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.”
“Fenn, you can’t do this. Please, I need your help.”
Her pitiful cries had no effect.
“Don’t want none of your kinda’ trouble, you hear? We don’t want nothin’ to do with none of those swells.” He shook her. “If I catches you hangin’ about, I’ll skin you and take you back to the devils meself.”
He gave her a shove, sending her staggering into the street. A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the alley and move towards her. Fenn slammed the door shut, latching it and ramming the bolt home with a clatter indicative of shaking hands.
Danbury rushed forward to catch her. “Did anyone ever tell you that you should be treading the boards? You could do marvels with Shakespeare.”
Lydia gave a snort of laughter, but did not otherwise dignify Lord Danbury’s remark with a response. “Come on.” She tugged on his sleeve wanting to be away as quickly as possible. The relief bubbling through her felt tenuous, as if her escape might be snatched away at any second.
CHAPTER 8
Marcus observed the nefarious doings of the two housebreakers from a safe distance. What could the wealthy lord want from a rundown coffee house? Whatever it might be, it ought to prove highly interesting. And he now had the leverage he needed.
As if playing some demented parlour game he crept close behind the earl and his companion. He tightened the grip on his cane, holding it just below the heavy knob that could break bones if necessary.
“Lord Danbury, what brings you out at such a late hour?” He kept his voice light, but the sound of it brought the pair to a dead halt.
Danbury turned only his head. “Ah, Harting, how are you?”
“I am decidedly well. Miss, I do not believe I have had the pleasure.”
“May I present Miss Lydia Garrett. Lydia, the Honourable Marcus Harting,” Danbury said woodenly. “He is the fifth—”
“Fourth,” Marcus corrected lazily.
“Fourth,” amended Danbury, “son of the Viscount of Wiltshire.”
“I am charmed.” Marcus took the girl’s hand and raised it to his lips before turning his attention back to Danbury. “We should chat.”
“Yes, well. We…”
“Come now, Danbury. I saw everything. I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for your actions. I would enjoy hearing it.” When his quarry said nothing, Marcus adopted his blandest smile. “It would pain me to have to call the watch and see you taken up for theft.”
With a disgruntled sigh, Danbury gave in to the inevitable. “Perhaps you could come with us? I’ll explain on the way home.”
Humming a merry tune, Marcus followed the downcast pair back to the waiting carriage and climbed in behind them. Despite the lighthearted melody, Marcus scrutinized his quarry. He was taking no chances with these two. The most dangerous traitor England had suffered in centuries was still at large and he needed answers.
If it had not been for the flash of decisive intelligence Anthony had seen gleaming in Harting’s eyes and the fact that he obviously meant to try his hand at blackmail, he’d have thought him a bit simple. His monotonous humming could drive a person to distraction.
The man was about the same age, perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, his form as lean and tall as a whip, and dressed as nattily as Beau Brummell. But his usual air of languid vapidity was absent. His family had money and influence aplenty, and on the few occasions they had met heretofore, he had struck Anthony as inoffensive enough. What was he up to?
The continued drone of Harting’s humming peeled away at Anthony’s good breeding as if it were an orange. Indignation rose in his chest. Why was he prying into Anthony’s personal affairs in such an ungentlemanly fashion?
He smothered a growl as it tried to escape. Harting’s usual indolence belied the idea that he should interest himself in anything beyond his own person—just Anthony’s luck that he should spark the fop’s curiosity.
“Sir, as enchanting as your melody is, I pray you to cease.” At the sound of Lydia’s voice, Harting broke off in mid-note.
“Please accept my humblest apologies, Miss Garrett.” He lowered his head in formal salute. “From what part of the country do you hail? Perhaps I know your people.”
“That is highly unlikely, sir.” Her tone might have cut glass. “In fact, Lord Danbury and I were just coming from my cousin’s home when you met us.”
“Ah, indeed? I suppose that explains such a late night visit.”
“Of course it does.” Anthony pounced on the explanation. “Her aunt is very ill. Lydia was good enough to rush to her family in their hour of need.”
“I suppose that also explains why Miss Garrett had to climb in through a window—her aunt was simply too ill to come down and open the door?” Harting narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, meeting Anthony’s hot gaze. The dandy had disappeared, to be replaced by a man who was no fool. “Listen, Danbury, this is not a game. I want to know why you would crack a rundown coffee house, and I mean every detail.”
The blood drained from Anthony’s face and hands, already chilly in the crisp air. “What is this about?”
“That needn’t concern you. What should concern you is the fact that I will call for the beak unless you cooperate.”
Seething, Anthony clamped his mouth shut.
Lydia glanced at him and then back at Harting. “What possible interest could you have? Perhaps—”
Harting smiled in a most unpleasant fashion. “Miss Garrett, I should be the one asking questions, not the reverse.”
Lydia pursed her lips and regarded the inquisitor with a molten gaze. Quietly she sat back against her seat and folded her hands in her lap.
Confronted with the brick wall of their silence, Harting changed tack. “Come now, I understand your feelings, and I give you my word of honour that I have no intention of trying to blackmail you with the information. I simply must know what all this means. Ennui is my greatest enemy and this promises to staunch its relentless tide for at least a few hours.”
The patronizing demeanour was more than Anthony could bear. He half stood in the jostling carriage. “I have no desire to provide your entertainment for the evening.” Blood pulsed in his ears and he snorted like a bull. If someone were to wave something red at him he would likely have charged.
He felt a tug on his arm. Lydia stood next to him, swaying to keep her balance.
“We are trying to discover who murdered Lord Danbury’s father and my cousin. Please search for amusement elsewhere. Our work is in deadly earnest.”
Harting remained seated, but his eyes flicked to Lydia, obviously reevaluating her. “Perhaps I could assist you.” His tone had turned suddenly mild; all its mocking condescension evaporated as if it had never been.
The carriage jolted hard, dumping Miss Garrett unceremoniously into her seat. Anthony tottered, but Harting placed a steadying grip on his elbow. Anthony wrenched his arm free, preferring to fall rather than allow himself to be assisted by the fop.
“Believe me, Danbury, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see your father’s murderer brought to justice.”
Anthony heard the ring of sincerity in his tone. What did Harting want? After a long moment he resumed his seat. They had little choice. And what would it hurt to tell the fellow what he wanted to know? In the meantime, Anthony would have the chance to find out why he wished to know. Perhaps Harting knew more of the murder than he let on.
Lydia remained silent and all but forgotten in the dark corner of the carriage as Lord Danbury provided a terse explanation. How had she gotten mixed up in all this? The tension between the two men was so patent it might have been a fourth presence in the landau.
The horses slowed to a stop before Lord Danbury’s house and the two gentlemen stepped out. No one turned to assist Lydia from the landau, and she was more than happy to leave it that way for the moment.
Lord Danbury led the way to his study and ushered his guests inside. “Let’s see what this night’s work has netted.” He pulled the paper-wrapped parcel from beneath his coat and tried to loose the knotted string holding it closed. After a moment’s frustration, in which his agitated fumbling made the knots worse, he uttered a low oath. Dropping the package on his desk he rummaged about for a knife to cut the string.
Lydia picked up the package and worried the knot. Of all his sailor’s skills, Mr Wolfe had always been proud of his knots.
With a triumphant grunt, Lord Danbury held aloft a penknife just as Lydia extended the opened parcel.
He had the grace to laugh. “I suppose I’m a bit anxious to see what is in this.” Accepting the proffered package he folded back the wrapping paper.
Inside lay a leather-bound book of foolscap and a handful of loose papers. Danbury’s hands trembled slightly as he picked up the book and examined it. Lydia glanced at Mr Harting, who reclined negligently in his chair. His posture declared him uninterested, but his presence in this house forbore that conclusion. Disquiet roiled her belly, but she turned resolutely away from him. She was far more interested in finding what her cousin had so carefully hidden away.
“He kept a log of the journey.” Lord Danbury’s cheeks flushed crimson, and his eyes glittered in excitement. He leafed through the pages. “No, it is more a diary than a log.”
Unable to restrain herself any longer, Lydia reached for the loose sheets. She glanced at the top page and then read it again, more thoroughly. “Lord Danbury, I believe this must have been written by your father.”
She read aloud.
“This document is a complete explanation of the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the great Peacock Throne of the Mughals in 1758. My name is Captain Richard Douglas; I am the youngest son of the Viscount Graham.”
“He must have written this long ago,” Lord Danbury murmured.
“In 1757 I was fortunate enough to be appointed post-captain and given charge of the Centaur, a 28-gun frigate. We were sent out to India on a mission to protect English trade in the region.
We had good cruising and were doing well for ourselves in the matter of prize money when we turned in to Bombay for a complete refitting. The process in those parts takes even longer than it does at an English dockyard. I had plenty of opportunity to become acquainted with the East India Company officials and, through them, some of the members of the Mughal’s family.
I cannot adequately describe the atmosphere of those days. The Mughal Empire had long since been crumbling into ruin; armies had invaded from the north. Yet at the court, frivolity reigned. Gold and jewels flowed about the royals like water, while the people starved. Decadence was the order of the day. The richness of the palace hid the rotting corpse of the empire, but poorly.
While we were taking on a load of fresh water and fruit for the crew in preparation for sailing, a young lady approached me from the shadows with a request. I knew her to be a member of the Mughal’s family and gave her every consideration.
This lady begged me on behalf of her cousin to take the jewelled Peacock Throne to a place of safety. It had been placed in hiding after an Indian holy man had prophesied that if the throne were captured, the light of the Mughals would be extinguished forever. But if the throne escaped the Shah’s clutches, a new Mughal empire would arise from the ashes of the old.
They had come up with a scheme to spirit the throne out of the country in a manner no one would suspect. That was when my services were requested.
At first I would have nothing to do with their plan. Would to God I had listened to my own reservations, but I did not. I allowed myself to be persuaded when an official from the East India Company also approached me.
I followed him to a dilapidated old warehouse lying empty and unused in the seediest part of that sordid port. Wishing mightily that I had not agreed to this folly, I yet allowed him to show me a huge crate tucked in a shadowy corner and half covered with dirty canvas. I gripped my sword and made ready to fend off any attackers that might rush from the darkness. The man lit a nearby lantern, and then taking up a crowbar he proceeded to open the front of the crate. Pulling out the old straw that padded the interior he worked with feverish intensity. When he stepped away, the feeble light of the lantern revealed the polished glint of gold.
All thought of thieves fled. I stepped forward to get a better look at the treasure ensconced in the crate. It was a throne, though not what an English mind might picture. This was a platform on four curved legs with a waist-high railing and a seat at the back. The entire thing was fashioned of gold and encrusted with priceless gems. Even the feeble light of the dingy lantern caused the throne to glitter. Rubies, emeralds, pearls and diamonds vied within their golden setting to see which could most dazzle the beholder.
Large enough to seat at least two reclining people, the throne even had a small golden canopy suspended above the seat. It too was covered in jewels. On each of the columns that supported this canopy, the delicate image of two peacocks separated by a tree had been formed by the intricate placement of jewels. Awestruck, I gaped at the thing for several moments.
My guide finally brought me back to my senses by tugging on my sleeve.
In pure bedevilled curiosity I asked how much the Mughal would pay for my assistance. The answer stunned me. One hundred thousand pounds.
My mind worked furiously. God help me, but I decided then and there. Greed was like a fire in my blood. I would put it before my officers because I could not pull off the scheme alone. We would treat the Mughal’s bribe as prize money, but with the added benefit that the Admiralty need claim no share. All that would be required of us was a detour away from our appointed duty, and that would be easy enough to justify to the Admiralty. We had only to say that we spotted a ship and gave chase, or that we were caught in a blow.
I raced back to the Centaur. On the ship I held a meeting of all the officers and put forth my proposal. The men were unanimously in favour of my proposition.
Under cover of night we manoeuvred the throne into the hold of the ship, and then went about the rest of our business as usual. We left port with the next tide and made our way with all haste to an island chain in the Indian Ocean. We found an island with a natural harbour. Ships often put in to take on fresh supplies of water and fruit, but at the time there was no permanent settlement. It is not large, but a mountain rises straight from its centre and undoubtedly much of the island has never be
en truly explored. It had the reputation of being a hiding spot for pirates, and if pirates could use it for nefarious purposes why could we not put it to more profitable use?
We made our landing in the harbour. Scouts were dispatched to find the best hiding place for the throne. Eventually my first lieutenant returned with news of a cave located strategically up the side of the mountain. It was dry and spacious and, most importantly, well concealed from cursory examination. A little artifice masked the place completely. It was no easy task to transport the throne. It took days, and three of my men were crushed when the crate toppled from its cart. In the end, though, we managed to get that monstrosity up to the cave and hidden.
We never returned to Bombay. As we neared the port we received orders to join Vice-Admiral Pocock’s squadron with all haste. I dispatched a letter to my contact in the Mughal’s family, advising of the throne’s safety, but I had no notion of whether it was ever received. As we worked our way around the southernmost tip of India we were attacked.
A French ship of the line and two frigates, undoubtedly on their way to join their own squadron, came upon us and gave chase. The Centaur and her men gave a good showing, but we were no match for three ships. We would have been taken at that moment but for a squall that hid us long enough for us to limp away. We found shelter on the lee side of a small island. The French ships scoured the sea for their prize, but we dismasted Centaur and remained hidden in our little cove.
When we at last felt that the French must have moved on, we performed what repairs we could. Short-handed as we were, every hand took shifts at the pumps, myself included. We sailed from our haven on 20 August 1759.
Just two days later we spotted another sail on the horizon. Chinese pirates had come upon us. Our pitiful condition was patent or they would never have had the temerity to attack a king’s ship.
The fighting was the most brutal I have ever witnessed. The pirates fought as if possessed. My crew was the bravest set of men I’ve had the privilege of sailing with but we were outnumbered and overpowered.
The Peacock Throne Page 6
