The Peacock Throne (2 page)

“What was it?” The runner perked up like a hound scenting a fox.

“He had several letters. One, though, was…” Williams searched for the word he wanted. “Different—foreign maybe.”

“Different?”

“Yes, sir, on fine paper it were and scented with some perfume. I could smell it halfway across the room, I could.” As Williams
warmed to his story, his native Yorkshire accent broadened. “The seal were odd too. It were a peacock, and the wax itself looked like a peacock.” Williams halted. His hands flapped as if motion could convey meaning that words could not.

“What do you mean it looked like a peacock?” Anthony asked.

“Well, sir, the wax were different colours, like—sort of swirled and shiny?” The elderly valet's tone turned the statement into a question.

Anthony nodded gravely, not understanding what the man meant, but impatient to hear what else he had to say. “Go on.”

“The handwriting looked different too. I knew it were foreign as soon as I spied it. His Lordship turned quite red when he read the letter. I thought he meant to tear it up, but he didn't. He got up—didn't even finish reading the others—he went straight to his desk and began writing.”

“What was he writing?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“What'd you do with the letter?” Perkins asked.

“I never touched it. I imagine it's still on his desk. The maids know not to touch anythin' on his Lordship's desk.”

“Lead on then.” Perkins planted his hands on the arms of his chair and levered himself upright. “Where is this desk?”

Anthony took charge of the short procession across the hall to the study. He gestured to the desk standing at the far end of the room. Close on his heels, Perkins nearly trod on him in his eagerness to inspect the desk where a partially open letter lay in plain view.

Of good quality stationery, the paper looked as described. From where Anthony stood, he could already smell the perfume permeating the missive. The distinctive scent made him think of warmer climates. Ornate script flowed and looped across the page in a manner no Englishman would countenance. Anthony picked up the letter and removed the covering page to better observe the seal. He had never seen sealing wax like it before: a brilliant swirl of iridescent blue, purple, and green flecked with gold. It did indeed
resemble a peacock's feather. The imprint of a peacock, tiny and intricate in the wax, looked like the engraving on the knife used to slay his father.

While Anthony examined the seal, Perkins read the letter. With a nod they traded objects of interest. The letter's odd script and ceremonial tenor made Anthony's mouth go dry.

“I've come about a murder.” Lydia Garrett wedged her pattened foot in the kitchen door before the scowling footman could shove it closed.

His green and gold livery seemed to expand as the fellow swelled with indignation. His gaze scoured her person, no doubt taking in her worn dress and pelisse. “Be off.”

Lydia jammed an elbow into the narrowing gap. Perhaps she had miscalculated, but she had no one to send as a proxy. “I need to see his Lordship. It's important.”

The footman shoved her arm out of the door. “He's not home to the likes of you.”

“I have information.” Lydia braced for the impact of the door against her inadequately protected toes.

It halted, mid slam. Grudgingly the footman sized her up again. “He isn't home. You'll have to come back.”

That was unexpected. Lydia straightened, but didn't remove her foot from the door, just in case it was some sort of trick. “When will he be back?”

A great sighing and rolling of eyes met this query. “His Lordship don't consult me before leaving the house.”

She sighed. What kind of person wasn't at home at this hour? It was probably for the best, however. It had taken her longer to find Danbury's town home than she had expected. Morning light was beginning to burnish the eastern sky even through the smoke of the morning cook fires. If she didn't get home soon, she'd be caught
and there would be more than the piper to pay. “If he wants my information he can find me at the Green Peacock coffee house on Brant Street. But please ask him to be discreet.”

Without waiting for a reply she withdrew her abused foot and hurried towards home. She'd done all she could for the day. With any luck she was one step closer to catching a killer.

It had been an exceptionally long day. Groaning, Lydia settled in her favourite nook, tucked up close beside the kitchen chimney where she could soak in the stored heat of the bricks even though the fire had been banked for the night. She'd been run off her feet, and every time someone had opened the front door, she'd been sure it would be Lord Danbury. Why didn't he come? Surely even a lordship would be interested enough to pursue discussion about a murder.

She'd been so sure.

Lydia let her cheek rest against the rough bricks and removed her shoes. Normally at this hour of the day she'd have been sitting with Cousin Wolfe in his cramped office, surrounded by the smell of books and joint salve and having a lively discussion. But one week ago “normal” had been robbed of meaning. She would never sit and debate with the old man again. Never hear his crow of delight when she scored a mental point. Never again feel the warmth of familial affection. They were all gone now.

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut.

The bell in the main room plinked dispiritedly. She tiptoed the two steps to the kitchen door and pulled it open the inch and a half it would allow before its hinges emitted a shattering screech of protest.

Through the crack she could just make out the figure of a man shutting the front door. He raised a finger to his mouth, shushing himself as he did so. Fenn. As usual he was so drunk he was nearly
pickled. She eased the door closed and leaned against it. With any luck he'd head straight up to bed.

Instead a weight slammed into the door, sending her staggering forward.

“Evening, Fenn.”

He closed in, yawning. “Help me t' me bed.” At twenty-two he considered himself a debonair man of the world, or so he'd given Lydia to understand over the years. She looked with distaste at his overlarge, raw-boned features. His complexion was the dull red of the dissolute. Hair sprouted from his head in spiky thatches, the hue and texture of dirty straw.

“I don't think so.” Lydia turned her head to avoid his gin-laced breath.

Fenn grabbed her arm, grinning mawkishly at her. “Come on then, me fancy li'l cousin. Keep me company.”

“Let go, Fenn.” Lydia struggled in his grasp.

“Don't put on airs.” He was growing surly. “Mum wanted to toss you out on yer ear. You owe me for saving you from the street.”

“You know your father disapproved of this behaviour.” It was a feeble attempt to put him off, but it was all she could manage when most of her attention was focused on getting hold of something with which to drive him off.

“He weren't no father of mine. Wolfe was a weak old man. Mum never shoulda married 'im.”

Fenn had hold of her neck now, forcing her head down for a drunken kiss.

The fingers of her flailing hand brushed the water pitcher sitting on the table. She snatched it and hit him a hard blow on the head. His eyes rolled back and his body sagged towards her, carrying her to the ground beneath him.

Kicking and shoving, she wriggled away then scrambled to her feet.

For a moment she stood perfectly still, looking at the heavy pitcher in her grip. That was good quality stoneware.

Stertorous snoring assured her that she hadn't killed him. She set the jug back on the table and returned to her tiny alcove. Her traitorous knees grew suddenly wobbly and she dropped onto the perch. Had she really just struck Fenn? The reality of her daring made her feel as if she was choking. A bubble of hysterical laughter caught against the fear that constricted her throat.

She could not stay at the coffee house any longer. In the week since Mr Wolfe's death, Fenn's advances had become increasingly difficult to ward off.

She pulled on her shoes.

But how could she leave now? Her heart ached at the thought of the gentle old man who had sheltered her for so long. If she weren't around to prod the magistrate into action, the murderer would never be caught.

And besides, where was she to go?

The bell in the front room clattered grimly. Lydia froze. Trust Fenn not to latch the door behind him. She quelled the urge to kick him where he lay. Hands pressed flat against her abdomen, she debated. Who could it be at this hour?

“Hello?” The voice was definitely male, but no burglar would announce himself.

Lydia pushed through the door into the dining room. She stopped short upon sight of the customer. A fine young gentleman stood just inside the door examining the coffee house. Tall, well built, and well dressed—with gleaming Hessians and a cravat so white it seemed to glow—he most certainly was not the calibre of customer usually attracted to the dowdy establishment. His hair was cut short in the Brutus style, with rather severe sideburns, and his dark blue eyes were intent as they studied the shabby coffee house.

The last thing she needed was a pampered dandy to wait upon. “We're closed.”

“Your door was unlocked.” A charming smile lit his features.

Head whirring with quick mental calculations, Lydia decided it would be quicker, and less noisy, to wait on the fellow than it would
be to argue. She sighed. “I'm afraid the kitchen is closed but I can get you a pot of coffee and some toast.”

He opened his mouth, but Lydia was in no mood to listen to complaints. She spun on her heel and hurried back into the kitchen. She snatched up one of the De Belloy pots and scooped in some ground coffee then put a kettle of water on to boil.

She edged around Fenn's prostrate form and hurried up the stairs to her garret room. In a trice she had piled her worldly possessions into a haversack. She hurried back downstairs and dumped the bag on the table. She whisked the kettle off the fire and poured water into the pot to steep while she toasted a couple of slices of bread.

Mere moments after she'd left her customer gaping, she backed through the door into the dining room carrying a tray. With any luck he had wandered off to annoy someone else, and she could retrieve one last thing before fleeing this house for good.

But for the second time in as many minutes luck had left her to fend for herself. The gentleman sat patiently at a booth. She set the tray down with an ill-tempered rattle.

“I've come to speak with a young woman.”

Lydia plopped her hands on her hips. “We're not that kind of establishment. Be off.”

He flushed. “Not in that way. Listen, she didn't leave a name. I'm the Vi—the Earl of Danbury.”

“
You're
the Earl of Danbury? I thought—oh, I don't think you can help me at all.” Lydia rubbed her temples. This man must be the son or grandson of the man her uncle served under.

His Lordship set aside his coffee cup. “I came because I want
you
to help
me
. What do you know of my father's murder?”

Marcus Harting lounged in a comfortable armchair. A fire warmed the room nicely, and when he downed the drink at his elbow, it was replenished almost immediately. Masculine conversation swirled about him, though he took no part, preferring for the moment to observe. He had long favoured this particular room of his club. The familiar atmosphere acted as a balm.

A footman in immaculate livery approached, bearing a note on a silver salver. Marcus accepted the missive with a languid hand, noting with pleasure as he did so the way the snowy cuff of his sleeve fell just so as he moved.

He read the note and arched an eyebrow. “Where is the gentleman?”

“In the Greek study, sir.”

“Thank you, Peter.” Marcus flipped the servant a coin and rose. The speed of his progress was belied by his carefully maintained insouciance as he sauntered through the club. Men stood in clusters talking or lounged in comfortable armchairs. He nodded at one or two acquaintances as he passed, but did not linger to converse. The heavily carpeted stairs took him up to a green, silk-hung hall lined with the portraits of past club presidents. The door to the Greek study stood ajar. He slipped in and closed it firmly behind him.

William Pitt stood and welcomed him with an extended hand. “Harting, you're looking well. Thank you for coming to see me.”

A dapper man, the former prime minister had a narrow aristocratic face and gracious manners. He dressed well, but a mere glance at his incisive eyes quieted any impulse to classify him a dandy.

“How may I be of service?”

“Pray have a seat. Would you care for something?” Pitt motioned to the decanter near his chair.

Marcus accepted and waited. Pitt poured, then pushed his fingers together into a steeple, and sat for a moment in brooding silence. Marcus sipped from his glass. He did not prod. He had worked with Pitt before on certain sensitive matters, he even liked the man, but Pitt would speak when he was ready and not before.

“I hope your recovery progresses well.” Pitt nodded towards Marcus's right leg.

“I am fully myself again. Thank you.” He smoothed the fine buckskin of his breeches, the mere reference to his prior injury causing a twinge of remembered pain.

“We appreciated your assistance in that matter.”

“Think nothing of it.” Marcus gave an airy wave of his hand. He would never let on how much his last mission had cost him. Just as he would never be seen about London in anything less than a perfectly tailored coat. Standards had to be maintained.

Mr Pitt sat silently for a long moment, while Marcus fought the temptation to fill the gap with a rush of words.

“There has been a great deal of political upheaval recently. A vote of no confidence is expected in a matter of months, and when Prime Minister Addington's government fails, I shall be called upon to replace him. There are some serious matters, however, which must be dealt with immediately. Mr Addington does not have the political resources at hand to deal with all of them, so I have been asked to handle some of the more delicate issues.”

Marcus nodded, understanding.

Pitt continued. “May I ask if you know of Lord Danbury's murder?”

“The newssheets have been filled with little else.”

“We have received some garbled intelligence from an agent in France mentioning the Earl of Danbury in connection with one Jahan Pasha. I have reason to be concerned from reading the report that Bonaparte has hatched some scheme in India.”

“Trying to reach Tippoo Sultan in Mysore again? Would he repeat his invasion of Egypt?”

“Bonaparte wouldn't repeat such a futile undertaking. He lost his best chance to get to India through Egypt when he abandoned his men there in '99.”

“Then he has resorted to underhanded methods to get what he wants.”

A wry grin creased Pitt's face. “And for a moment I thought you had underestimated our adversary. I ought to have known better.”

Marcus raised his glass in salute and Pitt continued.

“The information we have is incomplete. Indeed, it is all speculation. I would like you to look into the matter of Lord Danbury's death. See what you can uncover. I wish I had something more solid to give you.” Pitt set his glass aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I believe Le Faucon is involved.”

The blood thrummed in Marcus's ears. “The Hawk again.”

“It is vitally important that we discover what the French are plotting. I fear England has taken the Peace of Amiens too much to heart. People are flocking to the continent like schoolboys fleeing Eton at the end of term. It cannot last. There are reports of an invasion force gathering along the French coast. When war comes again, we must be prepared to face the onslaught.”

Marcus wanted to refuse the commission—he had scarcely recovered from his last jaunt—but he could not bring himself to do so. He had vowed to bring down Le Faucon and his puppetmaster, Fouche, even if it cost him everything he owned. This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

The serving girl inhaled sharply. Her regard, which had not been precisely friendly, now bordered on hostile. “It was my cousin, my guardian, who was murdered.”

Anthony felt as if he'd stepped into some strange pantomime where a familiar story had been set on its head. “Your cousin?”

“Yes, he was murdered.”

Anthony shook his head. “My father, the Earl of Danbury, was murdered one week ago today.”

As if she were a guest rather than a maid the girl thunked onto the bench opposite him. Eyes wide and face pale she shook her head as if she weren't seeing him any longer. “Then they were murdered the same day. There must be some significance.”

Anthony leaned across the table towards her. “Who was your cousin and why would you think there is some connec—”

“He owned this coffee house. He—” She held up a hand. “Please excuse me. My cousin left a… well, there's something you should see.”

Nodding acceptance he sat back and sipped at what was a surprisingly good cup of coffee. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and touched the letter notifying him that his title had been confirmed. He pulled it out. He was officially the Earl of Danbury. He had always known that the day would come when he would accede to his father's rights and responsibilities, but he still didn't feel prepared. His fingers caressed the parchment, folding and unfolding it. How many men had spent their lives striving for such honours? He would trade the title in a minute if it would restore his father to him.

He shoved the letter back into his pocket.

If her cousin's murder occurred the same night as his father's it was just conceivable that they were related. But the connection eluded him. Most likely it was nothing. Some phantom delusion; but at this point he had no other clues to investigate. It couldn't hurt to humour the girl and find out why she would think there could possibly be a link.

He gazed about the coffee house, wondering about its former owner. The Green Peacock defined shabbiness. Care had been lavished on spotless tables and grates, but the furnishings had been mended several times, by the look of them.

The entire street had seen better days. The shops and taverns—once prosperous—now stank of the Thames and decay. Most of the respectable inhabitants had long since fled westward to be replaced by seedy people with murky pasts.

Come to think of it, the serving girl seemed out of place. What was it? He considered.

Of course! With a triumphant slap of his hand against the scarred table, he had it. Her accent had no part in this rundown area of London. She sounded as if she would be more at home in Mayfair than this scruffy coffee house. How had she come to be in such a place?

Raised voices wafted from the other room, and Anthony frowned. An instant later the serving girl reappeared carrying a small haversack. Anthony studied her. He often didn't really see servants—one of the pitfalls of his class and upbringing, he supposed. They were little more than part of the décor in any establishment. Now he regarded her intently. The girl certainly bore closer inspection well. Classically sculpted features were saved from coldness by their animation. Auburn hair curled becomingly about her face and temples. Large, deep brown eyes put him in mind of the chocolates at Gunter's. An enigma. The girl's speech and bearing were those of a lady, while her employment at this coffee house precluded that assumption.

“I'm sorry, sir, it will have to wait—”

A man burst through the door hard on the girl's heels. He caught up with her in a couple of large bounds and grabbed her shoulder, swinging the girl around to face him.

“Did you think you'd get away with that?” He shoved her, sending her staggering. As she sprawled, her heel caught the brute's calf, tripping him. The man let out a bellow as he nearly fell. He grabbed the girl's hair, yanking her head back.

Anthony's toast clattered to the table.

“Fenn, please. Look…” Her words were cut off by a sharp kick to the ribs. The girl sucked in air, a painful gulping noise.

“Always thought you were better,” the bully spat. He raised his hand to strike her as she jerked free and scrabbled away from him on all fours.

Anthony's arm shot out, seizing Fenn's and twisting it up behind his back with a quick, sharp movement. Almost without realizing it, he'd come up behind the lout and taken him by surprise.

“What do you think you're about?” Anthony framed his question politely, but allowed his tone to remain threatening.

“Wha' d'ye care?” The ruffian struggled to free his wrist.

Anthony repeated his question, tightening his grip. Fenn howled, his eyes shifted. “The trollop's been stealing. I caught her. See the bag?”

Twisting in Anthony's grip, but still unable to free himself, Fenn turned his vindictive attention back to the girl. “It's the beak for you. Ready to dangle, my fine lady?”

“Unless you want to visit the magistrate you will cease this moment.” Anthony enunciated as distinctly as possible. He released the young man to toss a few coins on the table to pay for his coffee. Then turned to the girl. “What's in the bag?”

Shakily the girl clambered to her feet and retrieved it from where it had fallen to the floor and emptied the contents onto the closest table. A pitiful pair of worn dresses and a few undergarments toppled out.

“Did you steal anything from this establishment?”

“No.” Her voice sounded ragged. She hugged her ribs protectively.

“Lyin' little rat.” Fenn rushed forward, striking a violent blow that sent her tumbling. Her head cracked resoundingly against the hearthstone and she lay deathly still.

Anthony collared the lout. He had itched to punch something for a week. Now he allowed himself the sublime pleasure of knocking the bully senseless. The hours spent sparring in Gentleman Jack's fashionable ring had at last been profitably put to use.

He flexed his fingers and stepped over the brute's prone figure.

It was a certainty that he'd get no information from this Fenn character. He sighed. Someday he must learn to curb his impulsiveness.

There was nothing for it. He needed the girl. He wasn't convinced there was a link between the murders, but even if it was a remote possibility he wanted to know precisely what she knew. But they could hardly remain here to chat. Fenn might rouse at any moment and he'd be as mad as a badger. Anthony picked up the maid's unconscious form and carried her out to his carriage.