The Peacock Throne (18 page)

“Please excuse me.” Setting aside her tea, Lydia stood and hurried after Sophie. It was strange, but something urged her to trust the girl. Madame Laurent's huff of disdain followed her as she hastened into the gardens. No doubt she thought Lydia was on her way to a tryst with her lover, whoever she assumed that to be.

It didn't matter. What mattered was locating the throne. She stumbled over an upturned root and slowed. She had not the faintest notion where the nutmeg trees grew. Hoping Sophie was nearby she called out, “Hello?” Her voice sounded tentative even to her own ears.

She opened her mouth to try again when a hand gripped her arm. She gasped and opened her mouth to scream before she recognized Sophie in the moonglow.

“This way, Miss.” Sophie tugged on her arm.

A sharp rebuke died on Lydia's lips. They halted beneath a stand of trees and Sophie held her finger to her mouth. Lydia nodded and rubbed her arms. Mist pooled and puddled around them, gathering in the hollows and snagging on the tree limbs.

A voice hissed behind them and Lydia whirled round.

“
C'est elle
?”

Sophie nodded and gave Lydia a little push forward, and then replied in French. “She's a good lady. Kind. I think we can trust her.”

A large African man loomed away from the shadow of the trees and Lydia wanted to hide behind Sophie. Instead she stood as straight as she could and met the searching, dark-eyed gaze.

“You're looking for the caves?”

“
Oui
.” Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She rummaged through the baggage of her mind for her disused French.

“This will cause trouble.”

“I'm sorry for any inconvenience. I would not press, but it's most important.”

“We do not want you to keep looking.”

Lydia's stomach churned and she feared she would lose her dinner. Still she straightened and raised her chin. “Who is ‘we'?”

Sophie intervened, impatience colouring her voice. “We don't have to fight. We can help each other.”

She drew them to a cluster of wide stumps and warily Lydia sat.

Lydia sent up a silent prayer for guidance.

Sophie reverted to English, perhaps because she could tell Lydia would be more comfortable in her own language. “This my brother Emmanuel. He and two others run away from his master near a month ago. That man is wicked cruel. He… Never mind, you don' care 'bout that. They been hidin' in the caves and I think I know what you after.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You help these men escape the island on your ship, I'll tell you where it is.”

“How could you possibly—?”

Sophie shook her head impatiently. “It's a great seat covered in jewels.”

Lydia's mouth fell open and she closed it with a snap. “If you know where it is why not just take it for yourselves?”

Sophie looked at her as if she were a bit simple. “How a slave explain where they get jewels? We can't eat 'em. A throne is no use to us—not unless we crown a king of slaves.”

“Of course.” Lydia held up a hand.

Sophie still eyed her as if reassessing her capability. “Hire a cart and oxen from Monsieur Poiret to carry your supplies. The throne is too big for donkeys. Tell him you have not found what you sought and you are goin' home. I will meet you when you are away from the house and take you to the cave. But you mus' take my brother
and the others with you. No more slaves.” She turned to her brother and spoke rapidly in a language that Lydia couldn't even guess at.

When Sophie had completed her speech, Lydia licked her lips and spoke in French. “I cannot promise. It's not my decision to make alone.”

Emmanuel shifted restlessly and she hurried on. “I will tell the gentlemen what you've said. I think they will be amenable. Whatever they decide, I vow to keep your confidence. No one else will know of our meeting or what you have told me.”

Sophie and Emmanuel looked at one another for a long moment. Finally Sophie turned to Lydia. “Give me your answer tonight.”

Lydia returned to the veranda just as the men emerged from the house. She wandered over to the edge of the porch hoping to draw one of her comrades near and confide her news.

Far below in the natural cove overlooked by the plantation, a ship lay at anchor. A sickly lump settled in the pit of her stomach.

“That is not
Legacy
, is it?” Lydia gestured towards the ship.

“No, it can't be
Legacy
. It's too large.” Danbury joined her, squinting through the darkness. “It looks more like…” His face paled as a breeze caught the flag at her mainmast and snapped it to life. “It is a French ship of the line.”

Marcus surged towards the railing. He stared hard through the gloom. Confound it, they were right. He struck the rail with his open palm and swallowed a curse. What were the Frogs doing? Were they unloading men to begin a search? He needed a spyglass.

Miss Garrett edged closer. “I must—”

“Is something amiss, my friends?” Their host hovered at his shoulder.

Marcus plastered on a smile full of bonhomie. He nudged Anthony in the ribs. “Nothing to fear. We're at peace with ol' Boney.” He turned to his host. “Our nations have been at war so long it's difficult to remember peace has been declared.”

“Do warships often put into this harbour?” asked Danbury.

Poiret peered down the mountain. “Usually they put in at Établissement.”

He took Miss Garrett's hand and raised it to his lips. “You have no cause for fear here,
ma chère
. Even if the war has recommenced I bear Bonaparte and his ilk no friendship. That rabble dispossessed me of my rightful lands and title. I will not allow them to take you.”

Miss Garrett made her curtsy and thanked Poiret sweetly, even as he continued to hold her hand.

Marcus clapped him on the back, perhaps with a tad too much force since the other man staggered forward a step. “I'd be most grateful for a touch more of that claret.”

“Of course.” Poiret released Miss Garrett and led the way to a pleasant seating area.

The Laurents and Mr Cabot excused themselves, pleading weariness.
Now to be rid of their host.

Marcus rather liked Poiret, but he needed to discuss developments with his companions, and he couldn't do that in the presence of a Frenchman, no matter how disaffected.

The hour grew later and later still. Finally, Marcus could stand no more.

“Another glass with you, sir.”

When Poiret made to stand, Marcus waved him back.

“Allow me to pour.”

At the table he pulled a tiny vial from his waistcoat pocket. A few drops in the Frenchman's glass would be all that was required. Marcus handed the drugged drink to Poiret with silent apologies. Their host would suffer an aching head in the morning, but no worse.

In but a few moments, Poiret's words began to slur and he looked a trifle dazed. Another moment and his head slumped forward and he began to snore. Marcus called for one of the servants and had him taken off to bed.

Danbury spoke as soon as the slave had manoeuvred the staggering Frenchman into the house. “Who would have conceived that they would have access to a ship of the line?”

Miss Garrett sat forward in her seat. “My Lord—”

Marcus leaned towards Danbury. He had no desire for any of the household to hear this conversation. “We must consider our course of action. There could be as many as six hundred men on that ship and we have not a third that number. Is it feasible to continue the search or should we flee?”

Miss Garrett held up her hand. “My—”

“I hate to abandon the search, but we can't hold out against such odds. Perhaps we should leave tonight? They won't know where we are so soon, but do we wish to tempt fate?”

Miss Garrett rose and planted herself between the two. “Listen to me.”

Anthony scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He needed to do something to stimulate thought. “You're certain she knows what we seek?”

Seated primly again, Miss Garrett inclined her head. “I refuse to believe there is more than one jewelled throne hidden on this island. Perhaps she came across it when searching out a place for the men to hide from their master.”

He shook his head. “All she wants in return is that we take these men off the island with us?”

“We must pledge that they will never be returned to slavery.”

Anthony snorted. “I can agree to those terms readily. If it means getting the throne I'll buy them an Admiral's commission.”

“That would be a feat.” Harting sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “But we must consider. If we aid these slaves we will in essence be stealing.”

Miss Garrett paled and then two blotches of colour smeared her cheeks. “As one who was considered no more than chattel by certain of my relations—”

Harting put up a hand. “I'm not defending the institution of slavery. I am a friend to Mr Wilberforce. But we must consider the implications. If we agree to this, we will be unable to seek aid from any of the landholders in the area. With the French here in such numbers we must evaluate the hazard. Perhaps we ought to abandon the notion of removing the throne from the island.”

Anthony vaulted to his feet. “And leave the throne to these murderers?”

“Lower your voice, sir.” Harting's nostrils flared. “What are we to do with the blasted thing once we've got hold of it? Lead them on a merry chase back to England?”

Anthony's lips curled back in a snarl. He'd had enough of Harting's supercilious presumption. “Why not? I don't give a curse for the throne other than as bait.”

“
Legacy
is no match for a ship of the line. And the great ships don't travel alone. She's not here by chance, and I would wager she has her wolf pack nearby. We cannot play act that we are the hunters any longer.”

Blood pulsing in his ears, Anthony moved towards Harting.

Miss Garrett's hand on his arm pulled him up short. “We have difficulties enough without being at odds with one another.” She looked directly into Anthony's eyes and he sighed.

She focused upon Harting. “You once told us the French intended to spark rebellion by returning the throne to India and setting up a puppet.”

He nodded.

“What if we pull the fuse from their plot by returning the throne ourselves? We could call it a goodwill gesture from the British nation or some such. You'll know how to characterize the matter.”

Anthony opened his mouth to protest, but before he could utter a word she had turned back to him. Her hand still rested on his arm and the grip tightened. “My Lord, you know that I desire the murderer's capture above all. But we cannot complete that task if we are slaughtered on this island. We must escape if we can and try for him another time.”