The Peacock Throne (15 page)

“Well enough. It at least provides opportunities for an enterprising botanist. There are always exotic locales to be explored.” The doctor accepted another portion of plum duff from the captain.

After dinner the doctor accordingly offered his elbow and Lydia took it. “Excuse us, gentlemen.” She nodded to the others at the table.

The dank orlop deck was fetid and dark. Below the water line, the only light came from smoky lanterns. As ever when she came to this part of the ship, Lydia breathed shallowly, forcing herself not
to cover her mouth and nose with a handkerchief. If mere night air was dangerous, how did any patient survive this atmosphere?

His medical equipment encompassed a handful of hammocks, an apothecary chest and a mixing table. The surgeon's cockpit was to the fore. She had glanced at the tools it held only once and had no desire to do so again.

“Where ought I to start?”

“A drop, please?” A young seaman held up a horny palm.

Marshall moved forward. “Normally a job for my loblolly boy.” He gestured at a figure in the last hammock. “He came to us the day before the storm. One of the most typical wounds you'll see on board ship. An arm broken when it was caught in a block and tackle.”

Lydia reached out a staying hand. “I can do it.”

She worked throughout the afternoon wiping brows, dispensing gruel into hungry mouths, and offering reassurances.

For the hundredth time a voice croaked for her attention, requesting water. Lydia lowered the dipper into the hogshead and, careful not to spill, approached the sailor. His lips were cracked. Perspiration stood out on a brow that looked pallid beneath a heavy tan. With obvious effort he raised himself on one elbow. His other arm had been broken and was bound tightly to his chest.

Lydia lifted the dipper to his mouth and he drank deeply.

“Thank you kindly.” He fell back with a grunt of pain.

“Certainly.” He looked younger than she. Unable to resist the impulse, Lydia smoothed the damp hair back from his forehead. She yanked her hand back. He was burning up with fever.

Biting her lip, she carefully unwrapped his bandages to reveal his injured arm. A foul odour soured the air and made Lydia gasp. The wound was livid, and swollen to bursting with infection.

“Doctor.”

“Yes, Miss Garrett?” He did not look up from the powder he was mixing.

“I believe this young man needs your assistance.” Lydia fought
to keep the welling panic from her voice. He was seriously ill, or she was Josephine Bonaparte. “Right now.”

At that, the doctor did raise his head. “What can I do for you, Larsen?”

“I'm all right, sir. No need for a fuss.”

Marshall raised his glance to Lydia's. She nodded minutely.

“He feels quite warm to me. Perhaps you could re-evaluate his arm?”

Dr Marshall placed a hand on the man's brow. Frowning, he pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, and grasped the man's wrist. Then he lifted the dressing and scowled. “Ah, I see. A preparation of febrifuge would answer, to begin with.” His voice was low, a conversation with himself rather than his breathless audience. Marshall drifted away. Lydia glanced from the retreating form to the sailor and pulled a stool closer to the sailor's hammock.

A thin white line ringed the sailor's mouth where he had compressed his lips tightly together. “Am I going to die, Miss?”

Lydia swallowed. Her eyes and throat stung. False reassurance hovered on her lips, but she could not bring herself to utter the platitudes. “I don't know.”

He blinked rapidly and turned his face from her.

“I do know that my father—he was a vicar—didn't fear death. To him it was the beginning of another adventure. But Dr Marshall and I will do everything in our power to ensure that you don't go on that adventure just yet.”

Through the open portholes, Marcus caught the sound of a shout ringing from the tops, immediately followed by the pounding of feet. He set aside his book, anticipation rising in his belly. The talk around the table stilled. A moment later a young man swung into the greater cabin. He whipped off his hat and bobbed his head in greeting. “Mr Cabot's compliments, sir, and land has been sighted. Two points to larboard.”

Danbury was first out of the door, flinging his napkin to the table and standing so precipitately that his chair toppled back with a thud. The rest followed in close succession.

On deck, an obliging sailor pointed him in the right direction, and Marcus raised his glass. Far in the distance, he made out a tiny green speck dotting the horizon.

Lydia turned to Lord Danbury. “That's Mahe?”

“Yes, I think so.” Danbury's eyes were bright. “Now we will see.” He rubbed his hands together and laughed, a hearty sound that drew others to join him.

Marcus raised his glass again and eyed the island. He had never seen a more welcome sight. And yet he couldn't shake the sense that danger awaited them on Mahe. He well knew the ruthlessness of murderers. Once someone had killed to obtain a goal, it became easier to do so again. The people they were dealing with had killed at least twice.

Danbury and Miss Garrett were too naive. During their voyage, Marcus had come to admire Danbury's tenacity, intelligence, and
enthusiasm, but the earl didn't truly appreciate the risks they ran. How could he? He'd never come face to face with men such as they now sought to trap. He was apt to be rash and it would take a great deal of effort to compel him to caution.

They stayed on deck watching the green speck transform itself into a jewel of an island as they drew closer. All the time he was considering what challenges might await.

Legacy
drew into Mahe's natural harbour as the sun set. The place had attracted sailors for hundreds of years. Anthony drank in the view as if it were an intoxicating vintage. Beautiful beaches gave way to a series of verdant mountains. Huge granite boulders jutted from the hills, providing rugged contrast to the lush greenness that predominated. The shallower water became a hue Anthony had never seen before in nature, though he had heard it described—a brilliant, luminous Prussian green. A mixture, it seemed, of the vibrant blue of the sky and the green of the island itself. Every hue and shade seemed more vivid than the colours of England.

A small village had grown beside the harbour since
Centaur
's crew had put in so long ago. It wasn't much to look at. A handful of ramshackle shanties clustered along the shore. They looked as if they provided little in the way of shade, much less shelter. The inhabitants apparently excelled at scavenging; the shacks looked as though they had been formed mainly from bits of shipwrecked vessels. Scant effort had been made to tame the natural vegetation, resulting in a riotous profusion of greenery that almost overran some of the structures.

Captain Campbell approached and Anthony turned to meet him. “Captain, you've done splendidly. I can practically feel the sand underfoot already.”

“Aye, my Lord. I've no doubt you're champing at the bit to set ashore. But I counsel you to wait until morning. The moon's
waning and it'll be nigh impossible to accomplish anything before dawn.”

He'd waited long enough. Anthony opened his mouth to say so, but Mr Cabot appeared at his shoulder. “There's less than an hour's worth of daylight. By the time we lowered the boats and rowed ashore you'd be compelled to return to the ship.”

Harting shrugged as eloquently as a Frenchman.

Anthony sighed, but his better sense prevailed. “We will leave at first light, no matter who is or is not prepared to depart.” He shot a withering glance across Harting's bow.

Thus, in the pearly grey prelude to dawn he rose and dressed. Miss Garrett found him pacing the foredeck and annoying the watch.

“Good morning, my Lord.”

“Good morning. I trust you slept well.”

“I'm afraid that I did not.”

Anthony ripped his gaze from the beckoning shore to look at her more closely. “Oh?”

“Too unsettled.” She waved a hand towards the island. “I suspect I wasn't the only one who tossed and turned during the night.”

Anthony managed to stop pacing, and smiled. “My dear young lady, you are too perceptive by half.”

“Perhaps breakfast would make the wait more bearable?”

Anthony raised an eyebrow. At the moment he had less desire to eat than to clap a bucket on his head. What he wanted was to get on that island. He was giddy with the nearness of their goal. Perhaps he could swim for it? He leaned over the rail slightly. The water was so clear he could see straight to the bottom. It might not be a bad idea at all.

“My Lord?” Miss Garrett placed a hand on his sleeve. “You'll need your strength if we are to be climbing all over Mahe in search of the throne.” She offered a sweet smile.

The pleasure of her company, without Harting's eternal presence, might be worth the delay. She was looking particularly
well. The warmth of the day and the flush of excitement had brought pink to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Yes, a few more minutes wouldn't really be a delay at all.

Daybreak found Lydia watching a launch being lowered into the water. Lord Danbury and Lord Harting climbed down the rope ladder while the seamen rigged the boatswain's seat to lower Lydia to the gig. Capable hands held the sling, but repetition had not robbed the procedure of its power to terrorize her.

If only she could climb the ladder like the men. At least the ladder was in no danger of plummeting into the sea. She did not breathe deeply until she landed safely in the gig, and the sling had been hauled back up to the deck.

The oarsmen bent their backs with a good will, and it took only a few moments to reach shore. Up close, Lydia found the island even more charming. Lively little birds darted amongst the foliage and trilled to one another. Small, creamy-white flowers with buttery centres adorned many of the trees, and their sweet smell wafted on the air.

Lord Danbury hopped from the gig as the bottom ground up against sand. With a gentlemanly gesture he turned and reached to swing Lydia down from the boat, his hands warm and strong on her waist.

A little thrill swirled through her—probably the effect of the sudden motion. Or perhaps the delight of being on solid ground once more. She could not afford for the cause to lie in any other quarter. Not given their respective positions. Nor could she afford to believe that his hands had lingered longer than strictly necessary.

Holding her skirts clear of the water she waded the last few steps to firmer sand. Beside her, Lord Danbury staggered.

“This ground is very unsteady.”

Harting too swayed almost drunkenly. Nor was Lydia unaffected. The earth to which they had been returned seemed very different from that which they had left.

“Never fear. It is simply the effect of having been so long at sea. You shall regain your land legs as quickly as you gained your sea legs.” Dr Marshall seemed to note Lydia's gaze on the flowers. He plucked a particularly beautiful specimen. “They're called frangipani.”

“They're lovely.” Lydia accepted the blossom he extended to her, and held it to her nose, inhaling deeply.

Lord Danbury spread his arms to take in the view. “Everything seems brighter somehow.” He turned to Lydia, his jaw set, a gleam in his eye. “We will capture the murderer, and we will obtain redress.” His tone turned savage at this last, a strange counterpoint to the beauty of the island.

“Oh?” said Harting. “I pray you, my friend, do not forget that larger things are at stake than your desire for revenge.”

Lord Danbury seemed to tuck his feelings back in as swiftly as if they were a handkerchief in his pocket. “No, of course not.”

“I'm glad to hear you say it,” said Harting.

Danbury smiled grimly, turning back to the business at hand. “Let's see what the inhabitants of this handsome spot can tell us.”

Suddenly cold, as if she'd been tossed in an icehouse, Lydia accepted the arm he extended to her. Rage lurked beneath Lord Danbury's affability. Perhaps he meant to do more than return the killer to London for a trial. More than prevent Bonaparte's wicked schemes.

A white man with a grizzled beard sat outside the front door of the nearest shack. Tilted back in a chair with his feet off the ground, he watched their approach between lazy puffs on his pipe.

“
Bonjour, monsieur
,” Lord Danbury hailed him.

“Mornin',” the man said with a gruff nod.

Danbury blinked twice. “You're English.”

“So are you.”

“I believed Mahe to be inhabited by French plantation owners.”

“So it is, so it is. But we've a few stout Englishmen among these frog eaters.”

“I am glad to hear it. It's always good to come upon an Englishman abroad,” Danbury said.

“Aye, it's good to hear an English voice. What brings you fine folks to Établissement?”

“Établissement?”

“That's the fancy name for this here village.” The old man waved a hand at the handful of houses.

“Ah, well. Can you tell me if any ships have put in recently?”

“No, sir. We haven't had any visitors for nigh on three months.” He plucked the pipe from his mouth and scratched a grizzled chin. “There a reason you're asking?”

“We're on a mission, my friend, and we need help from someone who is familiar with this island.”

The man returned the front legs of his chair to the earth with a thump, and stood, extending his hand. “Name's Jeremiah Long. I've lived here for twelve years. I guess I know the place 'bout as good as anyone.”

“Pleased to meet you. I am the Earl of Danbury; this is the Honourable Marcus Harting, and Miss Garrett.” Lydia nodded politely, but both she and Harting remained silent, allowing Lord Danbury to maintain the lead in the conversation. “I believe we should like to discuss matters with you, Mr Long.”

“There's no sense in letting everyone in town know your business.” He motioned them into the shade of what turned out to be a shop.

The tiny mercantile was nearly barren. A handful of assorted tins, boxes and bags looked as if they had been spread out to maximize their effect on potential customers. Instead the display ended up looking even more meagre.

Long gave an apologetic wave at the contents of his shelves. “Haven't had any ships to trade with recently.”

“Are there many caves on this island?” Lord Danbury asked when they had shuffled into the cramped space.

“There's a goodly number.”

“Is there plenty of fresh water, even in the mountains?”

Long's brow furrowed. He was obviously becoming curious, but he answered readily enough. “Oh, aye, plenty of good water to be had if you knows where to look.”

“Is the terrain difficult to negotiate?”

“Well, some of it's pretty steep going. There's a few trails—mostly to the spice plantations. The rainy season is nigh upon us, and sometimes the mountains are hid by clouds for days at a time. It can be dangerous going.”

“I see.” Lord Danbury nodded thoughtfully. After a moment's silence he nodded once more, decisively. “Mr Long, I'd like to hire you to be our guide. We're looking for a fairly large cave somewhere on this island. We'll require help to find food and water and someone to make sure we don't become lost or walk off the edge of the mountain.”

“What's this all about? There's legends of pirate treasure being hidden on this island. Is that what you're after?”

“No. My father and his crew visited Mahe years ago. They weren't pirates, but when he died, I learned he left something here which must needs be retrieved.” Lord Danbury's answer, though vague, was enticing.

Lydia shot a sideways glance at Lord Danbury. They had discussed the plan and Danbury hoped that if their enemies appeared, they would hear gossip of the search, and it would provoke them to make a move. But was it wise to bring someone they didn't know into their confidence so quickly? What if—Lydia choked the thought off before it could go any further. She had to stop worrying about events as if they were knots she could untie. But what if the spy did come?

Miss Garrett and Harting stepped back into the sun, leaving Anthony to haggle with Mr Long. He snorted indelicately at the price Long demanded. “Highway robbery, and you well know it.”

“A man has to live,” Long shrugged.

Anthony offered him a third of his original price, and Long pretended to be shocked. In the end they agreed upon half his first demand. As the bargaining concluded, Long stuck his head through the hole in the wall which served as a window.

“Danielle.”

A young woman turned from where she had been hanging laundry to dry on bushes behind the store. She was quite lovely, with golden hair that gleamed in the sun and a lithe figure.

Long gestured at the young woman with his chin. “My wife. French, but she speaks fair English.”

Danielle presented herself at the window. She looked from her husband to Anthony and back again. Closer up, her eyes were a match for the sea surrounding Mahe.

“Get in here and help me, girl. I'm taking these folks up into the mountains and we're going to need supplies.”

“
Qu'est-ce que c'est
?”

Long cut her off. “Get on in here.” He turned to Anthony. “You want her to come? She was raised here, and knows Mahe like nobody.”

“We can use all the expertise we can get.”

“Expertise!” Long snorted a laugh that made it clear he considered that too high-flown a term to describe his wife. “That's a good one, milord.” Anthony had the distinct impression that had he been anything less than an earl, Long would have slapped him on the back.

Leaving the couple to begin their preparations, Anthony stepped outside to join Harting and Miss Garrett. The bright tropical sunlight blinded him, and it took a moment to spy them. They stood conversing with a pair of men at the far end of the dirt path
that constituted the sum total of the main street. Anthony walked towards them, feeling conspicuous as he ran the gauntlet of stares from the few individuals he passed. The gazes were not hostile, but neither were they friendly.

“Ah,” Harting said as he approached. It was his turn to perform introductions. “Danbury, this is Monsieur Paul Laurent and Monsieur Pierre-Louis Poiret.”

Anthony guessed they were French noblemen dispossessed by the revolution. Monsieur Laurent—a tall, spare man with a balding pate and skin turned nut-brown by the sun—looked at the world down a long, narrow nose. Although slightly shabby now, his clothes had once been of the highest quality.

A good deal younger, Monsieur Poiret appeared to Anthony to be eighteen or nineteen. While not especially good-looking, he held himself erect and managed to convey friendly interest by the tilt of his head and a welcoming smile.

“I am very pleased to meet you.” Monsieur Poiret extended a hand to shake in the English manner.

“A pleasure.”

“We've been telling these gentlemen about your father's legacy. They were suggesting some areas we ought to search,” Miss Garrett said.

“Oh, yes?” A great, boiling bellow welled up in Anthony's chest. He wanted to issue his challenge in a shout, to dare the murderers to come for him. When he had them in his grasp…

“Yes, your—” Monsieur Laurent looked between Anthony and Miss Garrett and paused, patently unsure what relationship existed between them. He backtracked. “Miss Garrett 'as been telling us a fascinating story. I did not know there were caves 'ere, but I 'ave not lived 'ere for too long.”

“Do you not recall the runaway slave? Did they not catch him in a cave? I am sure I heard something,” Poiret said.

“Ah,
oui
, that is true,” Monsieur Laurent adjusted his cuffs awkwardly.

“You have much work in front of you if you do not know where this cave might be. How long do you think it will take you to complete this task you have set yourself?” Pierre-Louis asked.

“It doesn't matter. I will stay as long as necessary and do whatever it takes to find it.”

“I admire your persistence, monsieur. Family is most important. The memory of one's parents ought to be honoured.” A shadow passed over Poiret's features and drowned out the merry light of his eyes. Monsieur Laurent gripped the young man's arm. “It 'as been a great pleasure to meet you, but we must be getting back to the plantation. I am sure you will understand.” With a nod of farewell he whisked his friend away.

Lord Danbury led the way back to the beach. The crew had been ferrying supplies ashore. Everything from tarpaulins and rope to cookware and a medicine chest was piled on the sand. Looking at the mountain of boxes and crates, Lydia could not imagine they were missing so much as a thimble.

Together she and the gentlemen took an inventory of the supplies, then ate a cold luncheon brought over from the ship. The sun climbed ever higher in the sky, making the beach a hazy inferno.

Lydia dipped her handkerchief in the surf and dabbed at her face. The gentlemen looked even more miserable than she in their coats, waistcoats, cravats and shirts. At least there was a slight breeze coming off the water.