The Peacock Throne (9 page)

Lydia drew nearer, cradling the diary. “I would stake my life on it that it says Abundance Island.”

Lord Danbury's shoulders slumped slightly. He stared at the map as Lydia took up position by his side. His eyes continued to scour every inch for the island.

She read and reread the diary entry and then turned the page. “Here! He included coordinates on the next page.” Lydia read off the numbers. Their heads nearly touched as they bent to find the location.

Triumph flared in Lord Danbury's eyes. “Here it is. It was renamed Mahe at some point.” He whooped and swept her into a rollicking country dance. Breathless and laughing, they whirled and cavorted. Hands clasped and facing one another, they bounded to one end of the room and back.

A footman's voice at the door announced Mr Harting.

Abruptly conscious of the picture of lunacy they must be painting, Lydia broke free of Lord Danbury's hold and spun to face the meddlesome agent.

Harting's single raised eyebrow spoke more elegantly than any words.

Lord Danbury straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat. “Good evening, Harting. I believe we've found the vital bit of information we've been searching for.”

Lydia continued to edge away. This was the sort of mortification that impetuosity purchased. She must school her emotions better in future. Propriety and a plan. Those were to be her bywords.

Lord Danbury turned to her before she could make her escape. “Miss Garrett, I was hoping you would also join us for dinner.”

Lydia swallowed. Her position in the household was becoming more confused by the moment. She had never dreamed of being asked to dine with his Lordship. Wrapping composure about herself like a shroud, she inclined her head. “As you wish, my Lord. And since you have been so kind as to honour me, would you then please excuse me? I must dress for dinner.” She did not wait for a reply, only nodding at Mr Harting as she all but fled from the room.

Safely ensconced in the new guest room to which she had been moved, Lydia found that several packages had been delivered. She donned the dress of fine green muslin she had so admired earlier, then sat in a comfortable armchair, holding a new pair of silk stockings and garters in her hand.

She sighed as she slid on the hose and stepped into a pair of kidskin slippers. This was the pinnacle of luxury.

Moving to the glass she took earnest stock of her appearance. Gone was the shabby serving wench and even the pale maidservant. In their place stood a young lady of grace and consequence. An imposter. Lydia turned from the glass and made her way blindly downstairs, joy swallowed in doubt.

Mr Harting had been cooling his heels in the drawing room. He stood swiftly upon her entrance, offering a half bow. And then he drew back his head, cocking it minutely to the side as if he had just recognized her. Determined to do justice to her mother's tutelage, Lydia made her curtsy and chose a seat, sitting down gingerly in her finery.

Harting played the gallant. “Miss Garrett, you look radiant.”

“You are very kind, Mr Harting.” She could not prevent the flush that crept up her neck and into her cheeks. It was infuriating to respond so when she knew very well that his admiration was not sincere.

Harting leaned nearer and lowered his voice.

“I have decided to take your Lord Danbury into my confidence—at least to an extent. If, as you hope, he is not guilty then I want him on my side. If he is guilty, then I want him to labour under the illusion that I have swallowed his tale whole-heartedly. You must play along.”

Anthony paused at the entrance to the drawing room. Harting sat with his head bent close to Miss Garrett, speaking to her softly. They might as well have been sharing the same couch. At least she didn't appear too happy about it. Should he say something? Rebuke Harting for forwardness? After all, he was her guardian in some way, wasn't he?

Clearing his throat pointedly, he entered the drawing room. “I believe our meal is ready,” he said too heartily.

Harting and Miss Garrett both stood at his entrance. His gait checked slightly when he saw Lydia fully. “Miss Garrett, you have a new gown.”

Idiotic. It was the only word that fit. He was idiotic.

The pale green made her look especially fresh and winsome—a sylph from some forest glade where spring was born. But he had never been good at saying the right thing.

A faint pink flush coloured her cheeks. “Yes, sir.”

Anthony held out his arm to lead her into the dining room. At least he could seat her beside himself, rather than that rogue Harting. “Shall we go in?”

Once Marcus set aside professional indignation at an amateur's interference, Danbury's idea to roust the murderers had grown on him the more he mulled it over. In light of British interests it might not be a bad plan.

They had no way of knowing who might have learned that the Peacock Throne had come into the hands of the
Centaur
's crew. Although the old Earl and Rudolph Wolfe apparently kept their vow of silence, the other surviving seaman may not have been so reliable. Even the Mughal's representative could have spread the information. Particularly if he had come under duress. Half a century after the event it would be well nigh impossible to determine who might know of the affair.

Danbury's plan to provoke action on the part of the murderer was brilliant in that it challenged the murderer, and with luck would lead the culprit pell-mell into their hands. Assuming that, after telling him where the throne had been hidden, the two men were murdered to prevent them from divulging information about the throne and its location to anyone else, it seemed a reasonable hypothesis that the murderer had plans to retrieve the throne. They just had to beat him to the island, or at least catch up with him while he was about his task.

There were, of course, drawbacks to Danbury's plan. They might miss the murderer altogether. Worse yet they might actually find the throne and have to decide what to do with it. The logistics would be nightmarish. Moreover, there was the danger—not for himself, but the others.

Marcus had no desire to go to any godforsaken island in the Indian Ocean, but he could not allow Danbury to go on his own. Aside from the possibility that he was a traitor, if the young imbecile encountered trouble and got wounded or killed, the blame would be laid at Marcus's door—even if by no one but himself. Perhaps he would get lucky and determine that the whole tale of thrones and jewels had all been a hoax. He kneaded his knee, fingers sensitive to the ridge of scar tissue discernible through the fabric of his breeches. Alas, that wasn't his kind of luck. It was highly likely that this little adventure wasn't going to end well.

He sighed and approached the necessary conversation in a roundabout way. “Have you uncovered any new information from the diary?”

Danbury grinned like an idiot. In fact he had been grinning like an idiot since Marcus had come in. This could not possibly bode well.

“Yes, we did. Mr Wolfe revealed the location of the throne. His coordinates match those of an island named Mahe, part of the Seychelles chain.”

Marcus summoned a smile. It probably looked more sickly than celebratory, but he could muster no enthusiasm. “How are the preparations coming along for your expedition?”

“The details are coming together more quickly than I dared hope. The peace will make things much simpler. I plan to set sail in April or May. It is impossible that the murderer could be any quicker. Even if he could afford to mount his own expedition, what are the odds he would have access to a ship of his own that could make the journey at a moment's notice?”

His stomach gurgled and Marcus set down his soup spoon. “That is a question for the gentlemen of Tattersalls. Still, I think you are correct.” It was his prerogative to collect information, to horde it for himself, not to share it with all and sundry. It felt wrong. He had already revealed more information than was his wont. But now he needed to share even more. Just enough so Danbury could make a noose for himself with it if he were so inclined. After all, if he was the traitor, then Marcus wouldn't be sharing anything Danbury didn't already know. “Danbury, there are some things you must know. The danger you face is greater than you may have realized.”

The happy glow drained away, leaving Danbury's face taut and hard. “What are you hiding?”

“There are greater matters at stake than solving these murders.”

Danbury jumped to his feet, nearly upsetting the crystal. He glowered at Marcus. “What are you hiding?”

Lydia glared at him, icy disdain making her features all planes and angles.

Marcus measured his response. “If I divulge this information, you must keep it in the strictest confidence.”

Danbury continued to glower.

Marcus held up his hands in a placating gesture. “I know I can trust you, and when you hear what I have to say, I think you will acknowledge that you would have done the same.”

Miss Garrett's cool voice slipped between their heated ones. “Let's sit and talk. Lord Danbury, please heed him. There's no sense wasting effort on misplaced anger.” She placed a hand on Danbury's arm, guiding him back into his seat and handing him a drink. Marcus swallowed a smile. Without a doubt he had chosen a capable confederate.

“We all know Henry Addington's government is not going to last long, and when he is gone, Pitt will be Prime Minister again. He has been out of the public eye but has remained actively involved with what is occurring in government. I have worked with him on several occasions when there were… sensitive matters to be handled.”

Danbury shook his head and opened his mouth to speak but Marcus forestalled him with an upraised hand. “I am well aware that I have the reputation of a fop and a layabout. I have cultivated that perception. Please hear me out.”

Danbury nodded, though a tic in the muscle of his cheek seemed to shout that he had not relinquished a dearly held plan to throw Marcus bodily from the room.

“One of our spies in France heard rumours of a new plot. He did not have many details—only that it involved India, and your father's name was mentioned.” He nodded towards Danbury.

“That's absurd.” Danbury's hands flexed rhythmically into fists.

“We had to find out. In my opinion he was murdered through the machinations of the plotters. As you have already surmised, I believe they are after the throne,” Marcus said.

Danbury subsided once more into his seat.

“Pitt asked me to discover what I could. When I first learned about the throne, and that you had been concealing information from the runner, I was livid. My first thought was that you could be part of the plot.” He waved away the objections. “Upon
consideration, I know you would have had nothing to do with your father's death. I believe your motives are as you have stated, or I would not be telling you this even now.”

Lydia caught his eye. “I assume you told Mr Pitt about the throne when you learned of it.”

“I went to him directly, and he was grateful for the information.”

Danbury ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “What does any of this have to do with the French and their plots?”

“I explained what you found to Pitt, and over the past few days, the bits of rumour have been pieced together. Napoleon is amassing an invasion force near the coast, but the blockade has been so effective that he doesn't have the means to get his men across the channel.

“Meanwhile, the Peacock Throne is a powerful symbol of the old Mughal Empire in India. It was used each time a new Mughal was crowned, and the people came to attribute almost mystical powers to the throne. We believe the French are searching for the throne in order to return it to India. There they will use the throne as a rallying point. A symbol, to inflame a rebellion against the British by backing a claimant to the Mughal Empire—the Peacock Throne will be their badge of authority. A metaphor for the independence they have lost. Conflict in India would require the Admiralty to divert a large portion of our fleet, not to mention our troops, to the Indian subcontinent, leaving the channel vulnerable.”