The Peacock Throne (5 page)

Marcus watched as the door to the fine house closed firmly behind Perkins, and the runner crossed the street. Stepping from the shadows of the mews, from which he had been keeping a discreet eye on the household, Marcus grasped the runner's shoulder.

“What did he have for you?”

“Oi!” Perkins clutched his chest dramatically. “You gave me a fright.”

Marcus did not find him amusing. He cocked an eyebrow.

“All right, guv'nor, all right. Seems his Lordship in there 'as been doin' some investigatin' of 'is own. 'E showed me a letter from his dad, what he writ the same night as he was murdered. He admitted to something unsavoury in the letter, but he weren't specific. He wanted the son to find an old mate. Man by the name of Rudolph Wolfe, what owned a coffee house. This here Wolfe happened to
get hisself killed the same day as old Danbury, if you can credit it, and he's got a girl in there what worked for him.”

Both Marcus's eyebrows went up now. “Does he, now?”

“What's more, I think they're still hidin' somethin'. I don't know what they kept back, but I'd wager my next reward packet. They were careful not to say
somethin
'.”

“Good work, Perkins; good work. Do let me know if you turn up anything else.” Marcus slipped the man a handful of coins.

Perkins glanced at the money in his palm. “Yes, sir. You know me, sir. Always pleased to help if I can.” The runner tipped his cap and slouched away, jingling the money in his hand as if it were a musical instrument.

Marcus scowled. Danbury would not get away with withholding any further evidence. This puzzle would be solved, despite the lack of information and an arrogant, interfering heir who thought he knew more about investigation than the professionals.

He settled in to watch the house. Twilight slid off the edge of the abyss into full darkness but he remained at his post long past the time when the candles had been damped and the door secured. The night watch made his rounds twice before Marcus abandoned his post with a disgruntled sigh. He'd be back. If the man was up to something, Marcus would find him out.

Lydia convinced Lord Danbury to wait until Saturday night to enter the coffee house, because the shop stayed closed on Sunday. Fenn would almost certainly go out in search of diversion and Mrs Wolfe had a habit of ensuring a good night's sleep by taking a substantial dose of laudanum. Lydia had no doubt that the woman would be abed early, leaving them a clear field.

The days slumped past, as halting as recalcitrant children. But as plodding as they were, they at least served the useful function of giving her body time to heal. When she finally shed her borrowed dress and donned her own shabby garments on Saturday evening, however, her heartbeat rang oddly loud in her ears. She stared at her image in the glass the maids shared. What if the evening's adventure landed her back at the Green Peacock for good? Her hands grew clammy, and her throat dry. Sucking in a deep breath she forced herself up the stairs.

Hands clasped behind his back, Lord Danbury paced in the study. An almost wild light gleamed in his eye. “You're ready, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

He halted. “Are you well?”

“Quite well.”

“I could find another way in. You needn't be involved.”

“And let you have all the fun?” Even as she said it her tongue felt thick.

He nodded as if she had passed some sort of test and strode from the room, leaving her to follow. Despite the bravado of her words, it took all her courage to follow Lord Danbury out to the carriage.

Marcus stood half dozing as he kept an eye on the house from the darkened mews. His hireling should be here in half an hour or so. Rubbing his gloved hands together he thought longingly of his club—his warm, comfortable, well-provisioned club.

Drat Pitt and all politicians anyway.

A carriage rattled up in front of the house and Marcus started to attention. Finally something unorthodox was happening. Awash for a moment in the light from the open door, Lord Danbury and a girl glanced about furtively as they bustled out to the carriage. The hour had grown too late for any legitimate business. And that girl was dressed like a scullery maid. She was neither a fine lady nor a demirep ready to spend the night in frivolity.

Marcus nearly crowed in exhilaration. He had known they were up to something. They didn't even have a footman in attendance. The coachman sat alone on the box. It could only mean they wanted as few as possible to be aware of their activities.

Taking advantage of the lack of attendants, Marcus darted to the side of the carriage and eased onto the backboard, being careful to keep his head low so they would not spot him. Unwitting of the stowaway, the carriage clattered off into the night.

Emerging from the coach, Lydia took the lead, guiding Lord Danbury through a warren of alleys and side streets. Neither Lydia nor his Lordship had spoken during their journey. The murky darkness hindered their progress and they moved cautiously, having no desire to meet anyone on this particular errand.

Music and hazy light spilled along the street as the door of a nearby bawdy house opened and an obviously inebriated young man teetered out. He waved a cheery good-bye, which was answered by a chorus of ribald humour and raucous laughter before the door
shut firmly behind him. Making an attempt at dignity, the fellow tried to straighten his cravat. Having hopelessly disarranged it he set off, his course wobbling and unsure, presumably towards home.

Lydia and Danbury stayed silent and still in the shadows until he had disappeared around a corner.

“The fool is going to get himself killed,” whispered Lord Danbury ferociously.

Something in his tone made Lydia turn and look at him. “You know him, then?”

“The idiot recently inherited a large fortune. He seems bent on spending it all as quickly and uselessly as possible.”

Lydia understood his frustration. The dolt would undoubtedly wake on the street somewhere to find himself the possessor of a pounding headache and a bruise the size of a goose egg, while at the same time missing his expensive coat, cravat, shoes, hat and walking stick, as well as his purse—if indeed there were anything in it left to take.

The desire to follow and see the poor fellow home tugged at her. A single glance at Lord Danbury's impatient figure silenced the notion. Perhaps it would do the man good to learn such a lesson, painful though it might be.

Pushing the young man's folly from her mind, she led the way through the gloom until they reached the rear of the coffee house. They had scarcely taken up position across the street in an alcove when the door opened and Fenn appeared. She stiffened at the sight of him and held her breath. He was so close. How could he fail to spot them hovering in the shadows? But he hummed a gin-house tune and seemed to be looking forward to his carousing.

Gradually she let out her breath as Fenn made his way down the street with a jaunty stride.

“I think it would be safe to go in now. He doesn't generally leave until Mrs Wolfe is in bed,” Lydia whispered, before darting across the street to try the back entrance. No matter how she jostled the handle it would not budge. She grimaced in annoyance. Fenn
would
remember to lock the door on the one night she wanted to get in. She motioned for Anthony to follow her to the edge of the coffee house. About nine feet above them a narrow eave nestled in the crook of the house.

“My window is there.” Lydia pointed out the tiny opening above them.

“It looks rather small,” Lord Danbury said dubiously.

“I'll fit.” She wanted to be done and gone. Her heart pounded in her throat, and her lips were growing chapped from being worried by her teeth, but she had to know what lay behind Mr Wolfe's death. She wiped her palms on her skirt. “Help me?”

Sucking in a deep lungful of air, Lydia stepped up into the basket Lord Danbury made of his hands. Then she stepped to his shoulders. From that vantage, she was able to get enough of a grip on the edge of the overhang to haul herself up the rest of the way. Perched precariously on the narrow ledge, she paused to catch her breath. Her ribs ached from the effort of the climb and she held them protectively. Sweat sprang to her brow. Palms flat on the window she jiggled it gently from side to side. The bolt slipped down into its chamber with a satisfying snick.

Again she rubbed damp palms on her skirt as she paused for a moment to see if the sound of the latch had roused any sign of life from Mrs Wolfe. Ever so carefully she raised the window, mindful of each squeak and groan of the wood. It seemed to take ages, but eventually she had it opened all the way.

Thrusting one arm through, she pushed through the window at an angle until she had enough leverage to redistribute her weight and pull in the other arm. Hands planted on the garret floor, she pulled her lower body through. Her bodice caught at the waist on a protruding nail. The unwelcome sound of tearing cloth caused her to wince—to her over-sensitive ears it sounded as loud as a night watchman's rattle. She reached up with one hand and freed the torn fabric, then proceeded to worm her way through the window. Until—

For a heart-stopping moment she feared her hips had stuck fast. She wriggled madly and lost a bit of skin, but at last she found herself fully inside the familiar old room.

Lydia scrambled to her feet and, taking care to make no noise, leaned out of the window and signalled Lord Danbury. He retreated to even deeper shadow and she lowered the sash back into place.

Congratulating herself on her foresight, she pulled a tiny vial of oil from her apron pocket and liberally doused the hinges of her door. She eased the door open, breathing a sigh of relief when no hideous screech sounded.

She knew the house so well she did not need a light in order to reach the stairs and make her way down them, which was just as well since no light was to be had in the dreary interior.

Breathless from nerves she slunk into the kitchen, unlatched the door and peered outside, motioning Danbury to enter. He darted in from the darkness and stepped aside, making way for her to close the door behind him.

“Where is it?” he hissed.

“Over there.” She motioned towards the big fireplace at the end of the kitchen.

The fire had been banked for the night and provided no illumination. Lydia felt the wall near the fireplace, her fingers sensitive to each variation in the rough brick surface. It took but a moment to find the two loose bricks and pry them out. Danbury took them from her almost reverently.

Lydia reached inside the gaping hole. Her groping was rewarded by the smoother texture of a paper-wrapped parcel. The package slid out easily.

Grinning like an imbecile, she handed the thin package to Lord Danbury and hastily replaced the bricks. They turned to go, but then froze. Someone rattled the latch. Lord Danbury leapt for the cellar door. He yanked it open and held it for her.

Too late.

The back door opened and Fenn's figure filled the doorframe.

“Oi! Who's there?” Menace charged Fenn's voice.

Adopting a frantic manner was fairly effortless under the circumstances.

“Fenn,” Lydia cried, running to him.

“You!” His tone held a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

“Oh, Fenn, it was awful.” She began to cry, her turbulent emotions easy to convey.

“Quit yer blubberin'.” He came in and lit the lamp. “Where've you been all this time, runt? Come back to rob the place for real?”

“The man, the one who was here, he took me away.” Her voice faltered and she allowed another small sob to escape. “It was horrible.”

“Why'd he want t' do that for?”

She lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, though the quake of fear it held was real enough. “He's a swell. His friends—well, they're depraved.”

Flabbergasted, Fenn did not respond for a long moment. “That gent stole you away? I knew he weren't no good the minute I clapped eyes on him.”

“I escaped and came here straight away.”

“How'd you get in?” The edge of suspicion crept back into his voice.

“Fenn, you know you often forget to lock the door.” Lydia bit her lip. He might easily remember locking it when he left.

She needn't have feared. He grimaced and she could practically see the wheels of his mind grind into sluggish movement as he prepared to justify his lapse. She forestalled him by her next comment. “I don't think they've figured out I'm gone yet. You needn't worry that anyone followed me here.”

Fenn blinked, the grim pronouncement obviously striking him with aspects of the case that had heretofore escaped his notice. The blood drained from his face. She could almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“You'll have the whole blinkin' lot swarming about the place.
What were you thinking to come back here, you little fool?” He cuffed her on the side of the head.

“Fenn, you're not going to throw me out in the street, are you? Please, you don't know what they'll do to me if they find me.” She clasped her hands together in front of her in supplication, and took another small side step. She had slowly repositioned them so Fenn had his back to the cellar door.

Fenn seemed intrigued by her remark. He scratched his head and a gleam of malicious interest flared deep in his eyes. “What'll they do if they find you?”

She covered her face with her hands and began to sniffle. “It's too dreadful.” Through her fingers she saw Lord Danbury peek around the corner of the cellar door. With a furtive wave of her hand she motioned for him to sneak out the back. Pulling Fenn down, she whispered the rest in his ear, as if it were too terrible to speak out loud.

Danbury had scarcely squeezed through the back door when Fenn, his eyes wide, felt behind him for a chair and sat down heavily.

He seemed unable to do any more.

“Don't worry, Fenn. I'm sure they couldn't do anything to you. Even if they do come here, you're a tough one.”

If possible, Fenn turned even paler. Grabbing her by the arm he hustled her out of the door. “I don't know what you were thinking, but you ain't stayin' 'ere.”