“I am well,” murmured Lydia. The words sounded less reassuring than she would have liked.
“Philippe, bind their hands, and put them both in the carriage.”
“Yes, Monsieur.” Philippe ducked his head, knuckling his forehead respectfully.
Rosalie did not struggle with Philippe as he bound her wrists tightly behind her back. He hurried her out to the carriage and returned for Lydia, who still lay dazed on the floor. Philippe picked her up and put her over his shoulder as he would a large sack of flour. Marshall had taken up a position on the box. His assistant had barely climbed up beside him when Marshall flicked the reins.
CHAPTER 42
Captain Stevens led the way into an area of docks and warehouses. Anthony, Harting, and Lord Wellesley followed closely on his heels. They took care to dismount and leave their horses at a distance from Marshall’s warehouse. The place appeared to be deserted, but they approached cautiously, using the shadows as cover.
The main entry was closed, but not locked. They entered quickly and quietly, making as little disturbance as possible in the dusty, motionless atmosphere. The group broke apart to search independently.
Spying a long corridor at the far end of the building, Anthony immediately headed for the darkened passage. Marshall would have wanted to confine the ladies if possible. Methodically, he opened each door and moved to the next.
A chair sat outside the last door, and Anthony was not surprised when this final office turned out to be the prison.
Too late. He closed his eyes as guilt bombarded him anew. “They have already been taken away.” He called to the rest of the men, his voice jarring in the smothering silence. “They’re gone.”
Anthony stepped into the chamber. He lit the lamp and held it up to see whether he could discern anything. Perhaps Miss Garrett had had time to leave another clue. Furniture was jumbled against one wall. A chair sat beneath one of the windows. A basin and pitcher sat on one of the discarded desks. Two pallets lay at the other end of the room.
The other men piled into the room behind him, glaring at the austere space as if they could force it to tell what had occurred within its dreary confines.
“The chair under the window,” Anthony said. “Why is the chair under the window? It’s not as if they could look out.” He walked over to the window and regarded it closely. “They are a dashed plucky pair.” He held the light high. “Look at this.”
Gouge marks scored the boards where something had bit into the wood and prised out nails.
Captain Stevens returned from one of the other offices with another lamp to better illuminate the scene. They clustered around Anthony.
Harting frowned. “Whatever did they use? I can’t imagine he would have left them tools.”
Casting about for an explanation the men held up the lamps and examined the small space. Light glinted off dull ivory. Harting retrieved a shard of bone resting in the corner and held it up for inspection.
“It looks to be whalebone,” said Captain Stevens.
“From what?” Anthony took the pale sliver and held it flat on his palm.
They all regarded it a moment longer.
“Why, I think it must be a piece of whalebone from a lady’s stays,” Wellesley said after a space.
“I tell you, gentlemen, I should not have wanted to be the one to have kidnapped those two—they are formidable.” Captain Stevens shook his head.
“They would have made it clean away soon. These boards are almost free.” Anthony tapped one with the back of his knuckle and sent it to the floor in a cloud of dust.
“They must have been interrupted and taken away before they could finish,” Harting said. He rubbed his forehead as if trying to wrap his mind around the fact that they had indeed failed.
“Gentlemen, look at this.” Captain Stevens pointed gravely at a spot on the floor. “This looks like blood.”
Again the lamps were brought to bear while they examined the spattered discolouration.
Harting knelt and touched the spot. “It’s still damp. They cannot have been gone long.”
“What sort of monster is he?” demanded Captain Stevens.
Enraged, Anthony did not attempt any comment. He would reserve his thoughts on the matter until he caught Adam Marshall, at which point he intended to demonstrate his feelings fully.
“Gentlemen, we have a decision to make. I cannot turn over the throne. So what will we do?” Lord Wellesley asked.
Anthony bristled. “We will turn over the throne. I brought it here. And as I’ve intimated before, it is not a present to the crown. By all rights it is mine and I will turn it over without a qualm if they will trade Miss Garrett for it.”
Harting nodded sharply in agreement. In his fashionable jacket and elaborate cravat he looked markedly out of place in the dusty warehouse. But the savage expression on his face would have made him at home among a band of brigands. “We can minimize the political damage by simply announcing that the throne was stolen. We already made a gesture of goodwill towards the people of India. We will make certain they know the French have stolen it from them again.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the circle of men. Lord Wellesley straightened his shoulders. “We are agreed then. We will recover the ladies.”
“God help the murderous coward once he no longer has them in his power. I will hunt him to the end of the earth.” Anthony clenched the hilt of his sword spasmodically.
They raced back to Government House. There was little time to spare if they were going to make it to the temple ruins at the appointed time. Anthony was strongly tempted to retain his sword, but Lord Wellesley insisted they follow the instructions explicitly, so he left it with Harting.
The throne had been crated and loaded into a stout cart for just such an eventuality. They climbed up onto the box and Lord Wellesley took the reins.
“We shall be back as soon as we can. I want a regiment prepared to go after the fiend the instant we return.”
“Yes, sir.” Captain Stevens saluted smartly.
The cart ground away, gaining speed slowly as it turned out of the courtyard.
“You realize I must go after them,” Marcus said.
Captain Stevens nodded. “Of course. Men and horses are waiting around the other side of the stables. We will need to delay a little. It would not do to get too close and allow ourselves to be spotted.”
“There’s no cause for you to disobey an order. Reinforcements will be here any moment. As you say, though, we will need horses.”
Stevens raised an eyebrow, but nodded and headed to the stables.
Marcus paced the courtyard restlessly. Bats wheeled overhead, silent but for the rush of air as they swooped and dived too near. A single oil lamp hung near the door, but its paltry light did little to illuminate the area.
The scuff of a shoe on flagstone brought his head up as if the change in position could sharpen his hearing.
“Is that you, Mr Harting?”
“Captain Campbell, I’m glad you could come.”
“Of course I came. When your man told me what had happened, I could scarce credit it.” Campbell approached. Behind him loomed the hulking forms of more than twenty seamen.
As the men entered the feeble circle of light Marcus could see they were armed and scowling. Every man-jack looked as if he was itching for a fight.
CHAPTER 43
Again Lydia woke, groggy and sore, on the floor of a carriage. She appeared to be making a regular habit of it, she thought ruefully. Pain spiked through her as the carriage jolted through a particularly deep rut. A foul tasting gag made her mouth impossibly dry. Please God, do not let it be Philippe’s loathsome neckerchief.
The carriage pulled up smartly and ceased its jostling, for which Lydia was profoundly grateful. In the sudden hush, she could hear Dr Marshall talking quietly to Philippe.
“It is all very well to foment rebellion in India. But if we can remove Lord Wellesley as well, the English will be
in desperate straits. It will take months to get a new Governor-General in place. English strength in India will be broken and while they pour men into the breach, General Bonaparte will strike at their heart with an invasion force.”
“You are brilliant, Monsieur. You have ordered everything perfectly.”
“Well, I had not originally intended an assassination,” said Dr Marshall modestly, “but matters have arranged themselves so nicely it would be a shame to waste such a prime opportunity. When I think of the things that have gone wrong…” He sighed. “In spite of everything things may come out better than I dared hope.”
Energy surged through Lydia. She looked around wildly for Rosalie and found her slumped on the carriage bench behind her. Relief followed on the heels of her fear; the woman had been bound but not gagged. She must have behaved well.
Lydia’s wild gyrations wakened her.
“Dear, you are awake. Are you all right? He didn’t hurt you too badly, did he?” She leaned towards Lydia, but with her hands tied behind her back the impulse to comfort was checked.
Lydia shook her head violently and rubbed her face against the carriage floor in an attempt to dislodge the gag.
“What’s wrong?” asked Rosalie. “You frighten me. What is wrong?”
Outside, a masculine voice hailed Marshall in French. This must be some of the crew from the French sloop. Lydia listened intently and realized from their conversation that they had heaved to in a sheltered cove just north of a village—which village, she could not make out. They were ready to load the throne and escape as soon as the exchange had taken place. Marshall began to discuss his plans with the men, but he must have been moving away. The sounds grew fainter until they were inaudible.
Lydia prayed fervently for help and continued to struggle with her bonds. There was no give at all in the ropes. She must warn someone of the trap.
Marshall returned and opened the carriage door. “They should be here any moment. Shall we set the stage?” He lifted Rosalie from the carriage and then turned back. “Do not try my patience, Miss Garrett. You have irritated me and I will kill you if you give me the slightest bit of trouble. Do you understand?”
Lydia nodded mutely, trying to look docile—which was not difficult given that she was bound and gagged. He pulled her from the carriage and stood her beside Mrs Adkins.
“Come along now, ladies. We must make sure you are displayed to best advantage.”
Lydia’s gaze swept the scene wildly. Thankfully, the night was clear, with a bright moon illuminating the landscape. They were in the ruins of some sort of building. Fantastical carvings covered every remaining surface. It must be some sort of temple.
Dr Marshall led them into a wide courtyard in the centre of the structure. He positioned Mrs Adkins with Philippe in the shadows at one side and dragged Lydia, stumbling along behind him, to the other.
Lydia could hear the rattle and slide of rocks as men took up their positions around the courtyard. A long, tense silence ensued. Lydia frantically worried the knots that bound her hands behind her back. She thought they gave way a little, but she was by no means certain: her fingers had grown numb and she feared testing the notion. It was imperative not to give away what she was doing. Without doubt Marshall would keep his promise if she provoked him.
A hail from one of the lookouts caused everyone to jump. “They’re coming.”
Anthony surveyed the temple as they approached. “This is a godforsaken spot if ever I saw one.”
“Kali is a Hindu goddess associated with death and change. Her followers once performed horrible human sacrifices here,” said Lord Wellesley.
“Then I am even more correct than I supposed.”
They lapsed into silence as they drew nearer. No one approached and they saw no one as they pulled in front of the temple.
“Perhaps we ought to drive through those arches. It looks as if there might be an inner courtyard,” said Anthony.
Lord Wellesley nodded and flicked the reins. They rumbled slowly through the arches, which formed a short tunnel, until they came to the central courtyard.
A man stepped from the shadows, pushing Mrs Adkins forward with him. “I see you followed my instructions,” he said in a French accent. “Please step away from the throne. I must warn you, gentlemen, not to try anything dangerous—you are surrounded by my men.”
Lord Wellesley and Anthony climbed from their seats, taking care to appear non-threatening. Anthony’s every sense was attuned to the slight rustlings as the men surrounding them shifted their weight and fidgeted.
“Have they hurt you, my dear?” called Lord Wellesley.
“No, darling, but I think Miss Garrett may be rather badly injured,” she answered before her captor jerked her arm and she subsided.
Anthony’s hand reached for a sword that was not there. “Where is Marshall? We know he is behind this. Is he even more of a coward than we imagined?”
“Bravo.” Marshall stepped from the shadows behind them. “I had hoped to keep my identity secure, but it is no matter. The coup d’état has been accomplished.”
Anthony spun round to face Marshall. His heart gave a wrench when he saw Lydia with the man. One eye looked swollen and puffy, and her mouth had been tied so tightly shut, he could see where the bonds bit into her flesh. Still, she could stand on her own. He took comfort in the hope that no permanent injury had been done.
“You have been pitifully sloppy, Marshall. The little corporal will not be pleased. You didn’t accomplish any of the things you desired. You may have the throne, but it will do you no good.”
“Wrong as usual, Danbury. I have accomplished even more than I first hoped. It will be interesting to see what happens to India when there is no English leader in place.” Marshall raised the pistol he had been holding casually at his side and pointed it directly at Lord Wellesley.
CHAPTER 44
Lydia had been unable to free herself from her bonds, but she could wait no longer. In a single desperate movement she whipped around, barrelling into Marshall with every ounce of strength she could muster. He staggered backwards while she went sprawling and tumbling sideways down a short flight of stairs. The shot he fired went high and wide, but the sound reverberated through the courtyard. A stunned pause froze everyone in place for a fraction of an instant as people tried to comprehend what just had happened. Then chaos surged into the void.
Lydia craned her neck to see what had become of Lord Wellesley. She was just in time to catch a glimpse as Danbury pushed him beneath the cart, trying to shield him with his own body.
Rosalie wrenched free of Philippe and ran towards the Governor-General. Marshall’s men charged the cart with an outraged howl. From behind them, Lydia heard another mighty shout. Harting appeared in the arched entryway of the temple, leading a band of men who poured in behind him. The warning from the lookouts had come too late.
The clash of swords and curses pealed through the courtyard like an awful chorus of bells. Marshall swore viciously and darted down the stairs to grab Lydia, who struggled to gain her feet without the use of her hands. He snatched her upper arm, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh.
Lydia refused to be a convenient hostage. She writhed and struggled in his grasp, hoping at least to delay his escape. The train of her dress wrapped about her legs, tripping her, and her weight carried Marshall down too. He was up again in an instant, trying to cuff her into submission while at the same time dragging her away with him.
Anthony succeeded in getting Lord Wellesley and his paramour safely tucked beneath the cart. Fortunately the horses were cavalry beasts, used to warfare, and they remained complacent as the fighting raged around them. Eager to join the battle, Anthony sought wildly for a weapon.
Harting tore past, practically chasing a great hulk of a man who—despite his size—had no apparent idea of how to handle a sword.
“Danbury.” He tossed Anthony his sword, still in its scabbard.
Instantly forgiving h
im for every deception, Anthony caught it and bounded to the top of the cart to survey the scene. He wanted to join battle with only one man.
“Lordship, she’s over there,” old Angus Robb hollered with a jerk of his thumb.
Anthony finally caught sight of Marshall as he dragged Lydia through the portico at the far end of the courtyard. Rage slithered through Anthony. He leapt from the cart and darted after them. He shoved and slashed his way through the battling figures in his path. Once free of the struggling men he ran flat out.
Marshall turned and spied Anthony. He pushed Lydia to the ground. An instant later he thought better of his plan and jerked her upright again, putting his sword to her throat.
Anthony stopped some fifteen paces from the couple. He couldn’t reach them in time to prevent Marshall slitting her throat.
“Surely you are more of a man than to murder a helpless woman? Let her go and fight me,” Anthony said.
“Helpless? She is the least helpless woman I’ve met in my life. This entire debacle is her fault. I do have plans for her, however.” Marshall pushed the point of his blade even further into her flesh until blood oozed in a thin line down her throat. “I made her a promise.”
Anthony took a step forward, but stopped as Marshall’s lips pulled back in a snarl. He held up his free hand in a staying gesture. “The others will be coming soon. You should fight me now or you will never get away.” He advanced again, cautiously.
“I will kill her if you do not stop.” Marshall retreated a step.
Anthony continued to close the gap between them.
He made a dismissive wave of his sword. “There are plenty more where she came from, but I will not allow my father’s murderer to get away again.” His muscles were so tense he could scarce continue his deliberate advance.
Marshall seemed to realize the only way he was going to get away quickly would be to fight and win. With a savage cry he shoved Lydia at Anthony and attacked.
The Peacock Throne Page 30
