Even after dancing, the restless need to move propelled her forward. She fidgeted with her fan, wandering into the garden with no particular destination in mind.
Could they have allowed for every contingency? Their enemy was cunning. He would not allow himself to be easily trussed. “Miss Garrett?” An inquiring voice at her elbow pulled her from her reverie.
“Lord Danbury. It’s growing quite warm in there, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite.” A pause stretched between them until at last he extended his arm. “May I walk with you?”
“Of course.”
He offered the confiding smile that never failed to lighten her mood. “To be honest, I’ve had dashed all I can handle of prying questions and impertinent stares. I can now fully commiserate with trained monkeys.”
Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. “Precisely. I’m rather pining for the anonymity of London at the moment.”
Jasmine and roses scented the air. Strategically spaced torches offered dim and flickering illumination. On the other side of the hedgerow a woman giggled.
He covered her hand on his arm with his. “I haven’t forgotten my promise, you know. I shall find you an appropriate post when we return.”
Lydia ducked her head. “I know that, my Lord, and I thank you.”
They had reached a sort of cul-de-sac and were forced to halt. He turned to face her and his hand caressed her cheek as if she were immeasurably fragile.
“Miss Garrett, I’m not as erudite as Harting, but—” He broke off and groaned. Then both hands were cupping her face, and his lips were on hers, warm and sweet and gentle.
For an instant she sank into the kiss. A delicious whirling, sliding fall. As natural and necessary as breathing. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her closer.
His lips moved to nuzzle her ear. “I’ve waited. I didn’t know. I feared—”
She jerked away, panting a little. Her heart pounded wildly.
His eyes widened and it was as if she’d opened some compartment in his soul and poured in pain. And then suddenly his expression shuttered over—his face was the shade of a brick wall, and just as impassive. “I’m so sorry. I know that your position is dashed awkward. I shan’t press you again, nor will I allow anyone to say—”
“No, my Lord.” She held up a hand. “I cannot, but it is because I… I have used you mercilessly.”
Stiff and formal he waited for her to continue.
Tears pooled in her eyes. She fumbled for a way to phrase her confession without seeming to cast stones. “At Mr Harting’s request I have been passing along information about you. Information I gleaned from searching through your papers.”
His eyes had grown cold—so cold that goose flesh prickled her arms.
“Your inheritance?”
She nodded, miserable. “It was from the government. Payment in advance.” The chill had been replaced by a scorching, searing, suffocating heat.
Lord Danbury inclined his head with a little jerk. “I am sorry to have troubled you, ma’am. I trust you’ll excuse me.”
He strode away from her as if escaping a foul odour.
Deaf and blind to any others, Lydia wandered the garden. A bench presented itself. She groped for it and sat down heavily. She might never get up again.
Gravel crunched and a shadow loomed over her. “Miss Garrett.”
Lydia could not quite force a smile as her merciful solitude took flight. “Good evening, Dr Marshall. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am. The ball is an absolute triumph. I know you had a great deal to do with its success, so you should be congratulated.” He proffered a glass. “I thought you might be thirsty.” He held out a glass of negus.
“How kind.” Her words were automatic, as was her acceptance of the glass he held. She drank deeply, scarcely tasting the punch.
“No trouble at all. I hoped you would honour me with the next dance.”
“I regret that I have already promised it or I would happily oblige.”
“No matter. I shall endeavour to enjoy your company now.” With an abrupt change of subject, he continued, “Do you know what time they plan to unveil the throne?”
“Sometime towards the end of the evening,” Lydia said. Something was wrong. Her tongue felt thick and slow. She blinked, trying to clear her head. The world spun sickeningly.
“Are you all right, Miss Garrett?” The doctor placed a solicitous hand at her elbow and helped her rise. “Perhaps a turn around the garden?”
Lydia followed. She craned her neck to look up at him, but the simple act of turning her head made her stomach lurch, and she battled to keep from disgracing herself. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to be led further from the light and activity of the ball.
What was wrong with her? She blanched. Please don’t let there be anything amiss with the game from the buffet. It would be terrible if all the guests were to fall ill.
Lydia’s mind whirled, disordered and chaotic, unable to focus. Thoughts seemed to slip through her grasp as soon as they formed.
Dr Marshall nudged her gently to a bench and she collapsed gratefully on the cool stone. Her senses cleared for a moment and she heard the doctor whispering.
“Elle est ici.”
Her heart plunged to her feet. She turned to look at him, fighting to concentrate—to understand. Darkness consumed her, dragging her into a deep void.
CHAPTER 38
Lord Wellesley led the party into the receiving hall. A murmur of excitement built among the guests. At Wellesley’s request, Harting and Anthony made their way to the front of the crowd. The audience quieted and an expectant hush filled the hall.
Anthony had to restrain a snort as Wellesley eulogized their courage and resourcefulness. What rot. All he wanted was to find the murderer and go home.
The crowd pressed closer as latecomers edged into the hall. The spy had to be amongst them; he could smell evil in the air. He eyed the assembled guests, looking for someone out of the ordinary, a visage twisted with cruelty and avarice. It was hopeless. Every face he looked in seemed to hold a measure of one or the other. But then, Miss Garrett had proven that looks could deceive. He strangled the thought and buried it beneath his determination to find the murderer.
Wellesley had moved on, and now waxed lyrical about bridges being built between Britain and India because of the heroic return of the treasure to Indian soil. Anthony glanced over to Harting. The man’s eyes had glazed over. At least he didn’t seem to be buying the tripe Wellesley was selling either.
He searched the faces of the crowd for Miss Garrett. How was she enduring the posturing? She was nowhere to be found. Smart girl. She had a positive genius for looking after her own interests. A taste as bitter as wormwood filled his mouth.
As the audience began to shift and whisper, the Governor-General stepped back. With a flourish he whipped the covering from the throne. The crowd inhaled as one body.
Jewels caught the light and refracted it into miniature starbursts. The grand Peacock Throne of the Mughals shone as if lit from within. Spontaneous applause burst from the crowd. Many of the guests approached the throne, touching it with soft hands—some reverently in respect of its beauty, others greedily as if touch might help them guess its value.
Wellesley’s men would have to watch the crowd, or the throne would be picked clean of jewels by morning.
A group of men clustered around Lord Wellesley, congratulating him on a coup of diplomacy. Others pressed closely around Anthony and Harting, avid for the tale of their adventure. Anthony indulged them—partially.
It would never do to cause a panicked search for French spies. He found himself hailed as a hero, but he could not accept the praise heaped on him. His true goal had yet to be accomplished.
At last the crowd began to disperse and Harting collared him. “Have you seen Miss Garrett?”
“Not since the buffet was laid.” He fumbled with his cravat, trying in vain to repair t
he damage inflicted by the crush.
“I wonder how she’s holding up. The crowds might have trampled the poor girl if she were as inundated as we.”
“I’m sure she will have managed.” Anthony would rather not see Miss Garrett again. Ever.
Harting shook his head. “No, I’m sure she would have attended the unveiling. I think we ought to look for her.”
Anthony sneered. “Are you sure she isn’t off performing some errand for you?”
Harting stepped back. A light seemed to have been snuffed out somewhere within him, eliminating the friendly gleam in his eyes. “I haven’t asked anything of her.”
Anthony glared at him.
Harting sighed. “May we discuss it later? For the moment I have an unpleasant suspicion that all is not well.”
Shaking his head at the tacit confirmation, Anthony breathed out heavily. The edge of betrayal sliced him open like a fillet knife. “I’ll go this way.” It was a harsh bullfrog’s croak of a voice, but at least he hadn’t issued the challenge that had sprung to his lips. He had to get away from Harting before he did something impulsive.
He circled the reception rooms and glanced out at the gardens. Miss Garrett was nowhere in sight. Hangers-on hampered his every movement, introducing themselves and peppering him with questions he did not wish to answer. At last he approached a servant and asked him to summon Miss Garrett.
The instant he stood still, avid officials desiring his confidence clustered around him as if he were some sort of magnet. Would this evening never end? Doing his best to at least appear gracious he slapped on a polite smile.
Some twenty minutes later Harting approached. “Excuse me, gentlemen. May I borrow Lord Danbury for a moment?” His lips were turned up in a semblance of a smile, but he bore such an air of reproach that the crowd fairly melted away.
He was to the point. “Did you find her?”
Anthony’s hands clenched into fists. “I did not.”
“Did you even bother to look?”
The urge to shout nearly choked him. “I looked. But frankly I am much more interested in finding a murderer. She likely took to her bed with a megrim. I’d do the same if I weren’t set on finishing this business.”
Harting shook his head. “I had a servant check her room. She isn’t there.” His gaze looked past and around Anthony, searching the guests for a slender column of white. For the first time a stirring of unease niggled at Anthony. Almost involuntarily he looked over his shoulder.
Lord Wellesley stood nearby speaking to a bewigged and gartered gentleman. Anthony touched Harting’s arm. “Come, let’s inquire with Wellesley. He may know something.” They approached him and begged pardon for the interruption before presenting their concern.
“No, come to think of it I haven’t. Of course, I haven’t seen Mrs Adkins in a good while either. Perhaps some crisis over musicians or some such called them away. Ah, thank you,” he said to a waiter who approached him with a note. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.” Lord Wellesley unfolded the missive. He paled, his face tightening into hard lines and his eyes turning wintry.
“Lord Danbury, Mr Harting, please join me in my study. Lord Chester, I must beg you to excuse us.”
Anthony and Harting exchanged glances. Something was terribly wrong. They hurried to follow Lord Wellesley’s rigid form. Once the door shut behind them, he flung the letter on the desk.
“Their lives are threatened.”
“Who?”
“Miss Garrett and Mrs Adkins.” Wellesley’s voice was vehement.
Harting leaned close over Anthony’s shoulder to examine the letter. It was short and to the point.
Treasure is defined by man. What do you treasure, gentlemen? You will follow directions and deliver up the Peacock Throne, or Mrs Adkins and Miss Garrett will die. Further communication will follow.
Lord Wellesley stepped from the room and ordered a passing servant to find the ladies and ask them to join him in the study. The servant scurried away, the harshness of the command lending wings to his progress.
“We will have to post guards on the ladies. They must be cautioned to take the greatest care with their safety,” said Harting.
Tension stemmed further conversation as they waited in agitated silence for the ladies to present themselves. Lord Wellesley rang for another servant and sent him to find the commander of the forces tasked with protecting Government House.
Captain Stevens arrived a scant few minutes later, breathless and still clutching a pair of playing cards. These he tucked quickly out of sight as he perused the note.
Still there was no sign of either lady.
The servant returned, but his downcast demeanour boded no good. “I am sorry, my Lord, but I have searched everywhere. I cannot find the ladies.”
Anthony took to pacing while the poor man underwent a close interrogation. The servant answered readily enough and it appeared he had performed a thorough, if hurried, search. Captain Stevens excused himself to gather a few soldiers and make an in-depth search.
“Be discreet, Captain. I do not want to upset my guests,” said Lord Wellesley. “It will cause chaos and make our task more difficult.”
He turned to Anthony and Harting. “I hate to think it, gentlemen, but I fear they have been kidnapped. Whoever this villain is, he is not stupid. He has ensured he will have them in his power if he wants to do them harm.”
“I thought the French possessed more scruples. To abduct and threaten ladies…” Harting looked ready to fling himself on a horse and join battle if only he knew where the enemy lay.
“I should not have allowed Miss Garrett to accompany us in the first place.” Anthony dropped into a seat, head in his hands.
“No, my boy, this is not your doing. This is the fault of a wicked enemy. Self-recrimination will avail nothing. We must think. I refuse to allow the blackguard to get away with this.” Lord Wellesley’s features spoke of grim resolution.
Anthony raised his head, but could summon no enthusiasm. He had erred badly and now Miss Garrett was in danger. “You’re right, of course.”
“Sir, did you know the waiter who delivered the note?” Harting asked.
“I…” Lord Wellesley thought about it. “Why, no, I didn’t recognize the man. The waiters for this evening are all soldiers. Not our usual servants. I thought it a wise precaution. Captain Stevens will have a list of their names.”
“It might be expedient to discover who gave him the note.”
Captain Stevens soon returned. The ladies were nowhere on the grounds of Government House. The search had been discreet but thorough, and he was confident in his report.
Anthony seemed to have trouble breathing, as if someone had struck the air from his lungs. At Lord Wellesley’s request, Stevens immediately produced the list of sepoys employed at the ball. These were each brought in and interviewed briefly. No one had seen anything unusual. None could help pinpoint what time the ladies had been taken, although various soldiers had noticed them at different times throughout the evening. Anthony began a timeline to try to discover the approximate time the kidnappings occurred. In the end it contained so many holes as to be almost useless.
They interviewed twenty sepoys before recognizing the man who had delivered the note. Harting quizzed him at length, but he had little to add.
He had spotted the note propped prominently on one of the buffet tables as he passed. It was addressed to Lord Wellesley in a large bold hand and marked urgent, so, although he thought it odd, he made a point of seeking out the Governor-General and delivering the note with all haste. He had not seen who left the letter, nor had he noticed anyone loitering around the table. Nothing else struck him as out of place or unusual.
“I hope I didn’t do wrong, sir. I thought you would want the letter right off. That’s why I brought it straight along.”
Lord Wellesley’s shoulders slumped, but he waved away the man’s concern. “Go on now, but do not speak of our interview to anyone.”
Still looking slightly dyspeptic the soldier bowed and departed.
“Well, gentlemen, that was even less helpful than I had feared. What are we to do?”
Neither Harting nor Anthony could answer.
CHAPTER 39
Lydia woke slowly. She lay on the floor of a carriage—a carriage apparently travelling a wretchedly kept road because it bounced and lurched wildly. Abominably sick to her stomach, the sole thought she could muster was a longing for the vehicle to cease its violent motion. Her head ached fiercely, and her hands had been bound behind her. Wrenching pain lanced her back, arms and shoulders.
Hers was not the only body supine on the carriage floor. It took a few minutes to summon the strength of will to raise her head and see who shared her predicament. She could not see the person’s face, but recognized Mrs Adkins’ regally styled ball gown immediately.
“Ah, you’ve woken. I expected the drug to last longer.”
Lydia turned her head, alarmed at the voice, but she could not say anything. It was all she could do to keep her teeth clenched against the bile rising in her throat.
“Perhaps it’s just as well. I shan’t have to have you carried in.”
Lydia relaxed back onto the floor; it would be wise to conserve her strength. The figure in the corner continued to speak. He said something more about the effect of the drug, but she had stopped listening. Her entire being was intent on trying to determine some clue as to where they were. Her captor was apparently very confident. He had left the landau’s curtains open, probably in order to facilitate a breeze in the stuffy compartment.
Through the gap she could see the stars high above. She wracked her sore brain, trying to remember what Captain Campbell had taught her on board Legacy about the stars, and how one could use them to gauge direction and speed. It took a good while, but at last she had her bearings. The coach was travelling roughly northeast.
She thought they were still in the city, but not in one of the heavily populated areas. The dark bulk of buildings was occasionally visible to her from her cramped position, but there were few other signs of life—no cooking fires, no people speaking, no dogs barking or donkeys braying. Even this late at night there would be some sign of habitation in a residential area.
The Peacock Throne Page 27
