The Peacock Throne (4 page)

The gentleman seemed to notice the fatigue plucking at her composure like an importunate beggar. “I'll have no more argument from you. Someone must take a look at those injuries.” He raised an imperious hand to stifle her protests and rang for a footman.

“Mrs Malloy, please.”

The liveried young man bowed shortly, glanced covertly at Lydia and departed on his quest. A small, stout woman with an ample bosom and sparkling eyes appeared a moment later.

“Your Lordship?” The question was aimed at the Earl, but her gaze lingered on Lydia.

“Mrs Malloy, our guest is in need of medical attention. I shall leave it to you to decide whether your stillroom ministrations will suffice, or whether the doctor ought to be called in.”

As if she had received permission, Mrs Malloy tsk-tsked over Lydia's condition. “Come along, child.” She extended her arm towards Lydia like a hen guiding its chick with outspread wings. Over her shoulder, Mrs Malloy addressed his Lordship. “I'll put her in the spare maid's room, shall I?”

“As you see fit.” His Lordship's attention had already reverted to the papers on his desk.

The woman patted her hand. “Don't worry, child. I won't hurt you. I want to help you feel better.”

Lydia had been dismissed, but it was only right to tell him the rest of what she'd seen. “Your Lordship, there is something more you must know.” Obediently she stood and backed around the chair before Mrs Malloy's motherly onslaught.

His Lordship looked up from his papers, the gleam of a hunter in his eye.

The drumming in Lydia's head picked up tempo. The fine room whirled. Lightheaded, she gripped the chair back. She opened her mouth to speak, but could make nothing emerge. Mrs Malloy placed a hand on Lydia's arm, steadying her.

Darkness encroached on the edges of her vision. His Lordship stood up, sending his chair toppling backwards. There should have been a crash as the chair landed. Why was there no crash? Confused thoughts scurried like mice as Lydia struggled to remain coherent despite the thrumming in her ears. Then—nothing.

Marcus hated the foul odour of these low taverns. It was a pity so many of his commitments required that he frequent them. His valet would have a devil of a time beating the stench from his clothes—a shame, since he particularly liked this new jacket. Barely concealing his disgust at the thick miasma of smoke and close-packed, reeking humanity, he pushed his way through the throng to the place where his contact sat drinking.

There was the slightest whisper of movement in the crush at his side and Marcus whirled. Gripping the would-be pickpocket by the wrist he administered a sharp rap on the young man's hand with the heavy knob of his cane.

“That sort of lark will land you in Newgate.”

The lad jerked free, raising his bruised fingers to his lips. Without a backward glance he melted into the crowd as if he'd never been there.

“Young people these days.” Rodney Perkins shook his head.

Marcus settled himself beside the runner. “What can you tell me about the Earl of Danbury's murder?”

“Not a bloomin' thing—if you'll pardon my language—aside from what's been reported in the rags.”

“Come now, Mr Perkins. You must earn your keep. What have you been doing all this time?”

“I ain't turned up a speck of evidence. This one's no easy bit o' work.”

“What of the threatening letter that was found?” Marcus gritted his teeth, fingers drumming against the head of his cane. If Pitt was right—and he was rarely wrong—time was of the essence. Perhaps it would be better to take matters into his own hands.

“I ain't turned up a single whiff of any Jahan Pasha.” Perkins' contempt for a foreigner—be he real or imagined—edged his words and turned his lips up in a sneer.

“Oh?” Marcus allowed a hint of superciliousness into his tone.

The runner raised a hand. “Look now, I done everythin' any man with sense could be expected to do. There ain't been no one in London by that name so far's I can tell. None of the ports have record of 'im and neither does anybody else. I wouldn't 'ave said it at the time—he seemed right grieved—but you ask me, I think the son done for the ol' gent to get at the money and title.”

Marcus sat back and crossed his arms. It was possible. Murder had been committed for less. But then what could all this have to do with Bonaparte's scheming? Could the son be the traitor he had been looking for? He was highly placed in society and could have access to much of the information that had been passed along. Perhaps the murder had been committed, not out of greed, but out of fear of being named to the authorities. Or, perhaps, the old man had been the traitor and the son had killed him rather than allow the family honour to be besmirched.

Tossing a crown on the table, Marcus stood. “Contact me if you learn anything more.”

Perkins tugged on his forelock and scooped the coin into his shirt with a deft motion. “Right you are, sir. Right you are.”

Was it morning or evening? Lydia lay unmoving, considering the dim grey light that filtered through the thin curtains. She turned her gaze to the figure in the chair next to the bed, but could not summon the will to move any other bit of herself.

Mrs Malloy hummed gently, her rocking chair creaking rhythmically as she attended to some mending.

So she was still at his Lordship's house.

Mrs Malloy seemed to sense she had awakened. “You gave us a fright, my girl.”

Lydia's jaw and right cheek felt stiff and swollen, making her words clumsy and slow. “I'm sorry for the imposition. I assure you it was not my intention.” Stiffly, she began to move aside the bedclothes.

“Don't stir a muscle from that bed. Get back under there.” The housekeeper's words were sharp, but the tone gentle. Too tired and sore to argue, Lydia eased the coverlet back in place.

“Lord Danbury will want to know you are awake.” Mrs Malloy set aside her sewing and stood. “I expect you to stay put.”

Lydia hadn't the slightest desire to ever move again. “Yes, ma'am.”

Mrs Malloy left the room in a swish of bombazine and lavender scent.

With gritted teeth, Lydia gently probed her ribs with one hand. Sweat beaded her forehead and a hiss of pain whistled through her teeth. Every movement, every breath would be labourious for several days, but she was fairly certain they were not broken, merely bruised. Nor was her skull cracked, though it gave a fair imitation of being split open.

The room darkened as night chased the sun away: now she knew what time of day it was. Her eyes grew heavy, she began to drift off. A squeak from the door roused her and she blinked groggily.

Lord Danbury peeked into the room, though he did not enter.

“How are you?”

“Better. Thank you. I am sorry for the imposition.” Her cheeks burned and she pulled the coverlet higher.

Lord Danbury waved away her apology. “I am sorry. I should have intervened sooner.” He opened the door an inch or so wider. “How did you come to be at the Green Peacock?”

“My father was a vicar, but he and my mother were killed in a carriage accident when I was fourteen. After some confusion, I was
sent to live with Mr Wolfe, my father's cousin. He was the only family with which the solicitor was able to establish contact.”

“And he owned the Green Peacock? Is that how you came to be working there?”

She nodded.

Lord Danbury gazed at her for a long moment. Lydia caught at her lip with her teeth, but offered no other details.

At last he pushed away from the doorframe on which he had been leaning. “As promised, I will see what I can do about employment for you. I'm sure some acquaintance or other is in need of a maid.”

Lydia nodded gingerly.

He must have taken her slowness for reluctance. “Do you have any accomplishments?” He looked dubious.

“Arithmetic, Latin, French, and Geography. I could manage music, dance and deportment.”

He nodded, more to himself it seemed. “Perhaps a governess then?”

It was a higher post than she had dared hope for. “I should like it very much.”

He turned to go.

“Lord Danbury, I would be qualified. I was well educated.”

He nodded and offered her a slight smile before closing the door. He may even have believed her.

Sinking deeply into the pillows, Lydia stared after him. How often would her life be so resoundingly upended? Sighing, she considered making an escape. She would rather leap from the top of St Paul's golden dome, but perhaps returning to the Green Peacock was possible. At least it was a life she knew—the only home she'd had since her parents' deaths. She had been able to manage Fenn for years. Surely she would be able to manage him a while longer? But no. She was deluding herself. There was no going back.

She worried a stray thread on the coverlet as she evaluated the situation.

Her mother's family owned a home in London, but Lydia
wouldn't have the courage to approach them. Besides, if they refused to acknowledge her, then she was content to act as though they didn't exist either. It might be cold company, but she had her pride.

It seemed she would have to trust Lord Danbury a bit longer. She had nowhere else to go.

Anthony slammed into the library in search of something to distract his mind. Another day wasted. Every trail he pursued seemed fraught with difficulties. It had been three days since he had discovered who Mr Wolfe was, and the information had led precisely nowhere. He stuck a finger down his collar and tugged to loosen his cravat. Why James thought he could only achieve the perfect mathematical knot by strangling him, he'd never know.

The presence of a slight figure sitting quietly in his favourite chair brought him up short. The young woman grimaced as she rose. “Good evening, sir. I apologize if I've intruded. I was told I might wait for you in here.”

With a start, Anthony realized that the young woman before him, dressed in a maid's uniform, was Wolfe's cousin. He smoothed the furrows from his brow and summoned a smile to cover the sudden racing of his pulse.

“Mrs Malloy is allowing you out of the sick room now, or have you escaped?”

“She said I might get up, but ordered me not to over-exert myself.” The girl smoothed the front of her borrowed dress. “If you have a moment, it is important that I speak with you.”

Perhaps the day was not an entire loss after all. He settled into a chair, prepared to offer his whole-hearted attention. “Certainly.”

“I must thank you for your kindness.”

“No need, no need.” Anthony found himself bobbing his head like a demented cockatoo. “Lydia, wasn't it? Think nothing of it. You
are the first and only person so far to give me any real information. I have been keeping you here for my own reasons.” Belatedly realizing how that might be construed, he rushed to assure her. “Nothing dishonourable, I assure you.” His cheeks burned. Good heavens, he must sound a regular flat.

He thought he saw a smile but she tucked her chin down and looked at her hands, folded primly around the book in her lap. “Yes, my Lord, that's why I'm here.”

Anthony leaned forward.

“I always woke first to prepare the kitchen for the morning trade. But on the evening before Mr Wolfe was killed…” She paused. “You must promise not to use the information I divulge for any purpose other than bringing the murderer to justice.”

Anthony inhaled deeply, trying to maintain a pleasant demeanour. He leaned forward a bit more. And then another bit. If he could reach down her throat and rip the tale from her he would. “I have no interest in Mr Wolfe's affairs except where they cross my father's.”

Her eyes searched his face and then she nodded once. “I found him in the kitchen stuffing some papers behind a couple of loose bricks in the mantle. He was as anxious as a cutpurse hiding his ill-gotten gain so I made him some tea to settle his nerves.” A wistful smile lit her features.

Anthony jerked upright. Another fraction of an inch and he would have toppled into the chit's lap. The information might indeed be valuable, but what was it about this girl that had him so out of kilter?

A pink flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. Once more she bent her head. Had his attention embarrassed her in some way? “As he drank it he told me the papers were reminiscences of his days at sea, but he didn't want Mrs Wolfe or Fenn to know about them. He feared they would mock his efforts.”

“He made me promise not to tell anyone where they were hidden. I agreed, of course, but he remained distracted all evening. The next morning I found him murdered.”

She looked up then, and met his gaze again. The restrained sorrow in her eyes made his breath take up lodgings in his throat. Perhaps her embarrassment was at her own failure to prevent her cousin's death. He well knew the weight of that particular guilt. He opened his mouth but she continued.

“I wouldn't be telling you about it now but for the fact that those papers might have something to do with his death. Based on the letter your father wrote, this all began decades ago.”

Anthony settled back into his chair. “I suppose it's time.”

“Pardon me?”

“Bow Street is investigating the murder. I suppose it is time I introduce you to Perkins. I have been considering whether you ought to speak to him, and now I believe it would be for the best. What you've told me could be important indeed. You don't mind speaking to a runner, do you?”

She blinked at the sudden turn of the conversation. “Not if you think it important.”

Anthony dispatched a footman to summon Rodney Perkins, and then returned to the discussion.

“The question we now face is how to retrieve those papers. Would Mrs Wolfe sell them?”

Lydia hesitated. “Mrs Wolfe will not give them up if she knows someone else wants them. It's her way.”

“I could make it well worth her while.”

“But you would have to explain how you knew, not only of their existence, but of their hiding place.”

“I would…”

She shook her head. “Once you admitted that I told you of the papers you would have to pry them from her with a crowbar.” She gave a small shrug. “We never got along well.”

“What would you suggest?”

“I should go back. Then I could retrieve the documents and slip them to you after dark.” Her quiet words sounded as sombre as the tolling of a church bell at a funeral.

“I cannot allow it.” Anthony stood and began to pace. “Surely you know as well as I what the consequences could be. That brute Fenn would enjoy making you pay for the humiliation he suffered at my hands.”

“What did you do to Fenn?”

Anthony paused in mid-stride. He had forgotten she did not witness the decisive action. “I knocked him senseless.” Satisfaction added relish to his tone.

A wide grin spread across her face. “Impossible, I'm afraid.”

His eyes widened. Did she question his veracity? He whirled to address her.

“He was already entirely senseless.” An impish light sparked in her eyes, and he found himself chuckling at her small jest.

He must not allow himself to be sidetracked by a pretty, witty maid. “He may again accuse you of theft. You could be tried and hanged.”

“I've considered the possibility, believe me, but the more I think on it, the less I believe he would do it. Which is not to say he will be pleasant. But trade has been slow of late at the Green Peacock. Mrs Wolfe didn't have the funds to hire someone to do the work. Fenn has probably had to take over most of my duties. He should be glad enough to have me back, for a short time at least.” The rush of words made him think she was trying to convince herself as well as him.

He cocked his head to the side. There was something going on here. It was plain as parchment that she did not want to return to the coffee house. Dreaded it, in fact. “Why this insistence on placing yourself at risk?”

Her gaze clashed against his, flint and stone sparking one against the other. “The last person in this entire world who cared one farthing about me has been slaughtered. I will see justice done, and if that meant facing a hundred Fenns I would do so without a moment's hesitation.”

He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “I only meant there must be another way. Your Fenn would be as likely to burn
the papers in front of me as give them to me. But I still think it would be placing you in too much danger to send you back there unescorted.”

They pondered the problem silently for a while, the only sounds in the room the crackle and hiss of the fire in the grate and the steady tick of the clock on the mantle. The evening shadows deepened and spread.

Anthony stood and set to pacing. “Would I be able to sneak into the coffee house and extract the papers with no one the wiser?”

It was a daft, wild, ridiculous notion, and the girl opened her mouth as if to tell him so, but then she narrowed her eyes. Her fingers stroked the fine-grained leather of the book in her lap. “I think it would be possible. We would want to wait until Fenn takes himself off for the night. Then it should be fairly easy. He often forgets and leaves the door off the latch. If that won't work, the window to my old room in the garret doesn't close properly. I could get in that way.”

She held up a hand to forestall his protests.

“It's small but
I
can squeeze through. You would be far too large. If you must be involved, I could go down and let you in through the kitchen door. It shouldn't take more than a moment to get the papers.” Lydia paused, then engaged his gaze. “I am willing to do nearly anything if it will mean catching Mr Wolfe's murderer, but if he meant to provide for his family with what he stashed away, some money, or the deed to some property or something, I won't allow them to be removed. I will not be the thief Fenn accused me of being.”

Having stated her conditions she pulled back her shoulders, but turned her eyes downward as if bracing for a tirade. What an interesting young lady she was proving to be. “I'll agree to those terms. They do you credit.”

Her gaze again found his as she smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now we have some planning to do.” He led the way to the study, where he took the seat behind the desk and motioned for her to take the seat before it. Only compunction for her safety had
made him hesitate, but he had to concede the point. She must be involved in the escapade. She alone knew the location of the hiding place. And she alone could offer a plausible tale if caught inside the coffee house in the middle of the night. As long as he was near, she should come to no harm.

Looking across the desk as she noted down their plans in small neat script, Anthony congratulated himself for having taken her away from that miserable den. He must think harder—try harder to find her a suitable position. He would find some means of repaying her for her service. Reclining into the comfortable chair, he tilted his head as Lydia proposed another idea—though he hadn't heard what she said.

A footman announced Perkins.

“Say nothing of Wolfe's papers or our plans,” he muttered as he stood to receive the runner.

She nodded minutely while he greeted Perkins. He'd all but forgotten that he'd summoned the man. And now he regretted it, but he would have to tell him something. The runner had to be devilish curious at the sudden summons, though he hid the emotion with practised skill. His attention had obviously fixed on the girl seated before the desk. His small, round eyes examined her as if regarding a fish to be filleted for supper.

“Mr Perkins, it is good of you to come. This young lady has information which may be useful to us.”

“How is it you didn't come forward before?”

“Excuse me?” Her brow cleared and she shook her head. “Oh, no, I'm not a maid here. These clothes are borrowed. Perhaps…” She looked to Anthony for assistance.

In brief outline he explained how he had discovered the letter from his father and managed to find Rudolph Wolfe's residence, only to learn that he too had been murdered. He gave Perkins the letter to peruse. The runner turned an apoplectic shade of crimson, and seared him with a reproachful glare, but held his tongue.

When Lydia had completed her recitation of the facts around
her discovery of Wolfe's body, Perkins sat back and tapped his lip thoughtfully.

“You think as these men were killed for summat to do with this voyage they took, what was it, some forty odd years ago?”

Anthony and Lydia voiced their agreement.

“And why would that be, exactly?”

“We don't know,” said Anthony.

Perkins addressed Lydia. “Did Mr Wolfe ever speak to you of these things?”

“No, sir. I knew nothing of the matter until his Lordship allowed me to read the same letter you've just seen.”

“I hate to admit it, but we're at somethin' of a dead end. I ain't been able to find no one called Jahan Pasha, or this Shah Akbar.”

Frowning, Anthony leaned forward. “You've found no trace at all? I confess my inquiries have been unsuccessful, but I had hoped with your greater resources…”

Perkins cut in. “I'll wager no one by those names 'as come into the country anytime recent, at least not legal like. There's no record of 'em in London or anywheres nearby. You sure you told me everythin', Miss?”

“I told you everything I can recall about how I found Mr Wolfe's body. I did not hear anything in the night, or see anything suspicious out of my window, if that is what you mean. Do you think mention of those men might be a blind?”

Perkins eyed her as if she were particularly obtuse. “If you think of anything you forgot, send for me.”

“Certainly.”

“And if I have questions for you, where will you be?”

She opened her mouth but closed it again. Anthony stepped in smoothly. “You may call for Lydia here.”

Looking back at the girl he frowned. Her complexion had turned ashen and dark circles settled beneath her eyes. He berated himself for a fool. Her exhaustion showed plainly. She needed rest if she were to recover from her injuries.

“I fear Mrs Malloy will have my head on a platter for keeping you from your sickbed. Please retire; you need to gather your strength.”

She looked from one man to the other. “If you are certain I am no longer needed, I believe I will.”

With their reassurances she bade them goodnight.

“Do you think she's tellin' us the entire story?” Perkins was watching him closely.

“I'm sure she hasn't lied about what she found. She came up with the details about the knife, and so on, independently. She hadn't any description of my father's death when she told me her tale.”

The runner narrowed his eyes, perhaps noticing that he had not answered the question. “Unless it were from the newssheets.” Despite his obvious scepticism, Perkins said no more about it, but admonished Anthony to bring anything else he might find to his attention immediately. “After all, sir, whoever did this has already killed twice. We wouldn't want to put a third to his conscience.”