The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

  She approached Mr Cabot. “Have I been given the captain’s quarters?”

  His manner was as rigidly correct as if they were aboard a ship of the line. “Yes, Miss.”

  “That wasn’t necessary. I would happily accept something else.”

  “As owner, Lord Danbury had the right to claim these quarters, but he insisted that you should have them. And if I may say so,” Mr Cabot rubbed his nose delicately and looked away, “the quarters below are quite close.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “I suggest that you accept the arrangement graciously.”

  Accepting the censure, Lydia subsided and allowed him to proceed with the tour.

  On the deck below, cabins for the gentlemen and ship’s officers lined either side of the long wardroom. Seeing the accommodations, Lydia conceded that Lord Danbury had likely made the proper decision, but a bit of her still felt unworthy of the consideration.

  The sun rose with the change in tide, bringing with it a clean salty breeze. With a barked command, Captain Campbell had the crew hopping to their duty. The sails captured the breeze and flapped to life, sounding as if the ship were clapping her hands in her excitement to be underway.

  Lydia closed her eyes and raised her face to the breeze. Exhilaration swept through her. They were on their way. It seemed scarcely credible.

  Legacy picked up speed until she fairly skimmed along the waves, putting crew and passengers alike in high spirits.

  Captain Campbell left the quarterdeck to Mr Cabot’s command and took his passengers down to the greater cabin. He unfurled a large map and showed them the charted course. With wide eyes and a racing pulse, Lydia leaned close. The captain’s strong, knotty hands described their ports of call as he ran a long finger along the route. As he pronounced the exotic names, a thrill shot through her. She put a hand to her stomach to calm its roiling. This adventure was no carefree lark. They hoped to capture a murderer.

  Captain Campbell and the other gentlemen stood as Lydia entered the dining room. “Miss Garrett, you’ve met Mr Cabot. May I also present Dr Marshall?” He extended a hand towards the gentleman who offered a small bow in her direction. “Dr Marshall isn’t some wheedling surgeon, as most ships have. He is a real Harley Street physician, a credit to the ship. He has lords aplenty among his patients.”

  The doctor was a thin man, almost to the point of gauntness, the skin stretched tight over his cheekbones. His middling brown hair was pulled back in a neat queue. Everything about him spoke of meticulous care, right down to his clean and trimmed fingernails.

  “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.”

  “And I yours, Miss Garrett. You are a beauty amongst beasts, I see.” He regarded her with clear grey eyes.

  “You are too kind by far.” She forced herself not to fidget under the scrutiny of the assembled gentlemen.

  He nodded formally, his eyes twinkling, and resumed his seat.

  “What has induced you to abandon your patients for a cruise to the Indian Ocean?” asked Harting.

  “I suffered a round of illness recently myself, and find that I must take an extended holiday from my practice. When I heard of this voyage, it seemed the perfect opportunity to indulge both my health and my interest in the natural sciences.”

  “We are certainly pleased to have you aboard, Dr Marshall. I have very little knowledge of botany, but I am ever eager to learn.” Lord Danbury smiled broadly at the doctor.

  “Be careful what you wish for. I love having an audience at which I can direct my brilliance.” A wry smile curved his lips. “Although Miss Garrett, I understand that my presence may be entirely superfluous. That was quite a neat job you did of patching up his Lordship. Where did you learn the art of physic?”

  Lydia explained briefly as steaming platters, bowls and tureens were produced until they covered the table in wild profusion. She had made out the victualling orders herself, so the quantity and quality of the fare should not have startled her, and yet somehow she had half expected to subsist on ship’s biscuit and grog for the entire journey. Her tale did not take long to tell. “To be honest, I greatly enjoyed learning how to care for those in distress. It provided a sense of fulfilment I’ve found in little else.”

  She bit her lip and looked down at her plate, concerned that she had revealed too much of herself, but the good doctor merely nodded gravely. “I’ve already seen that you have a measure of skill. If you still have an interest in such things you would be welcome to join me in the surgery. An extra pair of hands is always welcome.”

  He made no comment on her sex, nor did he question her faculties.

  She beamed at him in response. “I would be grateful for the experience and I promise to try not to weary you with all my questions.”

  Convivial conversation abounded as freely as the food. Only the slosh of water against the hull of the ship and creak of the rigging reminded her they were at sea, rather than dining in the heart of London.

  Talk soon turned to politics.

  “The peace will never last.” Captain Campbell spoke with a good deal of ardour. “Old Boney is ambitious, and ambitious people aren’t satisfied with peace. He’s the sort that wants action, always action.”

  “The newssheets say Bonaparte is preparing an invasion force,” said Danbury.

  “The French will have to get past our naval blockade first.” Harting shot Danbury a cutting glance, though his tone and manner remained trifling. “They’ve little hope of that at the moment. France suffers from an unfortunate shortage of competent naval commanders since they beheaded most of their experienced men a few years back.”

  “Don’t underestimate Boney. He’s a creative genius. What he can’t gain by force he’ll take by some other means.” Mr Cabot had remained largely silent, eating with almost mechanical precision, but now his words underscored the captain’s point.

  Campbell turned his attention to Lydia as if to reassure her and raised his glass. “Don’t you worry, Miss Garrett. Mr Harting is correct. The Frenchies are well contained. The blockade was right effective in keeping them cooped up in their ports. Besides which, we have our guns if we were to need ’em. That’s four eighteen pounders, twelve eight-pound long guns and six twelve-pound carronades, not to mention our chasers. Legacy is the neatest little frigate you could imagine. She’s quick and makes as little leeway as anyone could wish. We can outrun anything they could send after us without turning a hair.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Anthony was finally discovering what had shaped his father into the man he knew. The discipline Captain Campbell maintained, the camaraderie among the crew, the sacrosanct daily routines that constituted the rhythm of life aboard ship: it all captivated him. He had been given a window into what had shaped his father’s soul.

  As the owner, Anthony had free rein of the ship, and he made a nuisance of himself as he followed the men about with unending questions. As his shoulder healed, he even took a hand in the work to be done, which, when he wasn’t in their way, seemed to endear him to the crew.

  He spent a portion of each morning teaching Miss Garrett to defend herself. He began by giving her a little dagger and showing her how to use it. Then he taught her to shoot a pistol. God willing she wouldn’t need to use any of these masculine skills, but if she did, then they were worth the effort of acquisition.

  In point of fact, the effort expended in helping Miss Garrett to acquire the skills to protect herself was far from onerous. Watching her lithe movement as she obeyed his instruction stirred something within him, quickening his pulse.

  The afternoon breeze had a bite to it as it skittered across the deck. Perspiring, Anthony welcomed the playful wind as he hefted his sword. The weight felt good in his hands—right somehow. He’d always loved swordplay, the brisk action, the clear bell-like clang of blade on blade, and the strategy. Especially the strategy. Pitting his wits against an opponent’s. Finding the one perfect instant to strike the decisive blow. The makings of a pleasant aft
ernoon.

  He toyed with the idea of teaching Miss Garrett to use a sword. He pursed his lips and squinted against the glare of the sun. She sat on an upturned crate with the wind whipping tendrils of hair about her face. Yet with her head bowed over a small black volume, she managed to look as serene as if she idled in a London drawing room.

  Perhaps it would not be a good idea. It took a great deal of strength to handle a sword for any length of time, and it required years of training to master. Knowing Miss Garrett, she could probably manage it, but they didn’t have the time.

  A throat cleared behind him. “Care for a match?”

  A grin creased Anthony’s face, and he turned to find Harting holding a sword of his own.

  “Delighted.”

  “Then en garde!” Flashing a grin of his own, Harting attacked.

  Steel clashed against steel. Exhilarated, Anthony parried. They feinted and lunged their way across the deck until they were both laughing and winded.

  Now this was living.

  They collapsed onto a crate in the waist of the ship.

  “Well handled, my friend.” Harting clapped him on the back.

  “You are more daring than I’d have credited.”

  “And you are more skilled.”

  Anthony snorted. “I’m as dry as the desert. Would you care for a drink?”

  “By all means.”

  Together they made their way down to the wardroom. Anthony pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured them each a dram.

  Harting claimed the most comfortable chair and put his feet up with the air of a man settling in for the duration. “That is better.”

  Anthony took the seat across from him. “I hadn’t any notion you were a swordsman.”

  “Not a dandified pursuit?”

  “It does provide opportunity for one’s hair to be disarranged.”

  Harting put on a show of mock distress and patted his short locks, trimmed to resemble some ancient Roman emperor. “Horrors. Send for Charles and my wig.”

  Anthony could not help but laugh. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. A pleasant hush blanketed the room, broken only by the ambient sea. He had nearly dozed off when Harting’s voice fractured the peace.

  “What do you mean to do with Miss Garrett when this is all over?”

  He stiffened. “I’m not sure I take your meaning. I don’t intend to do anything with her.”

  “Come now, man, you must realize that this little jaunt is doing her no favours.”

  Anthony sighed. “Everything was a great deal simpler before I knew of her relation to Glenford.”

  “No doubt. But the fact remains that you allowed her to accompany you.”

  “I understand that you have found an inheritance for her. Will there be nothing more from that source?” Anthony let some of the suspicion he had harboured since seeing the packet of money she had received surface.

  Harting simply blinked once like a particularly slow milch cow. “Her father’s investments may provide for some of her needs, but the principal ought to remain untouched in order to provide for her old age.”

  The man must be a devil at the gaming tables. Anthony was still convinced there was more to the story. She had been entirely too flustered when she had opened that package.

  “I have made some inquiries. She won’t be a suitable governess, of course, after an unchaperoned jaunt such as this, but she would make a fine housekeeper or perhaps a companion for an elderly lady.”

  Harting settled back into his seat and closed his eyes. “Just so long as you are considering her future. It would disturb me greatly to believe that someone thought he could impose upon a young lady in such dependent circumstances.” His tone was as tough as dried salt pork.

  Anthony shot him a glance. For the first time in their acquaintance he truly believed in Harting’s abilities as an agent.

  Lydia fell into the habit of spending her mornings with Dr Marshall. He was an excellent teacher. Able to find something new to say or explain about even the most mundane of sprained ankles. Far from tiring of her questions, he encouraged her curiosity. A novel experience indeed.

  In contrast she spent much of each afternoon in company with Mr Harting, playing games of whist or casino, devising puzzles, or reading on the deck. Lord Danbury’s preoccupation with all things naval often kept him otherwise engaged, and yet spending time with Harting was not the punishing task she’d feared.

  He was witty, and as their acquaintance grew he set aside his foppish mask entirely. Beneath it she found him thoughtful and unexpectedly modest. Slowly she came to suspect it was not so much a mask as a suit of armour.

  Her resentment dissipated. His manipulations were employed only in the pursuit of what he thought right. She could scarcely fault him for that, and began to look forward to their time together. What drove him? He had no need of money, so why had he offered his services in an occupation that most believed thoroughly discreditable?

  For the first several weeks of the voyage, the weather remained almost constantly fair, with a westerly breeze that made Legacy fly atop the waves.

  Lord Danbury gleefully marked the halfway point on a map. “Captain Campbell says we may make the journey in just about four months.” The gentlemen hurried up on deck to stare at the horizon, as if land was already in sight.

  Grinning, Lydia turned her attention to her cousin’s diary. She had read it, and reread it, trying to parse meaning from the tiniest of clues. She was hoping to anticipate what they might encounter on the island of Mahe. From what she could tell it had claimed the lives of at least two of Centaur’s crewmen. The island itself might be an opponent as deadly as the murderer.

  Lydia Garrett was an anomaly. Marcus regarded her as she spoke animatedly with Dr Marshall at the dinner table. She could hold her own in any of the drawing rooms of London, but unlike the dressed up dolls of the ton, she had experienced the underbelly of society. Her independent turn of thought intrigued him even when it irritated.

  Danbury also watched her. Covertly, Marcus inspected the Earl. He looked disgustingly hale and hearty. Life at sea agreed with him. He probably enjoyed the country too. Marcus flicked a weevil off his plate.

  At his insistence Miss Garrett had managed to procure some of Danbury’s correspondence. But she still seemed to resent the task, and cooperated only to the letter of their agreement. Perhaps she had allowed the Earl certain liberties… No. Marcus quashed a jealous impulse. They couldn’t have hidden such a liaison aboard ship. Every man-jack in the vessel would know the instant any sort of attachment was formed. Besides, such thoughts dishonoured Miss Garrett. She had never given the slightest indication that she held her virtue cheaply.

  The good weather could not hold out indefinitely. The following afternoon the wind picked up and changed direction. A heavy bank of storm clouds lowered in the northeast. The seamen went about the business of preparing the ship for a storm as calmly as they went through any of their routines. Lydia glanced up from her needlework as Captain Campbell approached.

  “Good afternoon, Captain. Would you care to have a seat?” She motioned to a nearby barrel.

  “No, thank you, Miss. I just wanted to assure you that there is no cause to fret. Legacy is a fine, tight ship. She don’t hardly even notice a storm.”

  “It’s kind of you to reassure me. I know what a capable seaman you are, and if you say it, then I’m certain there is no cause for alarm.”

  Captain Campbell blushed and nodded. “Well now, that is kind of you, Miss. You might want to go down to the greater cabin. The bluster is going to arrive any minute.”

  Harting joined Lydia as she stood. “What did you do to that man?”

  Lydia glanced up at him. “I? I did nothing.”

  “Oh no?” Harting was getting entirely too much enjoyment from the situation. “You made that crusty old seadog blush. I believe you have every man aboard charmed and ready to do your bidding.”

  Lydia could not feign ignora
nce. It was certainly a flattering boost to one’s confidence to be the only woman aboard a ship. Still, it was scarcely her fault; it was simply the nature of things. Mentally she prepared her defence as they strolled to the nearest ladderway.

  Harting forestalled her with a shake of his head. “I’m not saying you’ve done anything devious, but it is true nonetheless.”

  “I have been nothing but courteous.”

  “And how many ladies of quality do you think have been courteous to these tars? Most of the gentry show these fellows nothing more than the heel of their boot.”

  “Well, there you have it. I’ve found the flaw in your logic.” Lydia’s sense of humour returned, and she smiled in self-mockery. “I’m not even one of the shabby gentility. Merely a vicar’s daughter, turned maid of all work, turned spy. It’s been a decided downward spiral.”

  “You are much more, my girl. Don’t allow anyone to tell you differently. My man Charles is a bigger snob than any of the peers I know, and he thinks you are a fine lady.” Harting paused at the top of the ladderway. “So do I.”

  Lydia blushed furiously. She could not meet his eyes. “Perhaps it is easy to act as a lady, since all of you have treated me as if I were one.”

  Harting cleared his throat. “I think I will take another turn or two around the deck. Would you care to join me?”

  Relieved that the intensity in his manner had been replaced by more customary nonchalance, Lydia shook her head. “Thank you, but I think I will read for a while.”

  The sharp bite of a stiffening wind drew some of the heat from Marcus’s cheeks. He was an utter fool for putting Miss Garrett on the spot in such a way. How could he have possibly expected her to respond to such a statement? With a grunt, he kicked at a coil of rope on the deck.