The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

  Lord Wellesley excused himself, citing other pressing concerns. They spent the balance of the afternoon in Mrs Adkins’ company until the time came to dress for dinner and they were shown to guest rooms.

  Lydia’s chamber was lovely. Decorated in a formal style, it was saved from pretension by the liberal use of beautiful Indian silks and native flowers, which gave the room an exotic flavour.

  Lydia pulled off her sweltering garments and, after a quick wash, she exchanged wool stockings for the cooler luxury of silk ones, and allowed herself to be pushed into a chair in front of the vanity so a maid could dress her hair.

  Despite her best efforts, she found herself unprepared for the arch looks and knowing scorn that were sure to come. It rankled that any insolent fool might question her virtue and she had little recourse. When they’d left London, no one had anticipated this detour. Lydia had certainly never prepared for the possibility of having to defend her honour to a host of strangers.

  The maid, Annette, cleared her throat pointedly and Lydia yanked her attention back to the looking glass. She regarded her reflection sceptically. She was in good looks. The maid had pulled the hair back from her face in a classic Grecian style, banding it with narrow white ribbons and securing the ends in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Some of the curls escaped, framing Lydia’s face and kissing her neck.

  She met the girl’s eye in the mirror. “You’ve done wonders.”

  Annette curtsied. “Thank you, Miss.”

  From down the hall a sonorous gong announced dinner. Lydia jumped from her seat. Her stomach churned as if setting up to make butter. Wistful thoughts of remaining in her room with the windows open to welcome in the evening breeze beguiled her imagination.

  As the girl did up the last button, Lydia stepped into a pair of slippers. She turned around for an inspection. Annette smoothed a hair back into place and smiled. With that glowing recommendation, Lydia placed a penny in the maid’s hand and hastened downstairs. She could not afford to be late and give Calcutta’s denizens another reason to gossip.

  Following dinner, the Governor-General’s guests were treated to a concert by a violinist. Marcus watched Miss Garrett swaying minutely in her seat. Colour high, lips slightly parted, fingers unconsciously moving to the music, her gaze rapturously intent on the musician—she was a vision to behold.

  He was not the only one taking note. Several of the men in the room openly studied her. Heat rose beneath his cravat, until—blasphemy—he wanted to rip it off. Lecherous brutes. He turned slightly in his seat to catch a better view of her audience. They looked like wolves sizing up a toothsome lamb.

  The song ended and she returned his gaze, flashing a dazzling smile in response. Marcus revised his earlier opinion. He had done the other gentlemen in the room an injustice. They could hardly be blamed for admiring her. Luckily, she had the good sense to disregard their unwelcome attention. He always had believed her to be possessed of excellent sense.

  In truth, Miss Garrett appeared to have no notion of the effect she was having on the gentlemen of Calcutta. As the violinist began his next selection, she once more turned towards the music with that whimsical half-smile and closed her eyes.

  His eyes narrowed and he turned to find Danbury’s face. There his Lordship was, with a pretty little thing to his right, but he paid her no mind. Like so many others, his eyes were fastened on Miss Garrett. Could it be that he had procured no employment for her by design? Perhaps the blackguard wanted to see her destitute, in a position of dependence. When her circumstances had been sufficiently reduced, she would be at his mercy.

  Marcus could not release the tension in his jaw, but gave vent to his feelings by plucking a bloom from the nearest arrangement and shredding it. He was being ridiculous. His attention ought to be on the French spy, not Miss Garrett, no matter how fetching she looked.

  He had to maintain his priorities.

  He’d capture the man who meant to destroy England. Then he’d deal with Danbury.

  The next morning Lydia found breakfast laid out in chafing dishes on the sideboard in the morning room. She was delighted to see that there was not a single ship’s biscuit in sight. Inhaling the familiar scents of an English breakfast, she helped herself to eggs, toast and sausages before sitting down at the table.

  With a cheery smile Lydia joined a newlywed couple she’d been introduced to the evening before, but the young woman’s greeting was markedly cooler than their previous exchange. In a few pointed remarks, Lydia was given to understand that the new bride had heard tales.

  Lydia tightened her grip on the teapot. Squaring her shoulders, she offered up a silent plea for grace. Head held high, she sipped at the steaming brew, but could not manage a bite of the food on her plate. Her throat had closed tight, perhaps from the effort of holding back tart comments.

  Danbury entered and an impish impulse snatched hold of Lydia. She greeted him warmly. “Good morning, Anthony. I hope you slept well.”

  He blinked at her use of his given name. “Like a top, Miss Garrett. Quite a long day we had.” He filled his plate and took a place across from Lydia.

  “Tea?” she asked sweetly.

  “Ah, yes. Thank you.” He motioned towards her piled plate. “I see you’ve recovered some of your appetite. You’ve been getting too thin lately.”

  Amused at the scandalized expression on the young bride’s face, and knowing what the woman believed, Lydia couldn’t help but pique her a little more, despite Lord Danbury’s quizzical expression. “Have you met Lieutenant Carrington and his lovely wife?” She waved an airy hand towards the couple.

  The wife gave a tiny squeak of alarm at being singled out to a man she thought quite dissolute, but her husband rose, extending his hand cordially. He gave his bride an odd look. Either Lieutenant Carrington was unaware of Lord Danbury’s supposed wickedness or he was not as shocked by it as he might have been.

  Lydia watched Lord Danbury. The poor sweet man never turned a hair. Indeed, he seemed entirely unaware of any particular undercurrents. He greeted the lieutenant cordially and they spoke of the Marathas for a few moments until at last Mrs Carrington’s continual plucking at his sleeve managed to gain her husband’s attention.

  The couple excused themselves from the table, Mrs Carrington whispering agitatedly in her husband’s ear. Lydia shook her head at their departure and turned her attention back to her meal, finding that she was able to eat heartily after all.

  Dinner was a smaller affair than it had been the previous evening. The company was made up entirely of Europeans. To Lydia’s surprise, Dr Marshall was among the party.

  Mrs Adkins made to introduce him. “We have not seen Dr Marshall this age. In fact, he tells me he returned to India just yesterday.”

  “Dr Marshall kindly acted as surgeon aboard Legacy. We are well acquainted.” Lydia made her curtsy anyhow. With a pang, she realized how little she actually knew of him. “I did not know you had interests in India, however.”

  He offered a short bow in return. “My father’s estate is a mere baronetcy in the Midlands, but my mother’s family had extensive properties, not just here but in France, Italy and Switzerland as well.”

  “You must be exceptionally well travelled. Is that where you developed your interest in botany?”

  “Indeed, there is an infinite variety of vegetation to be found in this world. All of it either useful or at least decorative.”

  The doors opened and Dr Marshall offered Lydia his arm. “May I?”

  The table was laid with an extraordinary amount of silver, which glimmered in the candlelight. Servants stood behind each place and offered innumerable dishes with solicitous aplomb.

  The colonel on Lydia’s left nudged her arm familiarly. “I had not the least notion I was dining with an adventuress. I thought you must be someone’s daughter, out for the first time.”

  “An adventuress?” Lydia asked coolly, one eyebrow arching of its own accord. Did she actually seem the type of woman w
ho preyed on men for their money?

  His red cheeks turned even redder. “I must watch my tongue. That did not come out right at all. I merely meant you must have had some remarkable adventures if you are embroiled in this affair.”

  Lydia frowned. Had news of the throne’s arrival spread so quickly? She thought they’d meant to keep the matter quiet until just before the ball, in order to mitigate the risk of theft. “Mostly I did a lot of climbing and walking in beastly hot weather.” Attempting to appear pleasant, she sipped at her soup and then set aside the spoon. “How did you come to hear about our adventures?”

  He chuckled indulgently. “It’s impossible to keep a secret in Calcutta. As grand as it is, we English are really just a village. Everyone knows what everyone else is up to. Especially if there is any hope of diversion in it. And you, my dear, are quite diverting.” He raised his glass to her.

  Lydia smiled. Perhaps there was a way they could turn the situation to their advantage? If a rumour was started that the throne was kept in a certain place, when it was in fact somewhere else all together, perhaps Le Faucon could be persuaded to attempt a theft even sooner.

  Deep in thought, Lydia bent her head towards Dr Marshall as he told her a story about some plant or other he had discovered on some island or other. She tried to look attentive but only caught maybe one word in ten. She had more pressing things to think about.

  Anthony grew so distracted watching Dr Marshall monopolize Miss Garrett’s attention that he no longer made any pretence of attending to the young lady on his right. She had told him a number of boring and pointless stories about her brother, whom she thought he might know, despite his protestations that he had not had the pleasure. The dowager lady on his left snatched him back from his abstraction.

  “I asked whether you will be at Government House for the ball,” she said in response to his request that she repeat herself. Her deep, penetrating voice and her question—phrased, he thought, rather loudly in case he were hard of hearing—came at a moment of unintentional lull in the conversation around the dinner table.

  Mrs Adkins answered for him, speaking from her place at the end of the table. “Of course Lord Danbury will be joining us for the ball. He and his colleagues are responsible for bringing the treasure back to India. It is all most thrilling, isn’t it?”

  “Treasure?” asked one of the diners, obviously not as up to date in his gossip as some in the room.

  Lord Wellesley took the conversation in hand. “We are restoring a great historical treasure to India. A magnificent object. It will do much to show our good faith to the princes. These fine gentlefolk are responsible for preserving it from the French.”

  “But what is this treasure?”

  Lord Wellesley’s smile had something of the predator about it. “We are keeping it a secret—a whim of mine. I do love surprises, and this will be a thumping great one.”

  “How delightful,” said the pretty but singularly dull young woman to Anthony’s right. She gave him an adoring look and clasped her hands together in front of her bosom.

  He shuddered and turned to speak further to the lady on his left.

  “What have you discovered?” the older woman asked. “The Delhi diamond, a rajah’s rubies, or is it Tippoo’s Tiara?”

  Anthony managed a game smile at this sally. “How did you know?”

  “Oh, la.” The lady laughed too heartily and thumped him with her fan. “A lucky guess.”

  He took a swig from his glass and turned to the young miss at his other hand. She couldn’t be all bad.

  CHAPTER 35

  “How far do you believe the rumours have spread by now?” Lydia asked. She and Mrs Adkins had just set to work. She stared at the neat piles of invitations on the desk. A great deal of work remained to be done.

  Mrs Adkins sipped her coffee. “I am certain every English lady in the vicinity has heard the news and is anxious for details.”

  Lydia could not restrain an unladylike grin.

  “This reminds me. I should give orders that I am not at home to visitors.” Even as she spoke, a footman appeared.

  Lady Groverton and the Misses Langley and Merrick all waited in the green drawing room.

  “This is an uncivilized hour for callers. Though I believe I know what they want,” said Mrs Adkins. “You will accompany me, won’t you, Miss Garrett? I should value your support very much. Lady Groverton is something of a bulldog, and her daughters Marianne and Martha Langley are dreadful. Miss Merrick is inoffensive enough, but I’m not sure I am up to facing them all on my own.”

  “I shall certainly join you if you wish it.”

  Mrs Adkins’ wry look clearly stated that Lydia was displaying the lack of caution characteristic only in a person who had not met the ladies in question. But she would not give her a chance to change her mind.

  “Come. We’d better hurry down.”

  Down they went, entering the drawing room in time to hear one of the young ladies murmur something about a wicked adventuress being a guest in the house, and how mortified she would be to have to meet her.

  The blood drained from Lydia’s face in a rush, leaving her cold for the first time since arriving in India. Mrs Adkins reddened and her jaw tightened. She took Lydia’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze before sailing in for a bout of verbal sparring.

  “Good morning, Lady Groverton; ladies. How are you all this morning? I do hope nothing is amiss.”

  In a peculiarly deep, fruity voice, Lady Groverton reassured her there was nothing the least wrong. “We have been out this morning and realized we have not seen you this age. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  “I am glad there is no trouble. It is such an unusual hour for calls I was quite taken off guard. May I present my very great friend, Miss Lydia Garrett.”

  Cool greetings were exchanged and Lydia endured the sharp appraisal of four sets of eyes. She returned the scrutiny.

  Though a small woman, Lady Groverton’s harsh features and coarse manner made her seem larger. Her daughters were plain, mirror images of one another, quite tall with large hands and feet. Their hair—the colour of mud bricks—was piled into elaborate coiffures that suited them poorly. Their lovely dresses did them no justice: the matching shades of rose-coloured linen clashed with their yellowish skin tones, making them look gawkier than they were.

  Miss Merrick was a pretty creature, plump and rosy with soft brown hair curled and pulled back from her face with a great number of pins. Her manner was by far the most congenial of the group and she lacked the edge of hauteur demonstrated by the other women.

  After lukewarm greetings there was a momentary lull.

  “And where is your chaperone? I hope we will get to meet her soon.” All of Miss Merrick’s ruffles and bows seemed to be fluttering, though there was no breeze.

  “No,” said Lydia, not unkindly. She could not bring herself to be cutting to the blushing young woman. “I do not have a chaperone.”

  “But didn’t you come out with a party of gentlemen?”

  “I did indeed.”

  The fact that the adventuress had brazened her way into their very midst seemed to dawn on the ladies all at once. Lydia calmly sipped from the ubiquitous lemon water.

  “I understand that there was some sort of expedition led by natives on some dreadful little island.”

  Lydia lowered her glass. “There was a battle at sea against a French ship-of-the-line as well.”

  Marianne Langley was shaking her head so hard her many braids were in danger of tumbling down around her ears. “Don’t you find such activities taxing? It is… why, it is unfeminine. I’m sure I would never wish to—”

  Lydia had no compunctions about cutting short the elder Miss Langley. “Not at all.”

  “Is Mr Harting still travelling in your party?” asked Miss Martha Langley. She was obviously not one to lose sight of the most important thing: an unattached and wealthy male.

  “Yes, Mr Harting is a charming gentlem
an. The fourth son of the Viscount of Wiltshire. I should be delighted to introduce you to him if you desire.”

  “Lucy Carrington told me he is very handsome and quite well off,” said Miss Merrick, rallying.

  “He is both. He also has beautiful manners. I am sure he will make quite a stir among the young ladies of Calcutta.”

  “How did you find the treasure, and what is it?” Lady Groverton asked.

  “I do apologize.” Lydia smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “I cannot discuss the treasure. The Governor-General would be greatly put out with me, and I would not care to distress him. Once it is safely returned to the Indian people, the veil of secrecy will be lifted. Until then, I am afraid, I am bound to silence.”

  The ladies’ smiles grew even chillier—more like grimaces than expressions of good humour. But Lydia caught Mrs Adkins restraining a grin.

  Despite cajoling and clumsy attempts at verbal entrapment, they could get no more information from Lydia. Nor could they get Mrs Adkins to invite them to the ball, though they did everything but demand an invitation.

  Finally the ladies gave up, departing in a huff. As the door closed behind them Lydia distinctly heard the phrase “no shame”. She turned to find Mrs Adkins wheezing and holding her sides.

  “My dear, you were magnificent—so polite and immovable, and… and British. A beautiful thing to see.” She sighed and shook her head. “I shall have to invite them. The old dragon’s husband is an important man, but I did enjoy withholding the satisfaction of it for the moment.

  “Did you see Martha’s face when you said you had no chaperone? She looked as if she had eaten something sour. Women such as we have a bad reputation, but I never met one with such a scandal-loving nature as those pious young ladies we just entertained.”

  CHAPTER 36