The Peacock Throne (29 page)

Lydia followed. She craned her neck to look up at him, but the simple act of turning her head made her stomach lurch, and she battled to keep from disgracing herself. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to be led further from the light and activity of the ball.

What was wrong with her? She blanched.
Please don't let there be anything amiss with the game from the buffet. It would be terrible if all the guests were to fall ill.

Lydia's mind whirled, disordered and chaotic, unable to focus. Thoughts seemed to slip through her grasp as soon as they formed.

Dr Marshall nudged her gently to a bench and she collapsed gratefully on the cool stone. Her senses cleared for a moment and she heard the doctor whispering.

“
Elle est ici
.”

Her heart plunged to her feet. She turned to look at him, fighting to concentrate—to understand. Darkness consumed her, dragging her into a deep void.

Lord Wellesley led the party into the receiving hall. A murmur of excitement built among the guests. At Wellesley's request, Harting and Anthony made their way to the front of the crowd. The audience quieted and an expectant hush filled the hall.

Anthony had to restrain a snort as Wellesley eulogized their courage and resourcefulness.
What rot.
All he wanted was to find the murderer and go home.

The crowd pressed closer as latecomers edged into the hall. The spy had to be amongst them; he could smell evil in the air. He eyed the assembled guests, looking for someone out of the ordinary, a visage twisted with cruelty and avarice. It was hopeless. Every face he looked in seemed to hold a measure of one or the other. But then, Miss Garrett had proven that looks could deceive. He strangled the thought and buried it beneath his determination to find the murderer.

Wellesley had moved on, and now waxed lyrical about bridges being built between Britain and India because of the heroic return of the treasure to Indian soil. Anthony glanced over to Harting. The man's eyes had glazed over. At least he didn't seem to be buying the tripe Wellesley was selling either.

He searched the faces of the crowd for Miss Garrett. How was she enduring the posturing? She was nowhere to be found. Smart girl. She had a positive genius for looking after her own interests. A taste as bitter as wormwood filled his mouth.

As the audience began to shift and whisper, the Governor-General stepped back. With a flourish he whipped the covering from the throne. The crowd inhaled as one body.

Jewels caught the light and refracted it into miniature starbursts. The grand Peacock Throne of the Mughals shone as if lit from within. Spontaneous applause burst from the crowd. Many of the guests approached the throne, touching it with soft hands—some reverently in respect of its beauty, others greedily as if touch might help them guess its value.

Wellesley's men would have to watch the crowd, or the throne would be picked clean of jewels by morning.

A group of men clustered around Lord Wellesley, congratulating him on a coup of diplomacy. Others pressed closely around Anthony and Harting, avid for the tale of their adventure. Anthony indulged them—partially.

It would never do to cause a panicked search for French spies. He found himself hailed as a hero, but he could not accept the praise heaped on him. His true goal had yet to be accomplished.

At last the crowd began to disperse and Harting collared him. “Have you seen Miss Garrett?”

“Not since the buffet was laid.” He fumbled with his cravat, trying in vain to repair the damage inflicted by the crush.

“I wonder how she's holding up. The crowds might have trampled the poor girl if she were as inundated as we.”

“I'm sure she will have managed.” Anthony would rather not see Miss Garrett again. Ever.

Harting shook his head. “No, I'm sure she would have attended the unveiling. I think we ought to look for her.”

Anthony sneered. “Are you sure she isn't off performing some errand for you?”

Harting stepped back. A light seemed to have been snuffed out somewhere within him, eliminating the friendly gleam in his eyes. “I haven't asked anything of her.”

Anthony glared at him.

Harting sighed. “May we discuss it later? For the moment I have an unpleasant suspicion that all is not well.”

Shaking his head at the tacit confirmation, Anthony breathed out heavily. The edge of betrayal sliced him open like a fillet knife. “I'll go this way.” It was a harsh bullfrog's croak of a voice, but at least he hadn't issued the challenge that had sprung to his lips. He had to get away from Harting before he did something impulsive.

He circled the reception rooms and glanced out at the gardens. Miss Garrett was nowhere in sight. Hangers-on hampered his every movement, introducing themselves and peppering him with questions he did not wish to answer. At last he approached a servant and asked him to summon Miss Garrett.

The instant he stood still, avid officials desiring his confidence clustered around him as if he were some sort of magnet. Would this evening never end? Doing his best to at least appear gracious he slapped on a polite smile.

Some twenty minutes later Harting approached. “Excuse me, gentlemen. May I borrow Lord Danbury for a moment?” His lips were turned up in a semblance of a smile, but he bore such an air of reproach that the crowd fairly melted away.

He was to the point. “Did you find her?”

Anthony's hands clenched into fists. “I did not.”

“Did you even bother to look?”

The urge to shout nearly choked him. “I looked. But frankly I am much more interested in finding a murderer. She likely took to her bed with a megrim. I'd do the same if I weren't set on finishing this business.”

Harting shook his head. “I had a servant check her room. She isn't there.” His gaze looked past and around Anthony, searching the guests for a slender column of white. For the first time a stirring of unease niggled at Anthony. Almost involuntarily he looked over his shoulder.

Lord Wellesley stood nearby speaking to a bewigged and gartered gentleman. Anthony touched Harting's arm. “Come, let's inquire
with Wellesley. He may know something.” They approached him and begged pardon for the interruption before presenting their concern.

“No, come to think of it I haven't. Of course, I haven't seen Mrs Adkins in a good while either. Perhaps some crisis over musicians or some such called them away. Ah, thank you,” he said to a waiter who approached him with a note. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.” Lord Wellesley unfolded the missive. He paled, his face tightening into hard lines and his eyes turning wintry.

“Lord Danbury, Mr Harting, please join me in my study. Lord Chester, I must beg you to excuse us.”

Anthony and Harting exchanged glances. Something was terribly wrong. They hurried to follow Lord Wellesley's rigid form. Once the door shut behind them, he flung the letter on the desk.

“Their lives are threatened.”

“Who?”

“Miss Garrett and Mrs Adkins.” Wellesley's voice was vehement.

Harting leaned close over Anthony's shoulder to examine the letter. It was short and to the point.

Lord Wellesley stepped from the room and ordered a passing servant to find the ladies and ask them to join him in the study. The servant scurried away, the harshness of the command lending wings to his progress.

“We will have to post guards on the ladies. They must be cautioned to take the greatest care with their safety,” said Harting.

Tension stemmed further conversation as they waited in agitated silence for the ladies to present themselves. Lord Wellesley rang for another servant and sent him to find the commander of the forces tasked with protecting Government House.

Captain Stevens arrived a scant few minutes later, breathless and still clutching a pair of playing cards. These he tucked quickly out of sight as he perused the note.

Still there was no sign of either lady.

The servant returned, but his downcast demeanour boded no good. “I am sorry, my Lord, but I have searched everywhere. I cannot find the ladies.”

Anthony took to pacing while the poor man underwent a close interrogation. The servant answered readily enough and it appeared he had performed a thorough, if hurried, search. Captain Stevens excused himself to gather a few soldiers and make an in-depth search.

“Be discreet, Captain. I do not want to upset my guests,” said Lord Wellesley. “It will cause chaos and make our task more difficult.”

He turned to Anthony and Harting. “I hate to think it, gentlemen, but I fear they have been kidnapped. Whoever this villain is, he is not stupid. He has ensured he will have them in his power if he wants to do them harm.”

“I thought the French possessed more scruples. To abduct and threaten ladies…” Harting looked ready to fling himself on a horse and join battle if only he knew where the enemy lay.

“I should not have allowed Miss Garrett to accompany us in the first place.” Anthony dropped into a seat, head in his hands.

“No, my boy, this is not your doing. This is the fault of a wicked enemy. Self-recrimination will avail nothing. We must think. I refuse to allow the blackguard to get away with this.” Lord Wellesley's features spoke of grim resolution.

Anthony raised his head, but could summon no enthusiasm. He had erred badly and now Miss Garrett was in danger. “You're right, of course.”

“Sir, did you know the waiter who delivered the note?” Harting asked.

“I…” Lord Wellesley thought about it. “Why, no, I didn't recognize the man. The waiters for this evening are all soldiers. Not
our usual servants. I thought it a wise precaution. Captain Stevens will have a list of their names.”

“It might be expedient to discover who gave him the note.”

Captain Stevens soon returned. The ladies were nowhere on the grounds of Government House. The search had been discreet but thorough, and he was confident in his report.

Anthony seemed to have trouble breathing, as if someone had struck the air from his lungs. At Lord Wellesley's request, Stevens immediately produced the list of sepoys employed at the ball. These were each brought in and interviewed briefly. No one had seen anything unusual. None could help pinpoint what time the ladies had been taken, although various soldiers had noticed them at different times throughout the evening. Anthony began a timeline to try to discover the approximate time the kidnappings occurred. In the end it contained so many holes as to be almost useless.

They interviewed twenty sepoys before recognizing the man who had delivered the note. Harting quizzed him at length, but he had little to add.

He had spotted the note propped prominently on one of the buffet tables as he passed. It was addressed to Lord Wellesley in a large bold hand and marked urgent, so, although he thought it odd, he made a point of seeking out the Governor-General and delivering the note with all haste. He had not seen who left the letter, nor had he noticed anyone loitering around the table. Nothing else struck him as out of place or unusual.

“I hope I didn't do wrong, sir. I thought you would want the letter right off. That's why I brought it straight along.”

Lord Wellesley's shoulders slumped, but he waved away the man's concern. “Go on now, but do not speak of our interview to anyone.”

Still looking slightly dyspeptic the soldier bowed and departed.

“Well, gentlemen, that was even less helpful than I had feared. What are we to do?”

Neither Harting nor Anthony could answer.

Lydia woke slowly. She lay on the floor of a carriage—a carriage apparently travelling a wretchedly kept road because it bounced and lurched wildly. Abominably sick to her stomach, the sole thought she could muster was a longing for the vehicle to cease its violent motion. Her head ached fiercely, and her hands had been bound behind her. Wrenching pain lanced her back, arms and shoulders.

Hers was not the only body supine on the carriage floor. It took a few minutes to summon the strength of will to raise her head and see who shared her predicament. She could not see the person's face, but recognized Mrs Adkins' regally styled ball gown immediately.

“Ah, you've woken. I expected the drug to last longer.”

Lydia turned her head, alarmed at the voice, but she could not say anything. It was all she could do to keep her teeth clenched against the bile rising in her throat.

“Perhaps it's just as well. I shan't have to have you carried in.”

Lydia relaxed back onto the floor; it would be wise to conserve her strength. The figure in the corner continued to speak. He said something more about the effect of the drug, but she had stopped listening. Her entire being was intent on trying to determine some clue as to where they were. Her captor was apparently very confident. He had left the landau's curtains open, probably in order to facilitate a breeze in the stuffy compartment.

Through the gap she could see the stars high above. She wracked her sore brain, trying to remember what Captain Campbell had taught her on board
Legacy
about the stars, and how one could use
them to gauge direction and speed. It took a good while, but at last she had her bearings. The coach was travelling roughly northeast.

She thought they were still in the city, but not in one of the heavily populated areas. The dark bulk of buildings was occasionally visible to her from her cramped position, but there were few other signs of life—no cooking fires, no people speaking, no dogs barking or donkeys braying. Even this late at night there would be some sign of habitation in a residential area.

Lydia sniffed delicately as a hint of salty sea air stung her nose. They were close to the ocean. Were they headed for the docks? If she could get away, maybe she could find
Legacy
.

The shadowy figure raised his voice. “Miss Garrett, you are not attending. I asked if you know who I am.”

Lydia responded only because she did not want to anger him. “Yes, Dr Marshall, you are Le Faucon.”

“Bravo, Miss Garrett. I knew you were a bright young lady. I did wonder if you would ever work out who I am.”

The carriage pulled up sharply and Marshall leaned forward to open the door and climb out. He reached back in, pulled Lydia to a sitting position, and helped her slide out of the carriage.

“I do regret the damage to your beautiful dress—it was really magnificent,” he said conversationally.

Was he mad?

“My associate up in the box will retrieve Mrs Adkins for us. Why don't you allow me to show you your lodgings? I wish the accommodations could be better, but I had to work with the resources to hand.”

Lydia surveyed her surroundings carefully. She needed something, anything, to help her pinpoint their location. The darkness was so complete it swallowed all landmarks. Not that she would recognize the area even had it been midday. She had seen little of Calcutta and its environs.

Dr Marshall gripped her elbow firmly, and led her into a cavernous building looming directly in front of them. He escorted
her through a large open room, the space almost entirely taken up with chests of exotic goods stacked nearly to the rafters – cotton, indigo and the critical saltpeter. Further along there were shelves lined with tea chests. Logs of ebony and mahogany made a kind of mountain at one end of the building. There was even a pile of tiger pelts and ivory tusks. At the far end of this warehouse they entered a narrow passage with several doors opening on to it. Marshall led her to the end of this long corridor, opening the last door.

It swung in onto a space that might once have been an office of some sort. The original furniture—a couple of desks and some broken chairs—had been shoved to one side and two pallets lay on the floor. Three narrow, boarded-over windows were placed high along what she thought must be the outer wall.

The carriage driver carried in Mrs Adkins, who remained insensible.

Marshall lit a smoking oil lamp that sat on the desk. Then he excused himself. “I shall return momentarily. You will write a short note to your companions verifying your continued existence. Please don't do anything rash while I am out of the room, Miss Garrett. Both my friend here and I are well armed, and, while I would regret the necessity, I will not hesitate to kill you if you attempt to escape.”

“You would not regret it nearly so much as I would.” Lydia jerked her arm free.

“I knew you were a wit.” He smiled politely at her bravado. “I shall be back with pen and paper.”

Lydia thought frantically. She must find a way to communicate what little she knew about their whereabouts. Too soon Marshall returned, bearing pen, paper, and ink. He loosed her bonds and pulled a chair to the desk for her to sit down.

“May I have a moment?” Lydia chafed her hands and arms. She needed a few more minutes to think. “My hands fell asleep while bound and until the blood returns they will not cooperate.”

“Certainly, my dear. Do not try to be clever though. Mrs Adkins is far more valuable to me as a hostage than you. I will sacrifice you
in a trice the moment you become more of a liability than an asset.”

“I would not dream of trying to be clever. I can hardly think. My head still aches from whatever drug you used.” Lydia snatched up the pen and began to write.

Marshall took the note from her and read it with narrowed eyes. Lydia tried to look unconcerned, and kept her breathing as even as she could.

“This will do.” He bent at last to add a postscript to the bottom of the note. “I must be off, my dear. Someone is bound to have found my note at Government House, and I should not be found missing as well. It might arouse suspicion. I will see you in the morning. If you have need of anything, my man will be posted outside your door. Do not try his patience. He has instructions to silence you if need be.” Leaving this threat hanging in the air, Marshall departed, closing the heavy door behind him.

Lydia heard a rustle from the pallet where Mrs Adkins had been laid and she rushed to her side.

“Are you awake?” she whispered.

“Yes.” It was more a groan than proper speech. “Could you untie me, please? I feel very ill.”

Lydia hastened to free the woman. “It will pass soon, except for the headache. I'm feeling much better already.”

“Was that Dr Marshall?”

“Yes, I believe he kidnapped us in order to force Lord Wellesley to turn the Peacock Throne over to him. They must have some raja or sultan in the wings waiting to make a grab for power.”

“He is a devil. I would never have thought it of him. He can be pompous but I would not have thought him a traitor.”

“I understand his mother was French, so perhaps he does not feel England is his country.”

“Nevertheless I would not have believed him capable of such deceit. Wellesley will never consent, you know. He will resent the demands. He may even grieve for me.” She smiled ruefully as if she doubted the notion. “But he will never allow himself to be dictated to by such means. He cannot. If word got out, he would be ruined. None of us would be safe. Every time someone wanted something they would snatch a body from the street and then make their demand. It would be ridiculous. No, I'm afraid that we shall have to prepare for our fate, whatever it may be.”

Lydia almost confided that she had sent a secret message in the note she had prepared, but decided at the last to keep her own counsel. It would be unkind to raise hopes which might come to nothing. She did not know what the future held and while she trusted Mrs Adkins they might be placed under duress. What she did not know she could not divulge.

At Government House time had turned into a torment. Marcus could not sleep, but neither could he do anything productive. He had not the least notion what to do. It was a torment to sit about wringing his hands. He should know what to do. He was the Honourable Marcus Harting; he always knew what to do.

He must break free from this hesitation and do something. He had not been at such a loss since Lyons. Nightmare images stormed the barriers he had erected in his mind and he was there once more.
The guillotine's blade glimmered red with blood in the sunset. The scent of death in the air, the fanatic gleam in the eyes of the populace. The press of the wooden barrel that had been his prison. His salvation. His uncle, standing tall and straight with his hands bound behind him, stoically awaiting his turn before Madame La Guillotine. The thunk at once solid and liquid. The roar of approval from the mob.

Hatred.

Others had consoled him, counselled him. He had been but a lad of sixteen. There was nothing he could have done to prevent the massacre. He had been right to obey his uncle's order to remain hidden. But Marcus had vowed never to be so powerless again and he had spent his lifetime thwarting Fouche, Napoleon's spymaster, the man who had engineered that day's bloodbath.

But here he was again. Unable even to begin to assist the person he had come to care for most in the world.

A servant appeared at his side. Lord Wellesley insisted they should eat. He dragged himself from his seat and plodded blindly to the breakfast room. Danbury sat at the table, his face white and drawn; the same look that a soldier sported after an unexpected defeat. Did Marcus look as rumpled and haggard himself?

The food might have been dust for all he could taste.

The other guests staying at Government House had not been informed of the abductions, but they seemed to sense something was wrong from the solemn countenances of their companions. The congratulations on the capital ball of the previous evening died on their lips, and the conversation trickled off into a puzzled silence.

Dr Marshall arrived at the table, hale, hearty and brimming with bonhomie. The downcast aspect of his audience seemed not to affect his own spirits in the least as he peppered them with humorous anecdotes.

Marcus ground his teeth. Why would the man not be still? His temples pulsed in aching rhythm. Dr Marshall prattled on as if he intended to do so all day. Thankfully a clerk interrupted him to present Lord Wellesley's compliments, and ask Lord Danbury and
Mr Harting to join him at their earliest possible convenience. They leapt from the table murmuring swift farewells and practically flew along to the Governor-General's study.

“Gentlemen,” Lord Wellesley greeted them, waving a note. “One of the servants found this propped on a side table in the entry hall. I questioned the girl, of course, but she knows nothing. Somehow this villain has a means of gaining access to Government House whenever he wishes. I tell you, he must be caught!”

Marcus grabbed the note, read it silently, then passed it to Danbury, who looked ready to rip it from his grasp.

Danbury read aloud the short portion of the note the abductor had penned. “This is a sign of my good faith. The ladies have not been harmed, and will not be harmed unless you fail to obey my smallest instruction. Further communication will follow.” He then read Lydia's brief message.

“Lord Danbury, is the note authentic?” asked Wellesley.

“Yes, sir, I believe it is. I would recognize Miss Garrett's hand anywhere. I have seen it often enough. Yet something is wrong. I must think—”

“What do you mean?” asked Marcus.

“To begin, I think she had wore a dress of brown linsey-woolsey. Very cheap stuff. I made no complaint about the amount of salt in the eggs. I didn't even have eggs. And her lout of a relative was called Fenn. What can she mean?”

Lord Wellesley stood and came around his desk. Both he and Marcus leaned in, reading the note again over Danbury's shoulder.

“Is anything else odd?” Wellesley asked.

“Just… I have never seen her penmanship quite so sloppy.”

“She must be under a great deal of strain.” To Marcus his words felt thick, lumpy, almost furred with anxiety.

“Yes, but there is something contrived about this note. I could be mistaken, but I think she is trying to send us a message.”

Time stretched out, lengthening as it always did when Marcus least wanted it to.