The Peacock Throne (8 page)

“No, that won't be necessary. I'll send a note around to him later. Are—”

Mrs Malloy bustled up in her Sunday finery. “Do you need anything, sir?”

“Not at all, Mrs Malloy; not at all. Going to church? I hope you enjoy the holy offices. Perhaps, Miss Garrett, you would stop by my study when you return? There is something I wish to discuss.” Anthony backed towards the door as if trying to escape a pack of wolves, rather than two mildly confused women.

“Of course, Lord Danbury. I can stay and begin going through the diary. I was not aware that you had awakened.”

“No. Uh, no. That can wait. We will get to it when you return. I do appreciate the offer. I was unable to make much sense of it myself.” He clasped his hands behind his back and managed a smile. “Ah, thanks then. I will see you…thanks.” Darting inside, he shut the door firmly.

Lydia returned from Mrs Malloy's church with more than enough food for thought. The ritual and reflection of the service had calmed the worst of the turbulence in her emotions.

“Lord Danbury is waiting for you in his study,” one of the footmen said as Lydia handed her borrowed wrap to its owner.

She nodded her thanks, and turned as if facing a firing squad. All that Mr Harting had said that morning rushed back. What would Lord Danbury say? Should she confess that she had been press ganged into becoming a spy against him?

The idea that Lord Danbury was some sort of agent for the French could not be borne. The whole notion was simply ridiculous. She would write a note and, with regret, decline Mr Harting's request after all.

Mind made up, Lydia hesitated at the door to the study. A servant would just go in. Should she act as a servant, or a guest, or…? Lydia exhaled hard through pursed lips, causing the hair that framed her face to flutter in the sudden breeze. Finally she rapped the door sharply with her knuckles, and entered before any response was forthcoming.

Lord Danbury looked up at her arrival and flushed.

“You asked for me?”

“Yes, Miss Garrett.” He rummaged amongst the papers on his desk for a moment, before retrieving a small package.

“This was delivered for you.”

Lydia accepted the proffered package.

“It's from Mr Harting?” A note of inquiry shaded his statement.

Lydia's gaze snapped up in surprise to meet his. Her brow furrowed. Harting was making more than a nuisance of himself. What could he possibly want now? Her fingers itched to rip into the parcel.

“Are you ready for me to begin on the diary, my Lord?”

“Please, be seated and open your package. I can wait a few moments.”

“Certainly.” Lydia took a chair and tore into the wrapping paper. A gasp escaped her lips as a stack of pristine Bank of England notes was revealed. Her hands trembled as she plucked out the letter that accompanied them.

Lydia could feel the blood draining from her face. Had he been there, she would have flung the letter and money at him. Which was, no doubt, why he had not personally delivered the package.

“I trust it is not distressing news?”

Dragging her gaze from the missive, Lydia tried to meet Lord Danbury's eyes. His glance strayed from her face to the pound notes protruding from the wrapping.

“He… I…” Drat the man. He had offered the only plausible explanation for the funds. How she would have liked to come up
with something brilliant, or to spill the whole story out to Lord Danbury. “Mr Harting learned of some investments of my father's whilst investigating my background,” she said. “Knowing I am at low water he was kind enough to advance me funds on the strength of my expectations.”

“It looks as if you will be well provided for, for quite some time.” He sounded as if his cravat were too tight.

Lydia could not prevent the blush that heated her cheeks. She had never been good at telling tales. At least now she had acknowledged her background, if in a round about way. She braced for more questions but none were forthcoming.

When she gathered the courage to look up, Lord Danbury had returned his attention to the papers before him.

He had requested her presence, and now he acted as if she did not exist. Her cheeks burned and she cleared her throat. “I hope that you will still abide by our agreement. This… inheritance improves my situation, but it will not provide for my needs forever. I must still find employment.”

His Lordship looked up with a scowl. “I'm known as a man who keeps his bargains.”

“I'm sure that those who know you well hold many favourable opinions, but I know you very little and I simply wish to know that the change in my circumstances has not affected our agreement.”

“You have my word, Miss Garrett.” He turned his attention to the papers on his desk, dismissing her as if she were a servant.

“Thank you.” Her tone was as tart as he deserved. “Well, I do not wish to trouble you any more than necessary. I will certainly find other lodgings so that I am no longer trespassing on your kindness. Of course, I will still decipher the diary. And you did request my presence. Did you have need of something else?”

“It had to do with the preparations for the journey. You may not wish to pursue such things now, however, since you have come into this unexpected inheritance.”

Lydia could not maintain her hauteur. Not when she had committed to spy on this man who had done her no wrong. She gripped the package so hard her fingers ached. “My Lord, I beg you not to shut me out. I am as committed to catching my cousin's murderer now as I was before. No amount of money would ever change that.”

He regarded her as if trying to see into her soul. Lydia swallowed hard and blinked rapidly. Even if he tossed her out on her ear, she would find a way to catch Mr Wolfe's murderer. And she was keeping the money too. That would serve Harting right.

Relenting at last, Lord Danbury sat back in his chair. “No, of course not, Miss Garrett. I know you cared for your cousin a great deal. Please forgive me.”

“There is no need.”

Lord Danbury waved a hand as if pushing their ill-tempered words into the past. “With murderers and spies abroad I would sleep better if you would continue to stay under the protection of my roof.”

Guilt dug into Lydia's heart like the talons of an angry bird. “You have been more than kind, but I cannot continue to impose upon your hospitality.”

He flung down his papers, and pushed away from the desk, turning his back to her. “You misunderstand. It would be a kindness to me if you would stay. I… with all that…” He rubbed at his temple. “It is possible there is danger. Our investigation is bearing fruit, and I—I cannot change the fact that I was not there for my father when he needed me. I would appreciate it if you would stay.” He turned back to face her. “Besides, it would be more convenient. I am in great need of your assistance in this matter. Oh, and I've asked Mrs Malloy to move your things into the guest room at the top of the stairs.”

Shocked, Lydia protested. “My Lord, such a move is not necessary. I was more than comfortable.” In fact, the cosy little nook she occupied was the pleasantest place she had lived in for many years.

“If Lord Glenford ever discovered that I housed his granddaughter in the maids' quarters, he would suffer apoplexy.”

Another kind of ache tore at Lydia's heart. “The chances of that are slim indeed.” She rested a hand on the desk. With any luck he would hand her the papers he had been poring over and change the topic of conversation.

“How did you end up as a servant at the Green Peacock?”

This was not the change she had been hoping for. “I was not a servant… precisely. I simply was sensible of what I owed Mr Wolfe for providing me with a home. I truly did not mind the work. It helped him to keep the coffee house going. Mrs Wolfe and Fenn were never much use in that regard.” Lydia looked away. Discomfiture made her fingers itch to be busy with something.

“And Fenn kept you sensible of your position of dependence.” Lord Danbury's grip cracked the nib of the pen he held. He thrust it into the pen stand and wiped his hand on his handkerchief.

“Mr Wolfe kept Fenn's behaviour in check. It was only after his death that the situation became intolerable.”

Danbury reached an ink-stained hand across the desk to cover hers. Their gazes met with an intensity that made her chest compress as if her stays had been pulled too tight. It was impressed upon her again how handsome he was. How his midnight dark eyes could nevertheless seem bright and shining.

“I know you are still convalescing, but Mrs Malloy tells me you have a gift for organizing things, handling accounts and so on. I'll need a great deal of assistance as I arrange this expedition, if I'm to leave as soon as possible.”

That was better. Relieved, Lydia set aside the packet of notes. “Tell me what you require. I will help in any way I can.”

Throughout the afternoon and into the evening, Anthony worked steadily. But his concentration was unsteady. His gaze kept drifting
from his documents to the composed form of Lydia Garrett across the desk from him. She was painstakingly copying the incomprehensible scrawl into legible script. He suspected that she represented a mystery as deep as the one they now pursued.

He could not rid himself of the image of her opening Harting's parcel. The shock had been writ plain on her face. Had she been surprised to receive money? Or simply by the amount? The way she shied from his questions like a nervous foal was certainly curious. Had Harting found an inheritance for her as she claimed, or was he paying for some other service he wished her to render?

Tension throbbed behind his eyes. He rested his head against his forefingers and thrust his thumbs against his temples. It was best if he did not think along those lines. He forced his attention back to the letter he was composing. Captain Campbell would be surprised to hear from him so urgently.

Some hours later, Anthony glanced up from the victualling list he perused to catch her rubbing her eyes. Drat it all. He was working the poor girl like a galley slave. “We'd best put these aside for the time being.”

Miss Garrett shook her head. “That's not necessary. I only needed to rest my eyes for a moment. Mr Wolfe's penmanship was dreadful, wasn't it?”

“My eyes are all but crossing from my own handwriting. I cannot bear to think what they might be doing had I spent the afternoon staring at his wretched scrawlings. We'll come back to these this evening, and perhaps the words won't blur and jump about.”

Miss Garrett set aside the papers, though perhaps a touch reluctantly. In truth, he was loathe to put them aside as well. Every moment's delay meant that their enemies were that much further ahead of them.

Lydia was waiting when Mr Harting arrived for her shortly after luncheon the next day. She had loitered in front of the house for some fifteen minutes in the hopes of making as little a scene as possible. True, she had no reputation to think of—but even so she hated to draw more adverse comment to herself than necessary. She was already a nine-day wonder in the servants' hall. They didn't know what to make of her, and in truth, she no longer knew what to make of herself.

“Miss Garrett, you are looking well this afternoon.”

He was probably relieved she wasn't wearing the borrowed maid's uniform. Her own clothes were worse quality, but at least they didn't scream servant quite so loudly. Poor, perhaps, but not servant.

He presented his arm and after an instant Lydia accepted. She gritted her teeth. She didn't want to think well of him. He was a manipulative rogue. But apparently he did not mind being seen squiring a lady of no consequence such as herself about Mayfair.

His smile hinted that he had the power to read her mind. “I'm glad you received my package. I half feared you would send it back.”

“I was going to, but Lord Danbury was present when I opened it and I had no explanation for the contents other than the one you so
thoughtfully
penned.” Lydia did not bother to keep the acerbity from her tone.

Harting chuckled. “I could not have planned it better had I tried.”

From under her lashes, Lydia sent him a glance that could pierce armour. She forbore from commenting. Anything else would undoubtedly only add to his enjoyment of her predicament.

“Why is it so important to you that I have a new wardrobe?”

He raised an eyebrow and glanced at her down his long nose. “You should be properly outfitted as befits your station – not as if you are some scullion from the East End. Besides, I expect any woman on my arm to look her best, and the people you will be interacting with will respond better to a lady than a street urchin.”

“I'm to play a role then?”

“You are to be your charming and educated self, while you never ever forget that you have an assignment which you must not lose sight of.” His expression sobered. “Miss Garrett, I have not asked you to do this lightly. The stakes are…” He shook his head. “I find no pleasure in placing you in an awkward situation. I simply wish to find the traitor, and if that means putting a good man under close scrutiny in order to eliminate him as a suspect, so be it. I would put a hundred good men under such surveillance in order to find the one guilty fellow.” His colour had risen, but his step never strayed from its desultory pace.

How had she suddenly been placed in the wrong? Lydia cast her gaze down at her feet. She bit her lip to keep from responding, but after a moment the words spilled past the safeguard of her common sense. “So in your mind the end justifies the means.”

“It's not as simple as that.”

“Oh?”

For the first time in her experience he looked almost flustered.

“One must think of the greater good. Is it better that good men die, or that innocent men be investigated for something they did not do?”

“Perhaps I am simple, but it seems that a great many good English men have died to maintain our traditional English liberties. This current war against the French is a prime example. We don't abhor French domination simply because they are French, but
because their system of government, even under the banner of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, offers none of those things. As a nation we have offered up our life's blood in order to protect from the French the very liberties which may come under attack from our own leaders were your philosophy to take hold among them.”

Harting contemplated her for a long moment, his probing gaze at odds with his languid motions. “I believe I have chosen wisely indeed, in this case.”

“How can you say such a thing? Even if I do find something to assist your cause I cannot testify against his Lordship. I have no legal standing with the courts.”

“That is why you must bring any proof you find to me.”

His lips quirked up again, and an almost uncontrollable urge to throttle him with his own cravat welled within her bosom.

“Ah, here we are. Madame D'Arcy's.” He turned aside at a well-kept shop.

He had successfully diverted her wrath.

For the moment.

“Who is Madame D'Arcy?”

Harting eyed her again; he seemed perpetually to be revising his opinion of her. “She is the smartest mantua maker in Mayfair. She is in great demand with the highest ladies of the land.”

“Then why are we here? I have no need for such expensive frippery.”

“That is what you think.” Mr Harting held the door open for her with a gentlemanly flourish. “Besides, she owes me a favour.”

A tall, exquisitely dressed woman held her hands out to Mr Harting in greeting. “My dear, it has been an age. Where have you been hiding yourself?” If this was the proprietress her title was clearly an affectation.

As inconspicuous as a kitten among lions, Lydia lingered near the door. In spite of herself, she drank in the sights and scents of the shop. A flowing summer frock in dainty cotton clothed a dress form, its lace as ephemeral as frost. She leaned forward to examine
the detail. Nearby, a few bolts of luxurious material lounged against the wall. Unable to resist, Lydia caressed a piece of sky blue silk.

She started up guiltily when Mr Harting called her. Judging from his tone, it must have been the second or third time.

At his side, Madame D'Arcy also regarded her oddly and Lydia blushed. “I apologize. I was not attending.”

“This is what you have to work with?” Madame D'Arcy said in a whisper, which Lydia could hear perfectly well. “Ah, well, it could be worse.” With barely a rustle she turned and headed for the far door.

“Madame D'Arcy has her book of sketches for you to go through. You must look and decide what you want.”

Despite the modiste's dismissive behaviour, excitement bubbled within Lydia as though she were a child about to try ice cream for the first time. She had not bought clothes for herself since well before her parents were killed. The three dresses she had owned were all made from Mrs Wolfe's old gowns. The idea of purchasing something new thrilled her to her toes. She could not seem to wipe the imbecilic grin from her face. Lydia caught Lord Harting once or twice concealing a small smile of his own. Surrounded by such lovely things, Lydia couldn't even find it within herself to be angry with him for his condescension.

Several large books were presented to her for inspection. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of charming options, Lydia hesitated. The styles were disarmingly different from the round gowns she was familiar with. These dresses featured slim silhouettes and dainty puffed sleeves. They looked modern and daring, and yet classical at the same time.

With a shrewd look, Madame D'Arcy assessed her. “I assure you, these are in the latest styles from the continent. With your slender figure, you will look well in these gowns.”

“They are lovely.” Lydia caressed one of the drawings with gentle fingers. “I simply do not know where to begin.”

Madame took matters in hand. Lydia's head whirled—dress patterns, fabric swatches and trims tumbling over one another in
her mind. Two dresses were to be delivered that afternoon, the rest within the week. After leaving Madame D'Arcy's, Mr Harting directed her to another shop to purchase hats. A third store provided hosiery and slippers, underclothing, handkerchiefs, gloves and all the final, innumerable elements needed to complete her toilet. Mr Harting did at least allow her to handle these purchases on her own, while he waited outside with a gaggle of husbands, fathers, and brothers.

Deeply concerned about the amount of money being spent, she paused at the door to the emporium and shot him a searching look. He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear as if he had the power to read her mind. “Give no thought to the cost. The ministry has agreed to outfit you in the appropriate manner for this case.”

“Why should the ministry care one whit—”

He did not answer, merely nudged her shoulder and urged her inside the shop.

Lydia quickly put away the few packages they had elected to carry back with them. The altered dresses had already been delivered and she pulled one from the wardrobe, simply to look at it again. It was, by far, the loveliest gown she had ever owned. She sighed. When would she ever have the courage to wear it? His Lordship would probably think she was pasting peacock feathers to a chicken. She returned the gown to the wardrobe, and closed the door with a touch too much force.

She hurried down the stairs to Lord Danbury's study. She had been longer than she intended and he was no doubt awaiting her return.

The deep furrows of his brow lightened considerably at her entrance. “You are back. I shall be heartily glad to leave the duties of a landlord behind for a time.”

Her heart plummeted. How could she betray this man who had
been naught but kind to her? She wanted to seize him and shake him, and tell him to toss her out on her ear while he still had the chance. But she did none of those things. Instead she greeted him politely and resumed her place on the opposite side of the desk.

She must not lose sight of the chance to find Mr Wolfe's murderer.

They worked steadily through the evening in quiet companionship. Lydia continued copying the diary, while Lord Danbury wrote letter after letter, and constructed list after list. Lost in their separate tasks the hours slid by unheeded.

Monotony weighed upon her. She could scarce keep her eyes open. Page after page she transcribed, until her hand had moved far past pain into numbness.

Lydia read a sentence and had almost completed copying it, when it dawned on her what she had read. The blood drained from her face and her fingertips went cold. She dropped her pen, splattering her fingers and the blotting paper with droplets of ink. She read it again.

“My Lord, I've found it.” The words shouted so loudly through her being, that it was difficult to realize she had done naught but whisper.

Danbury regarded her quizzically as if unsure whether he had heard her speak.

Shoving away from the desk, she snatched up the diary. “I have found it.”

Lord Danbury dropped the papers he was perusing to accept the diary as she thrust it into his hands.

She pointed to the passage in question.

“Here. They took the throne to Abundance Island.” They had done it. Now that they knew which island to search, Lord Danbury's plan had ceased to be a hare-brained scheme and become a looming reality. They might just manage it.

Lord Danbury stared at the open diary as if he were looking into the Book of Life. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from the words it contained.

All at once he jumped up and rushed to a table where he had spread out a large map of the Indian Ocean.

“Well done, Miss Garrett.” He spared her a glance and a flashing smile that made a warm glow flit through her belly.

His trembling finger slid over the map as he sought the island. His motion slowed, and he turned a disconcerted gaze to hers. “It's not here.”