The Peacock Throne (31 page)

A maid found another note just after tea. Anthony and Harting were poring over a mountain of paperwork in Lord Wellesley's study when it was brought in.

It was time for a council of war. They had learned a great deal throughout the exceedingly trying day, but little of it was of any use. They had list upon list of people and properties, but narrowing it down was proving even more difficult than they had feared.

Captain Stevens entered, leading a native woman with wide fearful eyes.

“Sir,” said Stevens, bowing to Lord Wellesley. “This young woman may have seen who left the note.”

Anthony leapt to his feet, and the woman started nervously.

“What did you see?” asked Lord Wellesley urgently.

In halting English, the woman delivered her story. “I scrub floor
in the hall. Most days we do this more early, but the ball makes extra work. I work behind the plants. The man come in. He turn head like he does not want someone to see. So I am wonder, and I watch. He puts paper on table and goes away.”

“Did you recognize the man? Do you know who he is?”

“Yes, sir. It is the…” She screwed up her face searching for the right word. “The doctor. I do not know his name. So many guests.”

Anthony frowned. A doctor? And then all of a sudden it was as if someone had finally turned a tapestry over to reveal the picture rather than the knotted underbelly. Of course it was Marshall—with his French mother and burning desire to see her properties restored. Who better to help him in his quest than Bonaparte? He had mentioned his high-flown patients. No doubt they were the source of his intelligence as well as his wealth.

Beside him, Harting shook his head. They both ought to resign all claim of sense for not having seen it sooner.

“You are certain of what you say?” asked Wellesley.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Here is a guinea. Run along now.” The girl fled Lord Wellesley's presence, smiling and clutching her unheard of wealth.

Harting was on his feet. “It can only be Adam Marshall. By Jove, I never would have guessed it.”

Wellesley shook his head mournfully. “Stevens…” He turned towards the captain.

“My men are already looking for him,” said Stevens, anticipating the order.

“Does he own any warehouses?” asked Marcus.

Anthony pawed through the stacks of paper they had accumulated since the kidnappings, all the information they had been able to compile regarding the British and their holdings in and around Calcutta, until he came up with the list he wanted. “Here it is,” he said. “He owns three warehouses, but only one is northeast of Government House. I am going.”

Harting stood and pulled at his cuffs. “We will all go, but we
must be careful. We'll approach it on foot. Don't want to put the ladies in any greater danger.”

Anthony felt for the sword at his side. He would put Marshall in danger, or die in the attempt. And then deliberately he released the blade. No more impulsiveness. He must think. His reckless cruelty had placed Miss Garrett in danger from the first. If he had been kinder they would have danced together again and she would have been safe. He would not make the same mistake again.

They made their plans quickly. Dr Marshall had been spotted leaving after luncheon and Lord Wellesley left orders to detain him upon his return. They didn't trouble with a carriage but mounted horseback to ensure speed. In less than half an hour they were away, flying towards the warehouse at a gallop.

Lydia and Rosalie had eaten their lunch quickly. With renewed vigour, Lydia attacked the boards of their prison windows. Marshall appeared from time to time. With each visit he became more openly hostile, as if his anger fed off anxiety.

His shift in temper worried Lydia. His behaviour might be all affectation in order to frighten them, but Lydia sensed an instability beneath his façade. Urgency welled within her, lending energy to her efforts. The longer they remained within his power, the more likely it was that he would carry out his threats.

Night came early in India, and they lit the lamp in order to see what they were doing. All the nails save the final two on each of the three boards had been removed. Desperation sped Lydia's movements. With frantic haste she worked the remaining bit of bone.

The whalebone bit into her palm, scoring it once more. Tears scalded her cheeks, but she could not stop now. Necessity prodded her. They must escape soon or not at all.

The grating of the key shocked her. On the other side of the
door, Marshall berated Philippe for falling asleep. There had been no warning.

Rosalie gasped, looking at her wide-eyed.

Lydia started to scramble from the chair, but the whalebone remained wedged tightly under the head of the nail. She gave it a mighty wrench and it pulled free, but she lost a precious second. Flinging the piece of whalebone into the shadowed corner, Lydia leapt down. There was no time to replace the chair, so she stood in front of it trying to regulate her breathing.

Marshall seemed to sense their apprehension the instant he opened the door. He eyed Lydia and the chair. In a single bounding step he leapt towards her and grabbed her hand, holding it up to reveal the scratches and rust stains. His eyes went automatically to the window, and he shoved Lydia aside. She stumbled and fell against the wall.

He examined the boards grimly and hauled Lydia up by her hair. “I warned you not to try to be clever.” He slapped her, making her eyes stream, but Lydia had had enough.

She fought back, hitting, kicking and biting. From one corner of her eye, as if from a great distance, she saw Rosalie shove against Philippe, who held her back from the fray.

Lydia's strength was no match against Marshall's, but fury drove her, and it took him several minutes to subdue her. Breathing heavily, with his knee in her back, he pinned her hands to the ground above her head. He ripped off his cravat and used it to pinion her arms behind her. Hauling Lydia to her feet, he delivered another resounding slap that would have toppled her had he not still been holding her up with his other hand.

Lydia gasped for air. His weight had pushed what breath she had from her lungs. His slap had disorientated her. Her head ached, and her other wounds smarted, but she was pleased to note she had left an ugly scratch across his cheek, and had even managed to bloody his nose. With any luck she had caused more damage than she could see.

Marshall touched his face and blood came away from where she had scratched him.

“You have more of your father in you than you credit,” Lydia rasped.

Rage suffused his features, making his eyes even darker. His fingers bit into her shoulders as he shook her savagely. Rosalie shouted for him to stop, and even Philippe released his grip on Rosalie to put a hand on his arm.

“Monsieur, she may still be useful,” he said. “The exchange is only a few hours away. It would be a pity to waste any advantage.”

Marshall seemed to come to himself and he released Lydia, who slumped to the floor. Rosalie knelt by her side, smoothing the hair back from her face.

“I am well,” murmured Lydia. The words sounded less reassuring than she would have liked.

“Philippe, bind their hands, and put them both in the carriage.”

“Yes, Monsieur.” Philippe ducked his head, knuckling his forehead respectfully.

Rosalie did not struggle with Philippe as he bound her wrists tightly behind her back. He hurried her out to the carriage and returned for Lydia, who still lay dazed on the floor. Philippe picked her up and put her over his shoulder as he would a large sack of flour. Marshall had taken up a position on the box. His assistant had barely climbed up beside him when Marshall flicked the reins.

Captain Stevens led the way into an area of docks and warehouses. Anthony, Harting, and Lord Wellesley followed closely on his heels. They took care to dismount and leave their horses at a distance from Marshall's warehouse. The place appeared to be deserted, but they approached cautiously, using the shadows as cover.

The main entry was closed, but not locked. They entered quickly and quietly, making as little disturbance as possible in the dusty, motionless atmosphere. The group broke apart to search independently.

Spying a long corridor at the far end of the building, Anthony immediately headed for the darkened passage. Marshall would have wanted to confine the ladies if possible. Methodically, he opened each door and moved to the next.

A chair sat outside the last door, and Anthony was not surprised when this final office turned out to be the prison.

Too late. He closed his eyes as guilt bombarded him anew. “They have already been taken away.” He called to the rest of the men, his voice jarring in the smothering silence. “They're gone.”

Anthony stepped into the chamber. He lit the lamp and held it up to see whether he could discern anything. Perhaps Miss Garrett had had time to leave another clue. Furniture was jumbled against one wall. A chair sat beneath one of the windows. A basin and pitcher sat on one of the discarded desks. Two pallets lay at the other end of the room.

The other men piled into the room behind him, glaring at the
austere space as if they could force it to tell what had occurred within its dreary confines.

“The chair under the window,” Anthony said. “Why is the chair under the window? It's not as if they could look out.” He walked over to the window and regarded it closely. “They are a dashed plucky pair.” He held the light high. “Look at this.”

Gouge marks scored the boards where something had bit into the wood and prised out nails.

Captain Stevens returned from one of the other offices with another lamp to better illuminate the scene. They clustered around Anthony.

Harting frowned. “Whatever did they use? I can't imagine he would have left them tools.”

Casting about for an explanation the men held up the lamps and examined the small space. Light glinted off dull ivory. Harting retrieved a shard of bone resting in the corner and held it up for inspection.

“It looks to be whalebone,” said Captain Stevens.

“From what?” Anthony took the pale sliver and held it flat on his palm.

They all regarded it a moment longer.

“Why, I think it must be a piece of whalebone from a lady's stays,” Wellesley said after a space.

“I tell you, gentlemen, I should not have wanted to be the one to have kidnapped those two—they are formidable.” Captain Stevens shook his head.

“They would have made it clean away soon. These boards are almost free.” Anthony tapped one with the back of his knuckle and sent it to the floor in a cloud of dust.

“They must have been interrupted and taken away before they could finish,” Harting said. He rubbed his forehead as if trying to wrap his mind around the fact that they had indeed failed.

“Gentlemen, look at this.” Captain Stevens pointed gravely at a spot on the floor. “This looks like blood.”

Again the lamps were brought to bear while they examined the spattered discolouration.

Harting knelt and touched the spot. “It's still damp. They cannot have been gone long.”

“What sort of monster is he?” demanded Captain Stevens.

Enraged, Anthony did not attempt any comment. He would reserve his thoughts on the matter until he caught Adam Marshall, at which point he intended to demonstrate his feelings fully.

“Gentlemen, we have a decision to make. I cannot turn over the throne. So what will we do?” Lord Wellesley asked.

Anthony bristled. “We will turn over the throne. I brought it here. And as I've intimated before, it is not a present to the crown. By all rights it is mine and I will turn it over without a qualm if they will trade Miss Garrett for it.”

Harting nodded sharply in agreement. In his fashionable jacket and elaborate cravat he looked markedly out of place in the dusty warehouse. But the savage expression on his face would have made him at home among a band of brigands. “We can minimize the political damage by simply announcing that the throne was stolen. We already made a gesture of goodwill towards the people of India. We will make certain they know the French have stolen it from them again.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the circle of men. Lord Wellesley straightened his shoulders. “We are agreed then. We will recover the ladies.”

“God help the murderous coward once he no longer has them in his power. I will hunt him to the end of the earth.” Anthony clenched the hilt of his sword spasmodically.

They raced back to Government House. There was little time to spare if they were going to make it to the temple ruins at the appointed time. Anthony was strongly tempted to retain his sword, but Lord Wellesley insisted they follow the instructions explicitly, so he left it with Harting.

The throne had been crated and loaded into a stout cart for
just such an eventuality. They climbed up onto the box and Lord Wellesley took the reins.

“We shall be back as soon as we can. I want a regiment prepared to go after the fiend the instant we return.”

“Yes, sir.” Captain Stevens saluted smartly.

The cart ground away, gaining speed slowly as it turned out of the courtyard.

“You realize I must go after them,” Marcus said.

Captain Stevens nodded. “Of course. Men and horses are waiting around the other side of the stables. We will need to delay a little. It would not do to get too close and allow ourselves to be spotted.”

“There's no cause for you to disobey an order. Reinforcements will be here any moment. As you say, though, we will need horses.”

Stevens raised an eyebrow, but nodded and headed to the stables.

Marcus paced the courtyard restlessly. Bats wheeled overhead, silent but for the rush of air as they swooped and dived too near. A single oil lamp hung near the door, but its paltry light did little to illuminate the area.

The scuff of a shoe on flagstone brought his head up as if the change in position could sharpen his hearing.

“Is that you, Mr Harting?”

“Captain Campbell, I'm glad you could come.”

“Of course I came. When your man told me what had happened, I could scarce credit it.” Campbell approached. Behind him loomed the hulking forms of more than twenty seamen.

As the men entered the feeble circle of light Marcus could see they were armed and scowling. Every man-jack looked as if he was itching for a fight.