The Peacock Throne (25 page)

“Hot enough.” Anthony pulled out a handkerchief and swabbed his face.

Miss Garrett sipped at her glass, looking as cool as if she were made of marble—like everything else in this shrine to commerce. Anthony strode to the windows. They stood open, but little in the way of a breeze stirred the drapery. “I may very well strangle the next man who tells me I must wait before I can see this business through.”

Harting raised his glass and a single eyebrow in sardonic salute.

The door opened again and the clerk reappeared. “Lord Wellesley asked that you meet him in the gardens. If you'll follow me.”

They found Lord Wellesley holding an architectural plan up to the building and giving the overseer marching orders. Anthony scrutinized Wellesley while he had the chance: friend or foe?

He was as tall and thin as a whippet, his broad forehead so high he was nearly bald. White hair contrasted sharply with thick, dark eyebrows. His nose was long and thin, perfect for looking down upon lesser mortals. And his mouth was delicate, almost feminine.

The clerk approached close enough to be seen and then backed away again. Wellesley finished his conversation then turned to them.

“Miss Garrett, Lord Danbury, Mr Harting.” With infinite courtesy, he greeted each in turn. “I am Lord Wellesley. I understand you have arrived in Calcutta this very day with some urgent matter to discuss.”

“Yes, sir.” Harting produced his letter of introduction from William Pitt.

A single eyebrow went up as the Governor-General read the letter. Folding it neatly, he returned it to Harting. “Perhaps you would care to join me in my office. It appears the nature of our conversation should remain confidential.”

He offered Miss Garrett his arm and ushered them back inside, through another labyrinth of corridors and into what must be his private sanctum. A large desk guarded one end of the room with a couple of stiff-looking chairs standing sentry in front of it. Wellesley
bypassed this area, leading them instead to a more informal seating area made up of several couches. “Would you care for something to drink?”

“Your clerk was kind enough to have refreshments brought to us earlier,” said Danbury.

“Part of the trick to overcoming the heat here is to make sure you drink enough,” said Lord Wellesley. He rang for more refreshments. “Now, precisely how may I be of service to you?”

Harting took the lead. “Actually, we are here to be of some service to you.” He carefully outlined the story of their adventures in detail, pausing only when a servant came in with drinks. The Governor-General interrupted rarely and the few questions he asked proved his attentiveness.

The telling of the tale took the greater part of an hour. At its conclusion, Wellesley leaned back in his seat. “So you've brought the Peacock Throne to India. It seems most irregular. Why not take it to England, where it could be guarded from every Nawab who got it in his head to set up a new dynasty?”

Harting took a long draught from his glass. “We felt the best course of action would be to pull Bonaparte's fangs by returning the throne to India ourselves. If, as a British gesture of friendship, we repatriate the throne, it loses its power to rally troops to another's cause.”

The Governor-General tapped his lower lip with one finger. “I fear you may overestimate the Oriental mind. They embrace any excuse to cause trouble. I shall have to consider this matter carefully. We must make no mistakes for the French to take advantage of.” He sighed and sat silent for a moment, tap-tapping on his lip.

Anthony struggled to keep the sneer within him from rising to the surface.

Wellesley's gaze returned from the middle distance with an almost audible snap and focused square on Harting. “Perhaps I have been too hasty. This may be for the best.” He nodded. “Yes, Pitt was
wise to place his confidence in you. This could be just the signal we need. We're hosting a ceremony and ball here on the twenty-sixth to inaugurate Government House. I intended to display Tippoo Sultan's throne at that time. We will show off the Peacock Throne at the same time. It will be a clear symbol of British dominance to all the native princes.”

Anthony ground his teeth. He had the same sinking sensation he'd had as a boy when he leaped from the roof of the stables and discovered he could not fly after all.

Surely Marcus had heard wrong. God grant that the man wasn't that thick-headed. He concealed his anxiety behind the mask he had cultivated so long. For a languid moment he examined his breeches and plucked a stray hair from his knee. Only then did he turn his gaze to the Governor-General's. “I'm afraid that won't work, my Lord. Rather than avert a crisis, you tempt uprising.”

“Calcutta is well protected by the garrison at Fort William.” Wellesley's cheeks and the tip of his aristocratic nose turned cerise. He patently loathed those who argued with him.

Too bad
, thought Marcus grimly.
I'm not one of your lap dogs to be bullied or bribed into submission.
“Calcutta is not the only British outpost in the country.”

Danbury interrupted with the force of an explosion. “You'll not lay a hand on the throne if your intention is to rub the faces of the Indians in defeat. Such an attitude would, would—”

Marcus cut in smoothly. “The spy could position his puppet as the salvation of India and begin what would amount to a revolution. A mob could be storming Government House in a matter of a few hours. We may be better armed but we are vastly outnumbered. If the rajas band together we haven't a hope of survival. The French would have accomplished all they set out to do.”

Danbury's chin stuck out at a pugnacious angle. “My father was
entrusted with the care of the throne and I intend to see it returned to those who have the right to claim it. I am not a thief.”

Marcus could not recall his Lordship embracing such a sentiment before, but he swallowed any urge to smile.

“So what do you propose?” Wellesley sat back in his seat with the air of one who has washed his hands of an affair and does not much care what is decided.

And here was the rub. What
were
they to do with the great monstrosity? Marcus exhaled through his nose. They ought to have chucked it into the Indian Ocean when they had the chance. Silence reigned as they considered the complexities of the case.

Miss Garrett cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I do not wish to speak out of turn, but I believe the most practical course of action would be generosity.” She looked to Marcus as if seeking support, but he had no notion what she meant. He shrugged minutely and shook his head.

She continued. “What I mean is, why not adapt Lord Wellesley's idea of displaying it at the ball? We can announce that we are returning a great treasure to India. It could be presented as a gesture of friendship between England and the princely states, rather than as a wedge to divide them.”

“Yes.” Wellesley set to tapping his lip again. “I can see a number of advantages to the idea. Our intentions would be clear, so the rabble cannot be roused by fiery speeches and innuendo. They will be forced to steal the thing if they want to raise a pretender to the throne like Tippoo Sultan.”

“It would also make it seem we are unaware of the threat still posed by the French agent,” said Danbury.

Marcus smiled wickedly. “We can set a trap and lure the spy into trying to steal the throne. We will present him with an attractive time for an attempted theft. He will know where the throne is to be, and we can arrange to make it seem we are quite lax, and it is loosely guarded. We shall be able to set the stage rather than wait for our opponent to act. Well done, Miss Garrett.”

Miss Garrett flushed, her eyes gleaming almost as brightly as they had before the slave girl had died. It was good to see the animation returning to her features. Like seeing Galatea come to life.

“Then it is settled. We have a week to prepare. I'll keep a company guarding the throne at all times, in case they decide to strike sooner. I think it unlikely though. We will have the spy in a nice neat net, and when we've trussed him, I shall have the fun of feeding him to the sharks.” Wellesley stood. “Where is the throne now?”

“Aboard
Legacy
. We thought it best to consult you before trying to bring it ashore,” Marcus said.

“Just so. Well, we will have to make quite sure of its safety. Let me round up a few good men and a stout cart. I think I shall go with them. Will you be returning to your ship?”

“Yes, sir,” Danbury said.

“Good. Then I should like you to show me this remarkable throne. I want to know what all the fuss is about.”

“We would be happy to show you, sir, but there is one other matter.”

“Yes?” A note of impatience tinged his tone for the first time.

“We would like to be in on the planning and capture of the French agent,” Harting said.

Wellesley considered. “I suppose it's fitting. You have strung them along this far. Taking away your victory would hardly be sporting.”

As they waited for the cart to be brought round and the men to assemble, Lord Wellesley seemed to become a different man. He was urbane and charming, certainly, but a well-mannered façade obscured the greater force of his personality.

“Have you made arrangements for lodging?”

“No, sir. Do you have any suggestions? We can always stay aboard
Legacy
if decent lodging is difficult to come by,” said Lord Danbury.

“I should be glad to have you stay at Government House. It is time we had a building that reflects England. It has been rather a
project of mine. There are a few things yet to be completed, but for the most part construction is finished.”

“We should be delighted to stay. We were quite impressed with the architecture.”

“We shall be happy to have you. It is always a pleasure to catch up on the news from home. In fact, Miss…”

“Garrett,” said Danbury.

“Yes, I apologize, Miss Garrett. There is surely no need for you to return to the ship. I know a young lady who would enjoy meeting you. Mrs Adkins is a widow, but she has been a great help to me, acting as my hostess in my wife's absence. She is always desirous of new and pleasant company.”

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. How dare Wellesley send Miss Garrett to fraternize with his mistress?

All innocence and goodwill, Miss Garrett smiled prettily. “I should be delighted to meet her, I'm sure.”

The blood trickled down the back of Marcus's throat. He could not protest. He had known when manipulating Miss Garrett to his purpose that her virtue would be suspect. Before it had not seemed to matter when placed beside Pitt's imperatives. But now…

Miss Garrett departed. A moment later the clerk announced the carriage and the gentlemen made good their departure. Wellesley did not speak again until they were seated in the carriage. “I don't intend to be impertinent, but may I know how Miss Garrett came to join your expedition, and her role?”

Fighting the impulse to bristle, Anthony related the story.

“Ah, I see. And do you think her quite trustworthy? Did you confirm the source of her sudden affluence?”

Harting sprang to Miss Garrett's defence. “Indeed, I helped her
secure the small income which she now claims. In all things she has acted above reproach. I can vouch for her loyalty.”

Anthony regarded Harting. The man's familiar tone bordered on the impudent. His attentions towards her had always been marked. Maybe if Anthony failed to produce employment for her, the man would press her into some sort of liaison. His nostrils flared at the notion. It could very well explain why Harting had been hounding him to know what provision he had made. Blood pulsed at his temples. The rogue was plotting his seductions.

“She is priceless and unique,” said Anthony. He regaled Wellesley with tales of Miss Garrett's courage and compassion during their adventures.

“It sounds as if this young woman has uncommon good sense, which makes her rarer than I first thought. So which of you fine young bucks is bedding her?”

Anthony blinked. He could not speak, could not move. If he did he would surely throttle the Governor-General and be slapped behind bars. His glance found Harting's and to his surprise found no gloating smirk resting there. Instead, Harting was flushed and breathing through his nostrils. His hands kneaded the knobbed head of his cane.

Perhaps Anthony had misjudged the man.

Silence reigned in the carriage for a long, long moment. “Come now, surely it would be foolish to let such an extraordinary feminine specimen escape you.” Lord Wellesley grinned mischievously. “Ah, well, here we are.”