Thrown off balance as she hurtled into him, Anthony scarcely managed to raise his sword to fend off the blow.
Hands tied behind her, Lydia could not crawl out of the way; instead, she rolled awkwardly away from Danbury. She kicked out at Marshall and the blow went home enough to cause him to falter for an instant. It was all the time Danbury needed to recover himself, and he rallied with a vengeance.
She scrabbled out of the way. She ached to help Danbury in some way, but feared tripping him up rather than Marshall. Once she managed to get clear of the men, she struggled into a sitting position. She could hardly breathe. Horror constricted her lungs like a snake.
Back and forth the figures danced. Lunging, feinting, parrying. Attacking and then retreating. Marshall drew first blood with his initial rush. But Danbury gradually gained the upper hand. After several passes it became apparent that Danbury was the stronger, more skilled, of the two. Still Marshall battled on with the sober determination of a bulldog, making up with sheer audacity what he lacked in finesse.
Danbury lunged, forcing the doctor to retreat. Marshall’s swings were becoming erratic, less powerful. He half stumbled, but righted himself almost instantly.
“Yield,” demanded Danbury.
Marshall did not respond, doggedly fighting on. He was breathing hard now, his face red and streaming with sweat. Danbury pressed his advantage. He drew blood again. A slick, red stain spread across the doctor’s thigh.
“Do you yield?”
“I yield,” Marshall said, his voice pitched high by strain. He bent over panting and braced his free hand on his knee.
Danbury reached for Marshall’s sword. Uttering a primeval yell that made Lydia shiver despite the heat, Marshall lunged in a desperate attack. Danbury twisted away. Marshall’s sword pierced jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, coming out on the other side. Danbury’s sword found more solid fodder.
Dr Adam Marshall gazed down in astonishment at the blade protruding from his gut. He dropped his weapon and stumbled to his knees. He appeared shocked at being confronted by his own mortality. His hands found the wound, attempting feebly to staunch the blood.
Danbury knelt and pulled the sword from Marshall’s body. He took out a handkerchief and, removing Marshall’s hands, pressed the cloth against the wound. Marshall groaned pitifully and his eyes glazed over with pain. Lydia heard an English huzzah and realized the Frenchmen in the temple had been routed.
In an awkward writhing motion, she gained her knees and crawled to where the duelists sat on the ground. Nodding frantically, she succeeded in signalling Danbury to remove her gag.
She spat out the flannel wadding and said, “You are not injured?”
He put a hand to the blood that seeped along his abdomen; he was breathing heavily. “Only a scrape.”
Lydia nodded towards the doctor. “Then help him lie flat.”
Danbury did as directed.
“Keep firm, direct pressure on the wound. Your cravat would make a handsome bandage to help slow the bleeding.” Danbury scowled, but removed his neck cloth with one hand. Already his handkerchief could absorb no more of Marshall’s lifeblood.
Following Lydia’s instruction, Danbury attended the dying man.
Footsteps pounded towards them and Danbury called for someone to take his place. A sailor did so, and Danbury turned to Lydia.
Utterly drained, Lydia sat statue still. Danbury crouched by her side and held her close.
“Are you all right?” The gentle embrace was too much, and she began to cry.
Danbury pulled back. “I’m sorry, I’ve hurt you. I ought to have released you from these bonds. I’m sorry.” He cut her hands apart. Cupping her face in his hands, he brushed the curls from her eyes. “Now are you all right?”
“You should not have come alone; it was too dangerous.” Lydia hiccoughed but summoned a smile.
“My dear girl… I’m so sorry for the things I said. I was angry, but from the beginning I have been using you just as much to help solve all this. I had no place to—”
Danbury pulled her close. Her head rested securely against his broad chest. His fingers tangled in her hair.
“Oh, but you did. I’ve felt so dreadfully guilty. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I ever suspected you, or agreed to the plan.” Lydia couldn’t restrain a final sniffle. “Could I have a handkerchief, please?”
Harting appeared now and offered a fine square of linen to Lydia. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose gratefully. She knew she must look awful, but she was too tired to do much more than push her tangled hair back from her face. Danbury helped her to her feet as Lord Wellesley approached.
“He’s dead then?” asked Lord Wellesley.
“Not yet.” Danbury gestured to where a couple of men still laboured over the fallen man. “He will be soon.”
“I shall see if he will give us any information about the French intelligence services. Excuse me.” Wellesley walked stiffly away.
Rosalie stayed with Lydia and the two embraced. “I am indebted to you forever.”
“Not at all,” rasped Lydia. She longed for a cool drink. The flannel stuffed in her mouth had left her feeling as parched as a desert.
“Come along, let’s get you back to Government House and have a physician look at you.” Harting shepherded her away from Danbury and the crowd with infinite tenderness.
In a matter of moments, Lydia and Rosalie were ensconced in Marshall’s carriage and on their way back to Government House. It was a fairly comfortable conveyance if one were not trussed and dumped in a heap on the floor, thought Lydia.
Neither Lydia nor Rosalie attempted conversation. In the grip of deep exhaustion they both fell asleep long before the carriage rattled up in front of the mansion.
Their arrival at Government House prompted a flurry of activity. Harting rang for a pitcher of lemon water. Accepting the offering gratefully, Lydia drank long and deep. The relief of the first swallow was unlike anything she had ever experienced.
She had no notion what would happen next, but with her hands unbound she felt as if she could face anything. Right after a nap.
CHAPTER 45
Lydia did not wake until well after the lunch hour. She groaned when she sat up, and held her head in her hands. Every movement caused some new ache. A glance in the glass by the bed revealed that both her eyes had been blackened and her lip split. Her face was pale and puffy. She winced at her vanity that these facts should bother her so much.
Annette had a meal and hot water brought up so she could bathe Lydia’s wounds.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Miss.” The girl bobbed her head shyly.
Lydia thanked the girl for her kind wishes. When the meal arrived, she ate with a good appetite. Despite her pains, she felt better. The emotional storm of the night before had passed. Lydia pushed the covers aside and edged her legs over the side of the bed. She needed to discover what was happening.
Annette looked horrified. “Miss, the doctor says that you are to rest. Lord Danbury came around this morning to see you. He said he will be back. If you want him now, I will send for him.”
“No,” said Lydia. “There is no hurry. I thought he might need my help with something.”
“I think he would be displeased if you ignored the doctor’s advice.”
Lydia had had enough of doctors feeling they could imprison her, but she held up her hands in mock surrender and climbed back into bed. She dozed a while. When she woke again it was eventime, and someone was knocking softly at the door. Rosalie stayed for a short time, and then Lydia read for a while. Another knock sounded. Lydia looked up hopefully.
The maid opened the door a crack and spoke to the person on the other side. Then she turned to Lydia. “It is Mr Harting. Do you wish to see him?”
“Yes,” said Lydia without hesitation.
Annette helped her into a loose morning gown and pulled her hair back in a simple knot at the nape of her neck. She stood and made her way carefully from her ro
om to the sitting room next door. Lying in bed all day had kept her from realizing the extent of her injuries. Now she was recalled to them with a vengeance.
She found Harting staring out of the open window at the garden. It was the nearest to repose she had ever seen his features.
“My dear.” Harting turned and took her hands, gently leading her to a couch. “We were all so worried. Will you be all right?” He gestured to the angry bruises on her face and arms.
“Yes, I shall be quite all right. There’s no cause to fret. Bruises heal quickly. Now tell me all that has happened.”
Harting congratulated her on the note she had written and then described the search they had conducted. He detailed the final demand from the kidnapper, how Danbury and Lord Wellesley had ridden off alone.
“Have you captured all the conspirators?”
“Wellesley managed quite a nice haul. In addition to the men we took last night, he dispatched two English frigates after the French sloop. She and her entire crew were captured.”
“They didn’t put up a fight?”
“They made a short-lived attempt to run, but didn’t get far. The English intercepted them, and after a short battle, Égalité struck her colours. The officers and crew are being questioned about Marshall and their knowledge of his plans.”
“I am sorry to have missed all the excitement.”
“Indeed, they also found the spurious Shah Akbar and Jahan Pasha. They wished to be on hand to set their coup in motion.”
“From the Earl’s letter?” Lydia shook her head. “I had come to believe them mere figments of imagination.”
“They’re real enough. From what I gather, Akbar was the one who took the tale of the throne to France. He and Fouche worked out this plan. Akbar acted without French sanction when he sent that letter to the Earl, however. He thought it would frighten the old gentleman into speaking. When Marshall learned of the letters he was furious and brought forward his plan. To give him what little credit he is due, murder had not been his intent. It seems Akbar once more took matters into his own hands and was also the one to exercise his flair for the melodramatic by leaving the carved knives. He’s lucky Marshall didn’t murder him for his poor judgment.”
Lydia found that she had been leaning closer and closer to him as the tale unwound. She straightened and at once regretted it.
Harting touched her arm.
She waved away his concern. “I’m well.”
“The story of your kidnapping has begun to spread, and the French are thoroughly discredited.” He grinned and sipped at his lemon water. “A swarm of well-wishers, and others who find it expedient to demonstrate their loyalty to the British, have been thronging Government House.”
“Did Dr Marshall have any intelligence to offer in his final moments?” asked Lydia.
“Not as such. He was unrepentant to the end, though he took a great while to die. Belly wounds are nasty things.” Harting hesitated.
“What is it?”
“He did give me a message for you. I believe you may have made quite an impression on the fellow.”
Harting did love to draw out a story. Lydia bit the inside of her lip.
“He said it was his doing that Sophie died. He poisoned her because she would have recognized him as the French agent. Told you the wrong bottle, and then changed them later.”
Lydia’s mouth dropped open. She shook her head as tears welled in her eyes. Could it be true? Harting handed her a handkerchief and she buried her face in it. It defied belief. A small measure of pity welled within her for Dr Marshall. A wretched man whose soul had been disfigured by hatred.
“What do we do now?” Lydia asked.
“Matters have been wrapped up so satisfactorily there is little left to be done. I must write a dispatch to Mr Pitt, giving him the good news. Otherwise, I imagine our most pressing concern will be to outfit Legacy for a triumphant return to England.”
Lydia swallowed her misgivings. “Mr Harting, I must beg to speak with you about what passed between us.” It seemed an age ago.
“Miss Garrett, I must render my heartfelt apologies. I had no right, no excuse—”
She held up a hand. “No, please.”
Harting reached for her hand.
A throat cleared. Danbury stood on the threshold. “Apologies for intruding. I can return at a more convenient time.”
Lydia straightened, wincing at the sudden movement. “My Lord, I pray you, do not go. I’m most anxious to speak with you.”
Danbury entered slowly, pulling a posey of flowers from behind his back. He presented them to Lydia with a flourish.
“I thought these might brighten your day.”
Lydia accepted the gift with a bright smile. “Thank you, my Lord. It was kind of you to think of me. I’ve been hoping to speak to you all day. We never completed our conversation of the other evening.”
Harting stood and excused himself, kissing her hand in farewell. When he had gone Danbury took his seat.
“How are you feeling?”
“I am much better, thank you. Though the physician insists I play the invalid.”
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
“A few bumps and bruises, no more.”
Danbury murmured something polite and an uncomfortable silence ensued.
The words rushed into her throat, but as each clamoured for preference she was rendered mute. It took nearly two minutes for her to choke out a weak sentiment. “My Lord, I can only express my great regret for my actions.” She hurried on in a rush. “I understand that they must engender disgust. I release you from your promise to help me find a position. And I cannot thank you enough for risking your life to come after me.”
Danbury took her hand. “Miss Garrett… Lydia, I could never have done otherwise. My dear girl, when you were taken and I thought of the things that might happen… And then we received your brilliant note. I was never so proud of anything in my life. Anyone would have thought I wrote the thing. But then I saw Marshall there with you, and I feared…” He trailed off. “This episode took at least five years off my life.”
“Perhaps you could value each of those years for me, and I could make payment in instalments?”
He chuckled, but as soon as the laugh light in his eyes died he was glancing about the room restlessly. “I must beg you to accept my apologies. I know you did not act without good reason.”
“Not good enough.” Her throat was tight and achy. “Though I do want you to know, I never thought you guilty. I was determined to prove your innocence.”
Another awkward silence filled the space between them. In a tangle of words they both spoke at once. Lydia insisted that Danbury continue.
His features remained clouded. “I must apologize for my forwardness at the ball and again last night. I meant no disrespect.”
Swallowing hard to dislodge the lump in her throat, Lydia rushed to assure him.
“Oh no, sir. I never dreamt you did. Truly.” Lydia broke off. Her hands kneaded the fine shawl Annette had draped her with mercilessly as she continued. “Rosalie Adkins has asked me to stay here as her companion. She felt we worked well together.”
Anguished eyes sought hers. “I beg you to reconsider, Miss Garrett. I know there may be some awkwardness attached to your presence in our party, but surely there are more important things to consider than the opinions of others. I cannot believe you wish to remain in India.”
Lydia could not bear to look into his eyes any more, and turned her gaze to her hands crushing the shawl into submission. “There is little reason for me to return to London. No family and no friends to miss me.”
Danbury covered one of her hands with his. He turned the palm up and examined the cuts and scratches there for a moment. Gently, he raised the hand and brushed his lips across the tender skin.
Fierce heat spiralled through her and she began to tremble. His gaze held hers, and she felt herself falling, sliding into the deep blue pools.
&nb
sp; “You must know how…”
A rustle in the doorway brought his hoarse words to a halt. Lydia snatched her hand free. Harting entered looking flushed. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his hands.
“Mr Harting?”
“I apologize for interrupting you again, Miss Garrett. May I enter?” He closed the door behind him.
“Of course.” Lydia recognized the gleam of excitement in his eye, and her heart quickened.
A disgruntled Danbury stood.
Harting glanced at him. “Pray, do not go. The news I have brought may affect you as well.”
With one eyebrow cocked, Danbury resumed his chair. Harting dragged another seat close to Lydia’s.
He drew close and leaned in, speaking in a conspiratorial tone. “My contact in the Home Office has sent a coded message. It just arrived by way of Mahe. I must return to England as soon as possible. He has an assignment of the utmost importance.”
Danbury nodded. “Legacy should be able to set sail in less than a day. She has already been victualled.”
“Excellent. I have been requested to recruit an agent to help me in this endeavour. Miss Garrett, I hoped you would allow me to prevail upon you to fill this office. I do not believe there will be much danger; it is a simple courier role.”
“Absolutely not. Miss Garrett has done more than her share for England. I refuse to allow her to face such hazards again.”
“She could be a valuable resource. Her wit was a great help in this affair, as it will be in the next.”
“I forbid it.”
Harting’s eyebrow arched in patent challenge. “You are in no position to forbid anything.”
Lydia touched Danbury’s hand. “My Lord.” She kept her voice low. “We both know Mr Harting well enough to realize he would not ask such a thing without having considered all his options.”
Harting nodded his head in acknowledgment of her argument.
“I cannot in good conscience refuse his request. Indeed I have no wish to do so.” She looked from one man to the other. “This adventure has had its share of trials, but I have never felt so… alive.”
The Peacock Throne Page 31
