The Peacock Throne (16 page)

Dr Marshall trooped past in shirtsleeves, weighted down by a number of baskets, clay jars, even a hatchet and a large musket.

Harting turned to address him. “Are you going collecting, Doctor?”

He halted and returned to their party, though his eyes seemed fixed on the lush greenery of the forest. “Yes, there are some amazing specimens on this island. This place must be unknown to natural
philosophers. I've already found a species of coconut that I believe is distinct.” He paused and looked at his audience. “Gentlemen, the heat will drive you mad if you remain in that get-up. For heaven's sake, take off those heavy things. You're dressed for England, not the tropics.”

“Yes, Doctor. You're right.” Lord Danbury gave way without even a token protest.

“If my cronies could see me now.” Harting grinned blissfully as he tore off his jacket.

Lydia turned away discreetly to see their valets looking stricken as they raced across the sand to collect the discarded outer garments.

“They'd be shocked at your bad form, I'm sure.” Danbury rolled up his shirtsleeves and mopped his brow.

With a farewell nod, Dr Marshall headed into the jungle.

“Shocked? They would probably never speak to me again. In fact, they would make a pact to cut me off if I presumed to approach them.” Harting didn't sound especially distressed at the notion.

“Why do you maintain friendships with people of such little depth?” Lydia asked.

“They're not so bad as all that, and we do have a shared history,” Harting shrugged.

“Yet there is more to you than they could ever appreciate.” Lydia again wetted her handkerchief and dabbed at her face.

Danbury followed her example. “Precisely my feeling. For instance, how did you come to be an intelligence agent?”

“That is a long story—one I am not at liberty to share.” Harting seemed to constrict, shrinking in on himself ever so slightly as if consolidating his power should he need to spring.

Lydia looked away towards the ship. She hadn't even asked the question and yet felt as if she had been snubbed. How like Harting to demand unwavering faith and yet mistrust everyone so completely.

“I must admit that when you first revealed yourself I didn't—” Danbury trailed off as if regretting that he'd spoken.

Harting waved away the offence. “You'd be amazed at how effective
it is to dress as a dandy. People underestimate me. They say things they shouldn't. I've cultivated the image since becoming an agent.”

“Now we're getting to it,” Danbury guffawed. “You're hiding behind that silly exterior in the hope that I will let something incriminating slip.”

“I would deny it, but you've caught me out.” Harting held his hands up in mock surrender.

Lydia summoned a feeble smile, but again turned her gaze towards the ship. Danbury was far closer to the truth than he realized. From the corner of her eye she saw him glance her way and hoped that he'd attribute her red face to the bite of the sun.

“Enough about me.” Harting motioned down the shore. “Why don't we explore? There's no great rush to get back to the ship.”

Turning the conversation to inconsequential matters, Lydia and Danbury joined him. The sun glared at them, hot and vivid; only the cooling ocean breeze saved the beach from feeling entirely like a furnace. Lydia gaped at giant boulders strewn along the beach, and enormous palm trees. So different from England; God must surely have an infinite well of creativity to have devised all this.

Her hair kept slipping free of its bonds, as wilful and desirous of a game as a child. Baking in the sun, she grimaced. She was sure to return home with spots not only on her reputation, but also on her skin. They walked and walked, each new vantage point providing some new wonder to be examined and collected. When at last they turned back, Lydia considered removing her half-boots to let the water lap at her feet. But she discarded the notion. She might have no reputation, but that didn't mean she had to act like it. Her own sense of modesty dictated against such a display among gentlemen.

The sun bid its adieu in fiery streaks of brilliance. Danbury posted guards to protect the supplies, and the adventurers returned to
Legacy
for one more night aboard ship.

Lydia eyed Lord Danbury. He seemed to be bearing up well, though obviously restless to make a start. He was a good man, an honourable man. But had his father's murder changed him?
What had he been like before he had been seized by this single-minded determination to track the murderer? A tiny sigh escaped her. It made no difference. After this affair, her usefulness and his obligation would be at an end. She would return to her own world. She obviously had no part or parcel with the world of the
haute ton
that the gentlemen inhabited.

She smoothed her skirts. Until that time, Mr Wolfe deserved justice as surely as the former Lord Danbury. She would see that he received his due.

Morning light found the party headed north along a narrow dirt path that circled the island. In addition to the Longs and the gentlemen's valets, a complement of three sailors and Mr Cabot, the first officer, joined the excursion.

The heat and humidity grew oppressive when they left the beach for the forest. Although sheltered from the sun by the dense foliage, the greenery also served to extinguish any hint of a breeze. Danbury and Harting had abandoned sartorial elegance in favour of practicality. They wore lightweight cotton shirts, buckskin breeches, and sturdy riding boots reaching to the knee.

Lydia was dressed in a simple muslin gown with short sleeves and a single petticoat. Comfortable leather half-boots protected her feet. She tied her hair back, but damp tendrils kept escaping into her eyes. Danielle Long wrapped a scarf about her hair in cunning fashion, keeping it neatly bound up and off her neck. But at Lydia's inquiry into how it was done, she made a face as if she did not understand the request and turned her back.

The trail became increasingly steep and narrow until they came to a cotton plantation. Here the trail petered out altogether.

Mr Long hailed the house, and asked the owner for permission to cross his land. The formality might have been overlooked, but Lord Danbury felt it wisest to foster whatever goodwill was
available. The owner granted his permission willingly enough, but eyed the group speculatively as they passed. His slaves also paused to watch them as they trooped along. Lydia adjusted the knapsack on her shoulder and kept her gaze trained on the path. In single file, they must have looked as if they were on parade. Or perhaps a line of convicts headed for the prison hulks.

The way grew increasingly steep, slowing their pace. Lydia found a stout branch to use as a walking stick to make the climbing easier. She divided her attention between keeping an eye on the thick undergrowth that snatched and plucked at her feet, and looking for a cave. It didn't work very well: she tripped several times.

She wasn't the only one. Rest stops came with increasing frequency as the press of the humidity sought to suffocate them. She sat gasping and gaping, mouth as wide as a frog's as she tried to find some oxygen in the soup that masqueraded as air. An almost desperate yearning to return to
Legacy
's breezy deck plucked at her resolve, fraying it one thread at a time.

All she had to do was turn around. As long as she went downhill she would eventually reach the beach and she would just follow that around until she came to the ship. Instead, sticky with sweat and slightly dizzy, she leaned into her walking stick and climbed.

They fanned out to cover the terrain as thoroughly as possible. Danielle Long took the position in the middle, leading the little donkeys, which were tied together in a line like the camels of a caravan. Her husband brought up the rear to make sure no one strayed or came to grief on the rougher terrain.

Here in the middle of the thick jungle, Mahe seemed to have grown. All at once their task had ballooned out of all proportion. Buoyant confidence evaporated with the realization of how difficult their job might prove. They had sailed thousands of miles to get here, but this island, only thirteen miles by seven, might defeat them.

Luncheon provided an excuse to stop for a time. In spite of the effort hiking required, Anthony could not summon an appetite. Worry clogged his throat, making eating difficult. Might he have simply led the French to the prize they sought? He could not bring himself to consider what he would do if they beat him to the throne and escaped.

He hadn't precisely believed the task would be easy, but now, in the middle of the thick green maze of a forest, the challenge seemed not simply difficult, but impossible.

Energy only slightly renewed by the meal, he stood. It was time to move on. They climbed ever higher up the side of the mountain. Huge granite boulders littered their path, and they had to detour frequently.

Spirits at low ebb, Anthony broke from the forest cover into a clearing. Below him the island spread her green skirts and the sea lapped at her toes. With the exception of the Longs, the group stopped as one, staring in awe at the beauty of the scene. In the open space the breeze reached them again. Anthony raised his face to it gratefully. The sun hung suspended near the horizon. He watched as it settled into the sea, erupting in a blazing glory of gold and ginger and crimson.

“We'll camp here tonight,” Anthony called to Long, who had turned to wait on them. “Twilight's coming on and we ought to set up camp.”

Shrugging, Long dropped his knapsack. A general bustle ensued
as the donkeys were unloaded, and they set about pitching the tents.

Long disappeared, returning some time later with a bunch of yellow fruit shaped like crescent moons. He showed them how to peel back the thick rind and expose a pale, firm flesh inside. He glanced at Harting, who cocked his head, and then at Miss Garrett, but she already had a bite in her mouth.

When she smiled Anthony took a tentative bite. The smooth, sweet fruit took him by surprise. “What are these called?”

“I learned of 'em in Guinea when I was a boatswain's mate. They called fruit like this
bannann
, so that's what I call 'em.”

“It's delicious.” Anthony devoured his and accepted another.

“Thought you folks might like 'em.” Long ducked his head and turned away to other business. A smile tugged up the corners of his mouth, though he seemed to be trying to push it back down. The old fellow seemed pleased that they had liked his offering.

“Miss Garrett, would you be willing to assist me with some notes?”

Agreeable as always, she pulled out a quarto volume and a stub of pencil. They sat a little apart, overlooking the sea while supper was prepared. He dictated his observations of the day's hike, and she dutifully captured the comments. They needed to keep careful track of the ground they had covered to avoid backtracking.

Anthony paused to watch as the sun embraced the sea at the edge of the horizon. Something tight and hard constricted his heart and throat at the same time. He turned his back on the view. He must concentrate on the task at hand. Once he had set matters right, then he could return to his normal life. He would find a young woman to court and settle down to the responsibilities of a landlord.

Firelight framed Miss Garrett's hair in radiance. Bent over her notebook she looked like a Da Vinci Madonna complete with golden glow. A questioning smile bowed her lips as she glanced up at him expectantly.

He scrabbled for something to say. “It was good of you to offer your services in this way. I don't believe I've thanked you properly.”

“Think no more on it. I'm pleased to help in any way I can.”

“I should find some means of thanking you.”

“My Lord, the only thanks I desire is the satisfaction of seeing my cousin's murderer brought to justice.”

“Do you still believe we might succeed?”

She met his scrutiny with a limpid gaze that seemed to pierce through the shadow of his own doubt. “I'm convinced of it.”

“I'm rather glad that you accompanied the expedition. I wondered if it was wise, but you have been a most pleasing travelling companion. Never complaining.” It sounded cold and flat, an accolade to be awarded a servant. But then he could hardly say that she had made him forget all about his vow to find a proper young lady to court.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“Let us leave this for now. Supper should be ready any moment.”

She grinned at him and the Madonna vanished to be replaced by a pixie. “I'm glad you suggested it. I am near to perishing from hunger.”

Anthony's natural sanguinity resurfaced. He would put it all right. One thing at a time. All it required was effort and perseverance.

It had been a long while since Marcus had exerted so much physical effort. He lolled against a rock, utterly spent.

His valet, Charles, sniffed. “Would you like a shave, my Lord?”

Marcus acquiesced immediately. He might be willing to forgo the formality of jacket and waistcoat for the rigours of the climate, but he had no intention of becoming a complete barbarian.

Charles nudged him awake when the meal was announced. Marcus rubbed his cheeks and yawned.
God grant that they find the dashed throne soon
.

He joined the party around the campfire, but conversation lagged, dwindling into nothing once the food had been consumed.
One by one the group drifted to their tents. Mahe's tropical heat had proved a cruel master, draining the energy from the party as if they had been forced through an enormous sieve.

The successive days blurred into a haze of effort and exhaustion. They spent their time in endless trudging up and down, their progress dismally slow. The heat surrounded Marcus like wet woollen blankets, smotheringly thick. To add to the misery, biting insects plagued the party.

A number of small caves were found, each causing a thrill, each causing a delay. The entire group clustered expectantly around these holes in the ground. Most had entrances too small to have allowed the throne passage inside. Even so, in every instance Danbury insisted on a torch, and explored the dank recess as completely as possible. Sometimes this required only a cursory glance. Other times the process took much longer. Each time, Marcus wanted to throttle him.

With each disappointment, Danbury would slump, then breathe deeply and square his shoulders. He ate little and grew hollow-eyed and fractious. Marcus could hardly say any more whether he wanted to hear the cry of discovery or not. Perhaps it had all been a mare's nest and the traitor remained in London sowing the seeds of further treachery.

On the fourth day of searching, Lydia woke and crawled reluctantly from her tent to discover the campsite shrouded in a heavy fog. She could see no more than five or six feet in front of her. The damp chill felt almost shocking after the sweltering heat they had been enduring. A welcome change.

Amidst much waving of arms and stalking about, Lord Danbury conferred with Long, but finally conceded that it would be too dangerous to continue the search with the blanketing haze in place. Mid morning the fog birthed a steady downpour that saturated
everything in sight. The rain wasn't especially cold, but made it impossible to keep a fire going, and with the sun banished by the clouds, the atmosphere grew distinctly cool.

Lydia would never have expected to wish for a return of the glare of the sun, but as she ate a cold lunch of dried fish and fruit, she did. Although at least the rain had driven off the cursed mosquitoes. She scratched discreetly at one of the numerous red welts on her skin.

“Are you regretting that you came?” Lord Danbury settled beside her.

“Yes.” She mock scowled. “But I won't be when we find the throne and catch the murderer.”

“I am in perfect agreement.” He grinned. Rivulets of water streamed from his hat. “Who would have thought such a beautiful place could be so utterly miserable?” He hunched his shoulders inside his coat—to little effect, Lydia guessed, since the coat was soaked through like everything else.

“At least someone looks more miserable than you or I.” Danbury motioned with his chin towards the two valets who crouched beneath a stand of
bannann
leaves. The poor men looked like waterlogged rats. Lydia raised a hand to hide a grin.

“Poor James.” She looked from Danbury to the valet and back again, smiling impishly. “Actually there is little to choose between you.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Danbury put on a show of hauteur. “Madam, I will have you know that the drowned monkey look is the height of fashion this season.”

“Then it is a pity there are no marriageable young misses about to see you in such sartorial splendour.”

“I'm certain they would fight over me given the chance.” Danbury struck a heroic pose, then howled as the movement dumped water from his hat brim down his collar.

Lydia laughed in earnest and Danbury joined her.

Evening descended before the rain wore itself out and moved on. Clothing, blankets, and other sodden supplies were spread
out on nearby shrubbery and tree branches to dry. With all the firewood soaked, they could not get a fire lit to dry things and warm themselves. Lydia resigned herself to spending a restless night in damp clothing.

She rose early, waiting on the sun to return and warm her—resolving not to grumble about the heat ever again. When dawn finally broke, she lifted her face to the light, luxuriating in the warmth. With a grimace, she noted how dark her skin had grown in the previous days.

An image of her mother flitted through her mind. The daughter of an earl—reared in a home where such things as complexion were of paramount interest.

In spite of everything, Lydia hoped—believed—that her mother would not have reviled her choices. She might not appear much of a lady, but she had pursued the course she felt most honourable. If Lydia could retain the regard of only one person in the world, it ought to be her own. At least that was the lesson her parents had taught her. It had kept her in good stead thus far. Pray God she would not regret the decision.

Lydia whirled at the sound of a greeting. Focused on fond memories of her mother, Danielle Long's approach had gone unheeded. Lydia put a hand to her heart as if to slow it. She barely avoided narrowing her eyes. What did the woman want? She had gone out of her way, more than once, to snub Lydia. “I'm sorry, Danielle—you startled me.”

“
Je suis déso
—I apologize, Miss Garrett,” Danielle said. Her hesitant English had a stiff formality about it, making her sound older.

Lydia waited a moment for the woman to continue, but she stood mute. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“We approach
Le Jardin du Roi
. It is the plantation of Pierre-Louis Poiret. He is a most pleasant man.”

“We met Monsieur Poiret in the village,” said Lydia. “He did seem quite pleasant.”

“There is a stream with a…” Danielle hesitated, making a downward motion with her hands. “A water drop?”

“A waterfall?”

“
Oui
, a waterfall. I think perhaps Monsieur Poiret would not mind if we wash there. You will to speak to Lord Danbury of this?”

“I shall be delighted. I would love a good wash.”

“
Oui
, it is a good place. I go there as a child before Monsieur Poiret came.”

Lydia mentioned the matter to Lord Danbury as they ate breakfast. Having lost the previous day to rain, he balked. But when his valet, James, added a rather acerbic opinion on the subject of clean linen, the decision all but made itself.

Mr Long carried a note to the plantation from Lord Danbury, while Danielle stayed behind to lead the group. Shortly after midday they came to a stream. Danielle followed the skipping water for a way until it plunged abruptly into a ravine some thirty feet below.

Lydia helped Danielle hand out lunch.
Bannann
in hand, Lydia peered over the edge of the ravine into the swirling pool below and shivered in anticipation. Despite her resolution of the night, the wilting power of the sun had renewed her longing for anything cool. The prospect of a wash in the crisp, clear water set her skin tingling with the promise of relief.