The Peacock Throne (7 page)

Scrawled at the bottom of the page were the signatures of three men.

The room remained utterly silent for a moment. Enthralled by the tale, Anthony had been transported to a time and place long ago. He blinked, slowly bringing the comfortable, well-furnished study back into focus. It seemed anticlimactic somehow, to find himself safe and secure in the midst of London, rather than in the heart of the Indian subcontinent.

Harting broke the silence. “It's hard to believe no one ever went back to retrieve the throne.”

“Shortly after the Seven Years War my grandfather and then father's elder brother died. Father resigned his commission to come home and assume the title. I don't know that he would have had the opportunity.”

“I doubt the others would have had means to do so.” Lydia rifled through the pages once more and then extended the document to Anthony.

He took it and gazed at his father's hand, not reading the words so much as tracing the form of each familiarly shaped letter. His throat burned. If he could not find the murderer, perhaps there was a way to encourage the murderer to reveal himself. “I've had a thought.”

Harting and Lydia waited politely.

“I'm going to mount an expedition to retrieve this cursed throne.” He tapped the confession with his finger. “And thereby solve the murders.”

“May I point out that you have no business trying to solve anything? That's what runners and magistrates are for.” Derision coated Harting's tone, thick and heavy.

Anthony regarded him coldly. The man knew nothing about the situation, yet he felt compelled to stick his oar in. “You may not, sir. I know I'm sadly lacking in experience. But I will not stand idly by while my father's murderer walks about freely. It is obvious to me that whoever murdered my father and Mr Wolfe was intent on finding information about the throne. Why else should they seek out my father and Mr Wolfe? To exact revenge at this late date? No, it's more likely they demanded the location of the throne before they murdered them. He will either follow me or lie in wait for my return. And then I'll have him.”

“Perhaps he meant to ensure he would not be pursued or wanted to ensure their silence about the whole affair, or perhaps…” Harting shifted to stare at him with curious intensity. “Maybe the man was known to your father and he could not risk being identified to the authorities.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “If—”

“If they have this information and are looking for the throne then time is of the essence,” Lydia said.

Harting straightened his cuffs. “Such an expedition will be enormously expensive.”

“I will go to any length in order to find those responsible for my father's death.” Anthony glanced at the mantel clock. “It's far too late this evening, but I shall begin making arrangements first thing in the morning.” Anthony began searching through one of the stacks of paper on the desk. He had been trying to sort through all the financial affairs and had seen something about a ship….

“There is one more problem.” Lydia was perched on the edge of her chair. “The confession does not specify the location of the throne. By design I would suppose.”

Anthony dropped the document he was pursuing. She was right.

Harting was smothering a grin.

“The diary. Perhaps there is a mention in there.” Anthony grabbed for the volume and began leafing through it. He stared at first one page and then another. The lines of ink were faded and
stained in places, but the real problem was the penmanship. He couldn't make anything of the script. “I can't read this.”

“Penmanship was not one of Mr Wolfe's strengths. But I am usually able to decipher it.” Lydia extended a hand for the diary. “I would be pleased to assist you.”

Anthony glanced at her and for the first time noticed a tear near the waistline of her dress. “It looks as if you are a trifle worse for wear.” He motioned towards the torn fabric. Harting, too, turned an intent gaze upon her. Anthony cringed inwardly. Drawing attention to the tear had been an ungentlemanly thing to do.

Lydia grabbed at the cloth and clutched it together. “Lucky these are not my good clothes.”

It was, in fact, the only garment she could call her own. In spite of his acute embarrassment, Anthony smiled. She was stout-hearted to offer jokes at her own expense after everything. He really must see to getting her settled in some suitable position before he left.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We can get an early start in the morning.” He rose and stepped away from the desk.

Harting and Lydia took the hint. Both stood to take their leave.

Harting tapped the head of his cane with a long finger. “Just don't attempt any more nefarious activities. You'll get caught.”

The man certainly had an abundance of highhanded gall. Anthony regretted being so forthcoming and showed him the door with little ceremony. He would be asking some questions about Mr Harting, that was for certain.

Despite his indication to the others that he meant to seek his bed, he paused only long enough to remove his jacket, then returned to perusing the diary. He must wrest from it the secrets of that long-ago journey.

Anthony cracked open a single eye and groaned. He'd lain his head down only for a moment, to rest his eyes, but now sun spilled
through the gaps in the drapery and his face rested in a puddle of spittle. Wiping his mouth, he sat up and surveyed his desk. He had made almost no progress on the dratted diary.

A footman entered and announced the arrival of Mr Harting. Anthony groaned, but nodded permission for the man to be shown in. “But bring in tea.”

The footman nodded.

A moment later, Anthony rose to greet his guest with outstretched hand. “Harting, I did not expect to see you so early this morning.” Had not expected to see him again at all, in fact.

“It's nearly noon.”

The quirk of Harting's mouth confirmed Anthony's suspicion that he was being made sport of—again. “Precisely. I thought active members of the ton such as yourself made it a habit not to rise before three.”

The quirk grew into a full-fledged smile. Harting held up a hand. “I deserved that.” His tone grew sober. “What do you know of Miss Garrett?”

Anthony hesitated. What
did
he know of her? “You know as much of her character and background as I do based on what I told you last evening.”

“Then it would seem at this stage that I know a great deal more about her than you do.”

The urge to snarl came over him. What was it about Harting that got his hackles up? “What should I know about the chit then?”

Evidently enjoying the moment, Harting sat back. “Her father was a clergyman from respectable, though not affluent, stock.”

The cad was enjoying spinning out the tale. Anthony declined to give him the satisfaction of begging him to continue.

“Her mother, however, was born Callandra Westham.”

The name sparked vague recognition, but Anthony could not place it.

Harting continued. “Miss Westham married Mr Andrew Garrett without her parents' permission. Enraged that his daughter would
disobey him, her father cut her off entirely. To my knowledge they never saw one another again.”

“What was the objection, if Garrett was respectable?”

“Ah, then you didn't recognize the name. I had thought you might.”

Anthony gritted his teeth.

Oblivious to his danger, Harting went on. “Perhaps I should have styled her Lady Callandra. She was the eldest daughter of Charles Westham, the Earl of Glenford. He had great hopes for her. By all accounts she was one of the great beauties of her generation. He aimed at nothing less than a Duke for his girl.”

Dismay settled over Anthony like a cloak. Surely he ought to have discerned nobility in Miss Garrett at once. Even knowing her demeanour and speech were different, he had treated her as a servant rather than a lady, even calling her by her Christian name—the granddaughter of Old Glenford, no less. Why hadn't she said something? “What happened to her parents?” he managed to croak.

“Seems they were both killed some six or seven years ago in a carriage accident.”

“Glenford refused to acknowledge his granddaughter even then?”

“That is a bit vague. He was ill at the time. The doctors never expected he would pull through. My contact believed that Mrs Garrett had heard of his illness, and hoped to reconcile with him before he died. It was as they were travelling to her family's estate that their carriage overturned and the Garretts were killed. Though the old man obviously pulled through.”

“Irony is an ugly master.”

“I would assume that Miss Garrett's family solicitor tried to contact the Westhams, but whether they did not respond because of a disinclination to be burdened by the girl, or because of the turmoil surrounding the Earl's illness at the time, I cannot say.”

Anthony rubbed his face with both hands. He did not need this complication. “So the solicitor dug up some far-flung relative on her father's side and palmed the girl off to them.”

Harting nodded. “Her small inheritance was gone within a matter of months.”

“How do you know all this?”

The fellow positively smirked. “Cultivating the gossips does occasionally reap benefits.”

Anthony ignored the look. If he allowed himself to be distracted by such mannerisms he'd throttle the fop and then he'd never solve the murders. “No. No, I don't think so.” He sat back in his chair. “Your information is too precise. How did you come by it?”

While it did not wipe the smile from his face, the skin around his eyes tightened as Harting gave him a shrewd appraisal.

He waited, hoping that Harting would squirm.

He didn't.

“I occasionally assist the Home Office.” His tone was so bland he might have been announcing that the sun had indeed risen that morning. “I did not come upon you by accident last night.”

Somehow, Anthony had thought not. “You're a spy.” It was at last his own turn to smirk.

Harting frowned. “I am not a spy.”

“As you wish.” The man was absolutely a spy. A sneaking, creeping spy.

“Mrs Malloy?”

The elderly housekeeper clutched at her chest and dropped the quill she had been holding. “Lord, child! You gave me a fright.”

“My apologies.” Lydia backed away, biting her lip. The poor woman had turned as white as a maid's mobcap. “I did not mean to startle you.”

She waved a hand. “I'm all right, girl. I'm all right.”

Mrs Malloy settled back in her seat. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve then dabbed at her brow. “Tisn't your fault, my dear girl. I'm all at sixes and sevens when I am doing the household accounts.” She rifled the pages of the ledger in front of her.

“Perhaps I could be of assistance? I came to see if there was aught I could do to help repay Lord Danbury's kindness. My father taught me mathematics.”

“I can manage well enough. I've muddled through 'em for some fifteen years now.”

“Yes, ma'am. I meant no disrespect.”

The older woman's features softened some and she smiled. “I expect you didn't, at that.” Mrs Malloy looked down at the ledger and piles of paper on her desk. She flushed pink and pursed her lips. “Perhaps, just this once, you might assist me with the accounts.” Her expression gentled even further and she waved a hand over the mess. “I would like to get to Sunday service if I can. If Lord Danbury has no need for you, mayhap you could join me.”

How long had it been since she had been in a Sunday service? “I would greatly enjoy that. I haven't been to church in an age.”

For a time, Mrs Malloy hovered nearby, double-checking Lydia's calculations, but soon she drifted away to other tasks in her cluttered pantry.

“You seem to have a real head for figures.”

“I handled the accounts for my cousin's coffee house for some three years.” Lydia kept her gaze trained on the neat columns of numbers. She had long ago learned to downplay any achievement in order to avoid rebuke or ridicule.

“It is no wonder then you were so quick on picking up what was required.” Unlike the odious Fenn, Mrs Malloy did not seem the least bit intimidated by Lydia's education.

The rustle of a house alive with people continued in the background, but Lydia settled into the undemanding task, and an easy hush descended as they worked companionably side by side.

“Oh my, time has gotten away from me. I must be getting ready if I'm to make it to service.” Mrs Malloy pushed aside the menu she had been preparing and stood. “You do wish to come with me?”

Lydia glanced up from the accounts. “I had forgotten that I have nothing appropriate to wear, and I couldn't bear being a discredit to you.”

“Betsy, our tweeny, is about your size and has a good frock she might lend you for the day. I'll speak to her about it.”

The door opened and one of the housemaids bobbed a curtsy. “His Lordship is asking for you in the study, ma'am.”

“Yes, of course.” She turned back to Lydia. “I will see you in the mews in twenty minutes.” Mrs Malloy nodded civilly and sailed away in a flurry of rustling skirts.

“Miss Garrett?”

Lydia glanced up from careful consideration of a mews cobblestone she had been scuffing with the toe of her worn slipper.
Mr Harting stood before her, looking especially debonair in a dark blue jacket and buff breeches. His complicated cravat stood out in regal splendour, and his hat and cane gleamed in the afternoon light. He truly was a dashing figure, especially in contrast to the groomsmen mucking out the stalls nearby. Offering a quick curtsy, Lydia licked lips that had suddenly gone dry.

“Good day, sir.”

“May I have a moment of your time?”

“How may I be of assistance?” She glanced up at him warily from under her lashes.

He drew her aside and lowered his voice. “I understand that you have some illustrious forebears.”

“Illus…” As the implication of his words dawned on her, she drew away, the breath growing tight in her chest. “What concern are my family connections to you?” There. She had kept her voice well modulated. He could not possibly know the turmoil he was causing.

“Your family has served the crown with great success over the years.”

“My mother's family.” She scrutinized his face for any hint as to where he was leading this conversation.

“Your family. I had hoped to find you similarly patriotic.”

“Speak plainly. What do you want from me?”

“I must request your aid with a matter of grave importance.” He glanced about, and pitched his voice even lower. “I assist the Home Office. My… colleagues believe there is a highly placed traitor in London. He goes by the name Le Faucon, the Hawk. We believe that it is not someone employed in the ministry but rather someone with access to those who are. The cost extracted by this person—both in men and material—has been very great indeed.”

Lydia stared at Mr Harting as if he were speaking Dutch. What could he mean by sharing such information with her? Was he making sport of her?

He bent his head even closer to hers. “I tell you this so you will understand the importance of what I must ask you to do.”

With narrowed eyes, Lydia nodded slowly.

“Lord Danbury is in a position to have come by much of the information we suspect this traitor to have passed on. He knows the right people. In addition, he had the opportunity and the means to have done away with his father. He inherits everything including the title and lands. I am told that his holdings amount to an income of some 40,000 pounds a year.”

Lydia gaped. She couldn't help it. That was a colossal amount of money. Still she shook her head in disbelief. This had to be some feeble jest. “I cannot vouch for all Lord Danbury's loyalties, but I'm certain that he had nothing to do with his father's death. And I'd be grateful—”

“You scarcely know the man.”

Lips pursed as indignation warred with the consciousness of her station. Lydia struggled to convey her perceptions. “I… he is so sincere. It's obvious that his father's murder has wounded him deeply. He…” Her words tumbled over one another in her haste to defend the man who seemed to share her own sense of loss. Taking a deep breath she began again. “If he had killed his father, why would he so diligently seek the murderer?”

“As a means of diverting suspicion from himself. Or maybe he has not been after the murderer at all. Perhaps he has been after the location of the throne all along.”

A horse pawed the ground nearby and tossed its mane. Gratefully she took the opportunity to break Harting's gaze. She wanted to show her displeasure as clearly as the horse but settled for shaking her head, denying the possibility that Lord Danbury could be so treacherous. A worm of doubt wriggled into her heart. “I simply cannot believe it. You are making sport of me—”

Mr Harting interrupted her with his palms outstretched, as if fending off an attack. “Not at all, Miss Garrett. I would never make light of such a matter. All I ask is that you stay close to him and if you find anything suspicious, pass it along to me.”

Again Lydia shook her head and opened her mouth to speak.

“Miss Garrett, you must know that I was thorough in my investigation of your situation. I understand the loss of your parents and your many struggles.”

How dare he? A scalding flush swept up Lydia's neck until it burned her cheeks. She clenched her jaw to hold back the torrent of abuse she wished to heap on his head.

He placed a finger under her chin and raised it until her gaze met his. He stared hard into her eyes as if trying to read something in their depths. “I only mention it because this type of service to the country is rewarded handsomely.”

No doubt this sort of offer had worked well for him in the past, but he had miscalculated with her. She desperately needed some sort of income, but she hadn't fallen so low as to spy on a friend for it. Jerking her chin free, Lydia controlled her voice with difficulty. “His Lordship has been nothing but kind to me. I will not betray his trust.”

This time Harting took her hands. She tried to pull free, but though it seemed effortless he retained his grip until she looked him in the face. Earnestness emanated from him like a cloud of cologne. “There is no betrayal. If he is not guilty you will be doing him a good turn by eliminating him from my consideration. If he is guilty then he has already betrayed you. He's betrayed us all. You will be the hand of justice.”

Conflicting loyalties tugged at Lydia. Lord Danbury had fought for her and provided for her, asking little in return. He had treated her with kindness. The faces of the women she knew from Brant Street floated in her mind's eye: mothers, wives, and sweethearts—so many had lost men to the incessant fighting on the continent. Didn't she owe Le Faucon's victims some consideration? What if she could prevent further losses? If Harting was correct, the traitor had been responsible for many deaths, including Mr Wolfe's. And she had vowed to bring her cousin's murderer to justice. A vow that gave no consideration to the possibility that she might not like the answer. Now that the issue had been raised, she could not
ignore the potential that Lord Danbury had some involvement in the murders.

Lydia scowled at Harting, loathing him for putting her in this position. She pulled her hands free and lowered her eyes. She did not want him to see the tears welling in them. “I will do as you ask…” Defiance flared again. “But only to prove you wrong.”

“Agreed.” Harting again took one of her hands, this time raising it to his lips. She could almost see the force of his personality fade as he assumed a mantle of foppishness. “Until we meet again.”

Anthony paused as he caught sight of Harting and Miss Garrett engaged in conversation down in the mews. Spurred by curiosity his eyes remained fixed to the scene. Resting an arm against the wall, he leaned close to the window, straining to hear.

What could Harting want with her? Perhaps he wished to discuss his investigations into her past? Anthony drew aside the drapery a bit. She blushed and looked flustered, angry even. Blood pounded in his ears. Was Harting propositioning the girl? He wanted to fly down the stairs and flatten the cad. He could yell down to the stable hands to seize the louse and hold him until he reached them.

Restraint, he cautioned himself. Restraint. Miss Garrett could handle the advances of a would-be roué like Harting. Though if the bounder tried anything more, Anthony promised himself, he would have the pleasure of teaching Harting a lesson.

If only he was close enough to hear what they were saying. Anthony flexed his fingers.

Harting raised the girl's chin and Anthony ground his teeth. When he took her hands in his, Anthony started down the stairs. One simply did not manhandle a young lady in such a way.

Would he have thought it so grossly improper if he had not known of her heritage? He pushed the thought away. She was under
the protection of his household and she obviously needed someone to help her handle the scoundrel.

Barrelling through the door, he almost collided with one of the maids carrying a coal scuttle.

“Pardon me, yer Lordship.” The girl bent her knees in an imitation curtsy and promptly stepped to the side, smack in his way again. They both stepped to the other side. They performed the uncomfortable dance until Anthony stopped, gripped her arms and shifted her out of his way.

He was breathless when he threw the door open and entered the courtyard. Harting was gone. Miss Garrett turned in surprise at his abrupt arrival. Her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly damp.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Her brow furrowed and she gazed at him as if perplexed.

Anthony ran a hand through his hair, no doubt disarranging it further. “Ah, well. Harting is gone then?” Babbling like an idiot was becoming a positive habit.

“Did you need something? I can fetch one of the footmen to go after him. He passed by not long ago.”

She did not mention their conversation. Of course, such an experience must have been trying, and recounting it would be distressing. Anthony sought a way to retreat.