The Peacock Throne (23 page)

“Danbury.”

Anthony looked up and Dr Marshall motioned to Miss Garrett. She slumped in her chair, sound asleep. Her dinner lay untouched on the plate, though her fingers still loosely grasped the fork.

“What do you think we should do?” asked Harting. “She's absolutely worn out but we can't leave her there.”

Danbury studied the problem. “If we wake her she'll insist on going back to work.”

“Do you think we could move her without waking her?” Harting asked.

“I'll carry her and you open the doors for me.”

Harting moved the side table out of the way and took the fork from her limp fingers. Anthony scooped her up deftly. Her head lolled back and rested against his shoulder. She half mumbled a protest. His heart did an uncomfortable little flip. His breath quickened. It was from fear of waking her, he reassured himself. He waited a moment to make sure she still slept, then made his way carefully to her cabin.

Anthony laid her down gently in her hammock. She didn't stir. Harting covered her with a blanket. Anthony's eyes narrowed as the agent lingered to brush a stray strand of hair away from her mouth.

He rounded on Anthony with a grimace that bordered on a snarl. “If you do not fulfil your bargain…”

Anthony's jaw tightened and he held up a hand. “What do you take me for, man? Have you learned nothing of me in the past months? I will find a suitable position for her when we return to England.”

Harting lowered his head as if abashed and withdrew the insult. “Sorry, Danbury. It is just seeing her thus.” He waved a hand at her still form and Danbury could commiserate. Lying there she seemed impossibly fragile—even though he knew her to be made of sterner stuff than the old oak of
Legacy
's hull.

“Is Miss hurt?”

Anthony started at the soft question. He had forgotten the slave girl. She watched them with wide, dark eyes. Pain and exhaustion etched her features as if her face were made of something harder than flesh.

“She needs to rest.”

“We will have Dr Marshall come check on you both as soon as he is at liberty,” Harting whispered.

They tiptoed from the cabin, shutting the door behind them.

A pair of sailors walked by, conversing in gale force tones. Anthony shushed them, explaining that Miss Garrett had fallen asleep. Abject in their apologies, the men quickly spread the word. All evening the crew tiptoed when they came near the greater cabin.

Anthony watched the reactions with amusement. As a lovely young woman, Miss Garrett had already become something of a pet among the crew. A few older hands had clung to the old chestnut that women were bad luck on a ship, but now the tales of her adventure on Mahe, her courage during battle, and her compassionate care for their wounded endeared her to them all the more. Every man-jack among them was determined she should have her rest and whatever else they might provide for her.

He rather felt the same way. How had a girl of dubious reputation and embarrassed circumstances managed to captivate the interest of the sons of two noble and ancient houses, as well as a captain and an entire crew? All without resorting to flirting and flattery.

He again pictured Harting smoothing the tendril of hair from her face. The tenderness in the gesture had been palpable. Anthony's brow furrowed. He had come to like Harting, but perhaps the man would bear watching. After all, Anthony had got Miss Garrett embroiled in all this. It was incumbent upon him to provide her some measure of protection from unwanted advances.

Lydia woke at dawn—a little dazed, but ravenous. Sitting up, she winced as overextended muscles made their protests felt. She must have fallen asleep while eating, and Dr Marshall must have found someone to move her out of the way.

A list of wounded men filed through her mind. They would need help with breakfast.
Mmm, breakfast
. Her stomach growled. She changed out of her filthy blood-spattered dress. Another gown ruined. She daydreamed of a real bath with hot water and soap, but made do with a wash from the tepid water in her basin. At least she could don a clean dress.

Lydia knelt by Sophie's inert figure and smoothed damp hair back from a clammy forehead. The girl was feverish and moaned feebly at the touch. Lydia wet a handkerchief and wiped the girl's face. She needed something to help bring the fever down. She would ask the doctor. Stiffly she straightened and hastened down to the orlop.

Dr Marshall looked exhausted. Dark circles ringed his eyes, standing in stark relief against the paleness of his skin. His hair stood on end, proclaiming that he had run his fingers through it many times. She explained how Sophie had come to be wounded and brought on board with them and he promised to prepare an embrocation for her, but waved away Lydia's attempts to help. “You need more rest. Their shipmates will assist them now that most of the cleaning and patching has been done.”

On deck, Lydia inhaled the crisp, pre-dawn breeze, gratefully
filling her lungs with the fresh air. The scents of the sickroom seemed stuck in her throat. She paused for a moment to enjoy the quiet stillness of the morning. In fact, it was unusually quiet; the crew must be subdued after the battle.

“Ah, Miss Garrett, you're up. I hope yer feelin' fine.”

The boisterous greeting made her jump. She turned to the speaker, one of the sailors. “Yes, thank you. I am.”

“I'm glad to hear it, Miss. We was all worried about you.”

“Worried about me? Why ever for?”

“Why, on account of you workin' yerself to the bone, and faintin' from pure exhaustion.”

Another sailor called to the first. “Angus, you daft mule, be quiet or you'll wake Miss.” He came around the mast and stopped. “Oh, Miss, you're up. I hope this great gob didn't wake you. How are you feeling?”

Lydia had to laugh. “I feel fine, thank you. I'm not sure what you were told, but I only fell asleep.”

“And you had every right to, Miss. We showed those Frenchies not to mess about with honest, God-fearing Englishmen. Gave 'em what for, we did. I reckon they saw you and thought we had an angel on board helping to fend 'em off.”

“I reckon they was right if they did,” said Angus. “You saved my mate Liam, getting him below decks smart-like. Then you patched him up. I never seen a neater job. He's already back in his own berth. He said as how he might have died if it hadn't been for you. You ever need anything from old Angus Robb, you just ask.”

Lydia blushed, fumbling for a response. “You are very kind. I just tried to help where I could.”

“Aye, well, there ain't many high-born ladies of quality what would risk their necks. That took pluck. Like I said, you ask if you ever need anything.”

Lydia cast about for a way to extract herself. “Sophie needs something nourishing to eat. Could you please check with cook and see if breakfast has been prepared?”

“Right'o, Miss. We'll bring it up for you whenever it's done.”

“Thank you,” she said, making her escape.

Calls of “Good morning, Miss,” and “How are you feelin'?” followed her progress through the ship. She smiled and greeted each man courteously. By the time she reached the great cabin, she was near to running like some poor hunted beast. She closed the door and leaned against it to shut out the hullabaloo caused by her passage.

Lord Danbury glanced up at her entrance; he must have come in while she was on deck.

“Miss Garrett, good morning. I trust you slept well.”

“Yes, thank you.” Lydia abandoned the door. “You are awake early.”

He stood, vacating the seat and offering it to her before pulling up another for himself.

Lydia took the chair willingly. She would not betray her discomfort, but every muscle ached. Even the strenuous efforts of their sojourn on Mahe had failed to prepare her body for the exertions of a sea battle.

“You were right about the men. They seem to have given me credit for our escape.”

“Yes, I heard them. They are all smitten.”

Lydia shook her head. “Perhaps it is because I have been the only woman on board.”

Lydia and Anthony jumped as the door burst open and Angus trundled in, carrying a tray loaded with a breakfast of boiled oats. Apparently,
Legacy
's cook did not ascribe to the notion that invalids should be fed broth and light liquids.

“Here you are, Miss; just as I promised,” said Angus grinning jovially.

“Thank you. If this doesn't stick to Sophie's ribs and get her on her feet again, nothing will.”
If only from a desire to avoid eating any more of this tasteless stuff.
Lydia smiled and accepted the tray.

“Now, don't you worry none, Miss. A proper breakfast is coming for you and the gentlemen. My mate Liam, what you patched up, is
bringing it up when it's done. You deserve better than this here and we'll make sure you get fed right.”

Lydia had to admit relief. “You are very kind, but please don't annoy cook by asking for special dishes for me.”

“You've nothing to worry 'bout on that score. Cook is happy to do what he can and he told me particular that you're to ask for anything you want and he'll get it for you if he can. If we don't have it aboard we'll get it special when we get to India. If you don't mind waiting, that is.”

“I am perfectly satisfied with whatever he makes.”

“Ain't it just like you?” Angus grinned. “Sweetness itself. Not wanting anybody to trouble over you. He's as good as got your message. I'll tell him it myself.” Knuckling his forehead, he closed the door softly behind him.

Lydia shook her head at the closed door. This sort of behaviour could easily become trying.

“Give them a few days and the adulation will die down a bit,” Danbury said. His eyes positively twinkled. Given half a chance, he would chuckle.

Lydia glared at him. “It's unnerving to be thrust up on such a high pedestal. I'll be lucky not to fall off and land on
someone
.” Pleased with her parting shot, Lydia flounced away to feed Sophie breakfast.

“Were you able to plot a direct course for Calcutta, Captain?” Marcus asked.

“Aye, we have provisions enough to see us to India. We were lucky to have the chance to water and victual on Mahe.”

“I'm relieved to hear it. Time may still be of the essence in this matter.” Marcus adjusted his cravat. Why had he said that? He wasn't relieved. It felt as if the proverbial sword of Damocles was suspended directly above his head.

“What do you plan to do when we arrive?” Danbury asked.

“I shall approach the Governor-General and lay the whole story before him. A great deal will depend on how he receives us.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Lord Wellesley will undoubtedly act. He is a great political friend to William Pitt. He has been effective militarily in India, but he can be… mercurial. The rumour was that he grew petulant when his victory over Tippoo Sultan only netted him a marquessate. He'd had his cap set at the Order of the Garter.”

“Will he be an ally?”

“I'm no fortune-teller,” Marcus sighed. “We must show him that it is in his interests to ally with us.”

Campbell rubbed his hands together. “I tell you, gentlemen, I'll be able to dine out for years on the tales of this particular voyage. Though whether anyone will believe me is another thing.”

Marcus wished he could feel as optimistic. He had ever struggled with second-guessing the decisions he made in the heat of the moment. If only he had been able to capture the traitor—the man had actually been on the island with them and yet he was no closer to even knowing his identity. Disappointment tasted sour in his mouth.

“Sail away, sir.” A young man knuckled his forehead as he made his report.

Campbell stood. “Excuse me a moment, gentlemen.”

Marcus and Danbury set to rehashing the final days on Mahe. The euphoria of escape had been usurped by frustration that they had not captured the murderer and the mood on board ship had begun to grow fractious. Though he made no mention of it, Danbury seemed pinched, the force of his ebullient personality diminished. Lost opportunities—the world was aswim with them. Marcus shoved aside his regrets. Wallowing would avail naught.