The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

  Williams appeared swiftly. Spotless and straight-backed, only the dignified old man’s face betrayed his grief. His eyes and nose were red and watering, his skin blotchy from recent weeping.

  Anthony turned fully back to the room, blinking rapidly to prevent the valet’s sorrow from settling on him and drawing him into a display of sentiment before this runner.

  “Sir, may I extend my condolences for your loss,” Williams said, his voice high and tight.

  “Thank you, Williams.” The servant’s obvious mourning nearly shredded Anthony’s thin veneer of control. He cleared his throat. “Please answer this man’s questions as well as you are able, so we can find the person who did this.”

  “I’ll do anything to help, sir.” The elderly retainer rubbed shaking palms together.

  Rodney Perkins adjusted his position in his seat. “What time did Lord Danbury retire last night?”

  “About ten o’clock, sir. He felt poorly, and went straight to sleep after he’d changed into his bedclothes.”

  “Was the old gent angry or upset?”

  “He did seem a bit upset, but I couldn’t say why.”

  “Try,” Perkins ordered.

  The valet wrung his hands and peered about, as if looking for an escape route. His reluctance to discuss private matters filled the room like a fog. Anthony sat forward until he caught the man’s gaze. He nodded slightly, and Williams gave in. “Well—it’s only an impression, you understand, but I think perhaps he got something by the evening mail that upset him.”

  “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.

  Dear Sir,

  I am writing as the representative of his most Royal and Gracious Highness Shah Zahir-ud-din Akbar of the Great Mughal Empire, etc. In the year 1758, you and the crew of your ship, the Centaur, were involved in the nefarious theft of the Peacock Throne from our kingdom. Sir, you may have imagined you had escaped vengeance, but your day of reckoning has come. Our emissary will visit you. The time has come for you to assuage your conscience or suffer the consequences dictated by perfidy.

  Jahan Pasha

  CHAPTER 2

  “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 for
ward.

  “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?”

  CHAPTER 3

  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 h
im. 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.