked her head when she was reading. Most of all the smile that kissed her lips when she was delighted. At least she knew him as more than a fop.

Would it make any difference?

For the first time since he had assumed the role of a dandy he truly regretted the necessity of the masquerade.

Lydia tossed upon her feather ticking. The delay had them all at sixes and sevens. And she was the worst of the lot. What was she to do once they had discovered the murderer? Where was she to find employment, much less shelter and sustenance? Once his Lordship no longer had common cause with her, he would move on to other more important matters. She had no idea whether he would follow through on his promises. For that matter, she had no guarantee that he would indeed take her on board the
Legacy
. He could change his mind at any time and there was little she could do about it.

If only she could be enfolded in her parents' embrace once more. She missed them. Oh, how she missed them. The hurt of their loss had been rekindled fresh and new with Mr Wolfe's passing. She curled up on her side and covered her mouth to stifle the sob that tore at her throat.

The hours marched on in the steady rhythms of a country night. The moon rose and peered in through the web of barren tree limbs at her window. The wind rattled the branches, shaking away the rain. From deep in the inn someone set to snoring, a deep, gusty sound like the workings of a great bellows, soothing in its own way.

Lydia's eyes flew open. Heart pounding, she sat up in breathless anticipation. The rasp of covert movement in the hall stood out in stark contrast to the sleepy sounds of the country. Climbing from her bed she grabbed her wrapper and crept to the door. Slipping the latch, she opened it warily and poked her head outside. In the darkness of the hall, she could just make out the bulk of a dark figure surreptitiously slipping into Lord Danbury's room.

Abandoning caution, Lydia flew after the creature, yelling with all her might. The figure hesitated for a vital instant at the sound of her voice. A jumble of impressions assaulted her. Lord Danbury sitting up, features frozen in a scowl. A knife, gleaming in the cold light of the moon. The flash as metal sliced air, cloth and flesh in a wicked arc.

She leapt at the invader, latching on, her forearm tightly clamped around his throat. The attacker shook himself like a wet dog trying to dislodge her, but she stuck like a burr.

Now on his feet, Lord Danbury hovered nearby, dodging and weaving. He hugged his left arm tight against his chest, but his right hand was curled in a fist. He delivered a rigid jab to the intruder's nose. Lydia heard the crunch of bone and the man's head snapped back, hitting her ear with a blow that set it ringing. It wasn't the first time her ears had been boxed. He could be the killer. She clung to him with all the strength she could muster.

The attacker, having failed to extricate himself from Lydia's furious grasp, backed violently into the wall, slamming her between it and the force of his own weight. On the third blow, Lydia's grip failed. She collapsed to the ground gasping for air and trying to shake the stars from her vision. From his pallet on the floor, a blinking and bewildered James managed to fight his way from the tangle of his blankets and jumped to her side.

Lord Danbury charged at the man, but the intruder was like a cornered fox bent on escape. He fled stumblingly from Danbury's onslaught, placing only one blow—but that landed on Danbury's wounded shoulder.

Harting stepped from his room as the man emerged. The assailant shoved Harting hard, sending him backwards a few steps, but not knocking him off his feet.

The attacker did not pause to look back as he fled down the stairs, bowling into the innkeeper who had come to investigate the chaos. Picking himself up, the man fled out of the door and a moment later the sound of a horse taking off at a gallop reached them. Harting, having given chase, was trapped by the bulk of the clumsy innkeeper trying to right himself in the narrow stairwell.

Panting, Lord Danbury slumped against the wall of the corridor, holding his injured arm to slow the bleeding. The innkeeper could not seem to decide whether to hurl indignant exclamations after the fleeing intruder, or offer a solicitous hand to Lord Danbury. Ignoring him, Danbury turned back to his room.

Dazed and breathless, Lydia rose on wobbly legs.

“Are you injured, Miss Garrett?” Danbury held out his good hand to steady her.

“I'm quite all right.” She was far more concerned about Lord Danbury's injuries than her own.

Shaking her head gently to clear it, she dispatched the fussing and fluttering innkeeper to the kitchen for bandages and warm water. The innkeeper's wife relit the candles, and shooed away the small crowd that had assembled. Harting returned to report that the man had ridden southeast.

“It would appear, my friend, that someone is dead set against your making this journey,” Harting said.

Lord Danbury glowered at the agent. He might have argued, but at Lydia's insistence he sat down, a tacit acknowledgment that he was in no shape to take off on horseback after the fellow.

Lydia eased the fabric of his nightshirt away from the wound, peering intently at the edges. A clean cut. “It will hurt, but the wound needs to be probed for any stray bits of cloth. If left in place they could fester and cause an infection.”

He nodded, his head bobbing almost drunkenly.

James was turning a delicate shade of apple green. She nodded at him with her chin. “Brandy for his Lordship.”

The valet swallowed hard and, looking relieved, made his escape from the room without protest.

“You seem to know what you're about.” Harting stood at her elbow watching her work. “How is that?”

Lydia carefully cut away Danbury's sleeve. “I have a little training in physic.” She rinsed the gash with the scalding water provided by the innkeeper. Despite her gentleness, Lord Danbury grew pale and taut as she assessed the damage and pulled out a few fine threads.

Harting continued to stare and she turned to him. “Do you wish to take over?”

“Heavens no. I am congratulating myself again on having the good sense to ensure that you were brought along.”

“Congratulate yourself over there. I need the light.” As the
lamp was brought nearer, Lydia stooped until she was on eye level with her charge. “Your Lordship, the knife sliced through the upper part of the arm, but it seems that the attacker caught only muscle. No tendons or ligaments that might have left a permanent impairment.”

He nodded once in acknowledgment, too dazed or in too much pain to argue that she should not be the one providing ministrations. And really, he was generally a sensible man—there was no one else to do it.

Lydia sopped up the blood and then held the wound open so that the depths could be examined. She removed two tiny scraps of cloth with tweezers provided by Harting's valet, making a mental note to question why Harting had tweezers at a later date. Danbury's breathing turned shallow. No doubt he kept from crying out by sheer stubbornness. Sweat stood out on his brow even in the nighttime chill. The clenching and unclenching of his jaw and the odd grimaces were enough to tell Lydia of the pain he endured. She motioned with a slight movement of her chin and Harting positioned himself nearer so he could catch Danbury if he fainted. At last she was able to clean and bandage the wound. Finally she fashioned a sling to protect it from further injury.

The innkeeper produced a vial of laudanum and she dosed his Lordship, which eased his pain and soon had him nodding off. Three of the footmen were brought in from where they had been sleeping in the stables. Pallets were prepared on the floor in front of the guest room doors. Armed with stout cudgels, the footmen were charged with keeping out intruders.

“Are you satisfied now that he is not a part of this plot?” Lydia hissed to Harting as she checked the sleeping Danbury's wound one more time before leaving the chamber.

“This event would seem to preclude that assumption, although he did escape nearly unscathed.”

A most unladylike growl emerged from the back of her throat as she fought the impulse to strike him. She pushed past him without
another word. She could not get the better of him in a verbal joust tonight.

Sleep came slowly. Infection posed a serious danger with such a wound. Questions about their attacker chased one another through the corners of her mind. How had the man found them? Someone must have been following them. She drifted into a fragile doze only after getting up and straightening the twisted bedclothes for the third time.

Morning dawned sombre and windy. Rather than lie in bed brooding, Lydia washed and dressed, relieved to be able to rise at last. Having forgotten the footman sleeping on her threshold, she tripped over him. After soothing the startled man, Lydia hurried downstairs to order breakfast and determine whether there was a real physician nearby who would be able to look in on his Lordship.

Instead she found Danbury already seated at one of the long public tables, trying to eat without moving his left arm. He looked up at the sound of her approach.

“I couldn't sleep,” he said by way of explanation, and waved his fork vaguely at the many platters of food spread out before him.

Lydia took the seat across from him, and placed a napkin in her lap. “How are you feeling?”

“As well as might be expected.” Lord Danbury grimaced around a bite of eggs.

“Perhaps we should postpone leaving, so a surgeon can examine your wound.”

“I'll be fine. This attack proves the murderers are still interested in what we're doing. We cannot delay a moment.”

Lydia didn't argue. He did seem in remarkably good spirits. And she knew him well enough by now to know he would not be dissuaded from a purpose once his mind was set. He and Harting were much alike in that way. She must simply see to it that his strength would not be taxed.

They ate in contemplative silence. Moments later, a grinning
Harting appeared. In no frame of mind for such a display of cheerfulness, Lydia glowered at him.

Harting sat down and helped himself to eggs. “I had already grabbed for the intruder when he shoved me last night.”

Lord Danbury grunted at the seemingly pointless announcement and continued eating. Despite an almost obsessive desire to snub him, Lydia set aside her fork and gazed at Harting with narrowed eyes. He never said anything to no purpose; indeed usually there were at least two purposes being served.

“I thought I felt something pull away from his coat, but with only the light of the candles, I couldn't find anything after the fracas last night.”

Now even Lord Danbury had perked up and turned an expectant gaze upon him.

“Morning light is a vastly different thing, however.” Harting reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. “I found this.”

Danbury and Lydia leaned forward to examine the large ebony button that nestled in Harting's palm. Engraved on the front was a tall, square-rigged merchant ship, sails billowing.

“This must have come from an expensive garment.” Lord Danbury took the button and revolved it thoughtfully between his fingers.

“There is certainly a naval air about it,” Lydia said.

“I don't believe it's from a uniform. Perhaps we should look for a merchant seaman.”

Harting reclaimed the button and turned it over to expose a tiny amount of cloth and thread still affixed to the shank. “It appears to have come from a dark blue coat.”

“Now all we have to do is find a mariner who owns a blue coat with a missing button. How many of those can there be?” Lord Danbury jested feebly.

Harting pocketed the button and suggested they continue the search in the hope that the attacker left some other clue behind. They searched the inn and courtyard minutely. Despite painstaking effort they found only a length of grubby twine, half a hook-and-eye closure, and a wealth of crumbs and dust. Calling an end to the fruitless endeavour, they repaired to the private sitting room Lord Danbury had hired.

Danbury summoned his perpetually disgruntled coachman to report on whether the roads were dry enough for travel. The man arrived, hat in hand, looking only marginally gloomy. In response to the question, he narrowly avoided smiling.

“Well, your Lordship, tain't rainin' but the sun ain't shinin' neither. The wind's picked up and if it keeps dry, the roads should be fit fer driving real soon. Mebbe a couple of hours.”

“See you're ready to go at the first opportunity, Burke. We must not delay any more than necessary.”

“Yes, sir. I'll be ready.” The coachman tugged his forelock and hurried back out to the stables.

“If we cannot take the carriages, I'll hire a horse and ride on ahead. There are too many things yet to do in Portsmouth for me to remain here. If that happens, Miss Garrett, you will come later with the carriages.” Lord Danbury tapped the map lying open before him.

“Riding such a distance would almost certainly prove damaging to your shoulder. It would be foolhardy to cause further delay by injuring yourself anew,” said Lydia.

“I can ride ahead and make sure that the arrangements are properly completed.” Harting propped his boots on the grate.

Lord Danbury's jaw grew tight and Lydia thought she heard the grinding of teeth. He acknowledged the sense of the suggestion but it was clear to see he did not agree to it.

“Listen, friend, it occurs to me that the attacker made straight for your room. How did he know which room you were staying in and how did he get into the inn?” asked Harting.

Lydia opened her mouth and then closed it again. She had not thought to ask such questions.

Harting summoned the innkeeper, who appeared with apologies on his lips. The poor man was abject in his distress. Lydia could nearly read his thoughts. They were writ plain enough on his face. It was obvious from his restlessness that he didn't need someone from the upper classes making trouble for his inn.

When Harting asked to speak to each of the live-in staff, the man all but tripped over himself in his haste to comply. One by one, the post boy, cook, and upstairs maid paraded in, looking nervous. They were each dismissed after a couple of questions, leaving only the scullery maid.

A tiny scratching at the door announced the presence of the lowest member of the household. The scrawny young woman entered timidly, twisting her apron in red, chapped hands. Her eyes were red-rimmed as if she had been weeping.

“May I ask your name?” Harting spoke soothingly as if addressing a wild animal.

“Sarah Emsley, yer Honour,” she whispered.

“Thank you, Sarah. We have a few questions for you.”

The girl's nod was barely perceptible. She seemed to be holding her breath. This must all be overwhelming—well beyond her experience. No doubt she feared being blamed for something. Lydia tried to offer an encouraging smile, but the girl had eyes for no one except Mr Harting, sitting with all the awful solemnity of a magistrate in the seat of honour.

“How long have you worked at this establishment, Sarah?”

“Three years, sir.” Her voice remained a mere breath of sound.

“Do you like the work?”

“It's all right.”

“Do you know many of your customers?”

“Most of 'em.”

“Would you remember someone if they weren't a regular?”

“Mayhap I would.”

“Did anyone approach you to ask about our party yesterday?”

The girl crumpled as if she were a bit of blotting paper balled up for the rubbish bin. Bending over, she sobbed loudly into her apron. Lydia hurried to the girl's side, and put a comforting arm around her shoulder.

“It's all right,” she soothed. “Come now. Don't carry on so. There's no need for this. We aren't interested in getting you into trouble. We simply need to know about this person. Hush now.” It took a few moments but the girl managed to collect herself. She clutched Lydia's hand as if she might offer absolution.

“I'm sure I didn't mean to do wrong. I never thought fer a second the gentleman were a wrong 'un. He were ever so nice and polite to me.”

“Why don't you just tell us how it happened?” Lydia gentled the girl onto a couch.

“Lizzie Dalton took sick yesterday so I got stuck waitin' tables in the common room. This right gent come in lookin' for a good supper. I poured him a draught and he were quite pleasant. Said as how he were travellin' through on his way to the coast. He thought as how he'd seen his friend's carriage in the yard, and asked if Lord Danbury were stayin' here. I said as how you were. Then the gent said as how he hadn't seen you in an age and wanted to know which room you were in so he could pay his compliments. I told him a'course, and then said as how I thought you were in the private sitting room.” Tears again welled in her eyes and the girl's words choked off.

“You're doing well.” Lydia offered an encouraging smile. “Did this gentleman have anything else to say?”

The girl nodded. “He were ever so nice. Told me as I was pretty and how I shouldn't have to work so hard fer my livin'.” Sarah's ears turned scarlet. “He talked about settin' me up in a cottage near London. I…I left the latch off the door so as he could come t' see me last night. But he never come.” With a whimper, the girl again buried her face. Lydia patted her back. It hurt to realize one had been played for a fool.

Lydia looked to Harting.

Harting spoke quietly, taking care not to frighten the maid. “Can you describe the man for us?”

Sarah mopped at her face with a handkerchief Lydia handed her. “He were a gentleman. His manners were so nice and he spoke well too. He were taller than most. He wore a good wig, well powdered. Kind of old fashioned, I s'pose.”

“What of his clothing?”

The girl closed her eyes and screwed up her face in a caricature of someone thinking hard. “He had a fine, dark blue jacket of broadcloth. I'm sure it cost a good deal.” She turned again to Lord Danbury. “I'm sorry, yer Lordship, I never thought fer a second he meant anyone harm.”

“Think no more about it, my dear,” Lord Danbury said. “We'll not mention any of this to your employer, but do be careful in future. You deserve a good deal more than that fellow promised.”

Sniffling, the girl nodded again. She could add nothing to what she had already told them, and Lord Harting dismissed her after a few more minutes.

“It's a pity she could not be more specific in her description,” Harting said when the maid had gone.

Lydia frowned. “She did her best.”

“No doubt, but her description could fit half the male population of England.” Harting stood. “If you will excuse me, I must send a message to Pitt.”

Anthony paced and grumbled. He hated delay at any time, but this situation magnified his impatience a thousand-fold. Surely the roads were passable by now? If he were forced to spend another night in the dreary inn, he would be a candidate for Bedlam. Bored with his own grousing, Anthony brought his attention back to his surroundings. The peeling paint and dusty, mostly empty, bookshelves held no interest. He needed a distraction.

Miss Garrett still sat quietly in an armchair, plying needle and thread with quick, neat dexterity. Had she been there the whole time? Of course she had. He wondered if her experiences at the Green Peacock had taught her how to fade into the background. Anthony coloured and sat down. He was an ill-mannered boor to keep a young lady company in such a manner.

“I cannot say why I am so unsettled. A sense of urgency hangs over me that I cannot escape.”

She set aside her needlework. “I feel it too. I think we all do.” Her luminous eyes met his with such a depth of understanding that he held his breath for an instant.

“Tell me, how did you learn physic?” Anthony asked.

“My mother,” said Lydia. “When she married, she wanted to be the finest vicar's wife in England—to make Father proud. She made all the usual rounds to visit the ailing, though she hated to see their suffering, and felt helpless to alleviate their pain. When she could stand no more she began to borrow books about medicine. She read everything she could get on the subject.” A far-away smile touched the girl's lips. “Then she developed a friendship with the stillroom maid at the great house, and learned about herbs, and plants, what things made good physics, and so on. She even took to assisting the local surgeon. All so that when she visited the sick, she could offer more than pity. When I grew old enough to accompany her, she began to teach me what she knew.”

“You must be very like her.”

Lydia flashed him a brilliant smile. “That is one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to me.” She took her sewing up once more. “Tell me about your mother.”

“I never really knew her. She died when I was very young.”

“I'm sorry.” Her smile faded like a wilting rose, and a flush crept up her cheeks. Anthony rushed to reassure her.

“Don't be. I used to listen to my father tell stories about her. I believe she was the reforming influence in his life. He always said he wanted to be the man she thought he was.”

“It sounds as if they were very happy.”

“They were. I have very little memory of her. Only impressions really—a gentle voice, soft cool hands, dark hair and eyes. As a boy I used to stare at her portrait for hours, trying to will animation into the features.”

“Sometimes I'm afraid I will forget my parents' faces. When someone is there, you think such a thing would be impossible, but when they're gone, memory fades and one is left only with the essence of who they were.” A distant look crossed her features.

“I'm fortunate to have portraits of my parents.”

“I think my mother sat for a portrait about the time she came out but, of course, her family would have it. I did have a miniature
of the two of them. They paid an itinerant artist to make it, and it was fairly good. It was misplaced somehow shortly after I arrived at the Wolfes'.”

A shuffling in the hallway announced the approach of one of the footmen. Anthony sat up, every nerve a tingle.

“Pardon me, sir. The groom says as how the road is looking fine and the landau is waiting your convenience.”

“Excellent.” Anthony bounded to his feet, beaming. “At last, some good news. Now where is James? I want to leave immediately.”