The Peacock Throne (26 page)

Captain Campbell welcomed the Governor-General aboard with all the pomp and ceremony he could muster on short notice. The fanfare was mercifully curtailed by Wellesley's eagerness to see the throne.

Deep in the hold, Anthony took a crowbar and removed several of the slats from the crate containing the throne. Wellesley himself removed some of the weeds that padded the crate and peered in. He motioned for the light to be brought closer. Gold and jewels
glittered enticingly in the spare light of the oil lamp. Pulling his head from the opening, Wellesley cleared his throat.

“Hmm, yes, I see. Quite aside from its political value, this must be worth an astronomical sum.” He leaned back into the opening. “It seems to call to one, doesn't it?”

Lydia found Mrs Adkins plucking a melancholy air on a small mandolin.

A statuesque beauty, Mrs Adkins' golden hair gave the appearance of luxurious length, even bound and dressed up off her neck. Her dress set off a graceful figure to perfection. The blue of the fabric, a few shades lighter than her eyes, made them look all the more vivid.

She inspected Lydia as if sizing up a rival—one she was confident of crushing in short order.

They circled each other in polite small talk.

“What has brought you to India?” asked Mrs Adkins at last.

Lydia picked her words with care. “I lost my cousin to a murderer, the same man who killed Lord Danbury's father.”

“Oh my.” Mrs Adkins raised a dainty hand to her mouth. “How dreadful. I knew him in London. A very nice man I always thought. And you are his son's… associate?”

Lydia nodded mutely.

“I suppose you have a chaperone.”

Lydia shook her head. “Character is best demonstrated when there is no watchful eye to force one to do right. I am no one's courtesan.”

One of Mrs Adkins' eyebrows shot up. “You must have done a great many interesting things.”

Lydia hesitated. Was this a veiled barb?

Mrs Adkins seemed to note Lydia's consternation, and her cheeks coloured as well. “If I intend an insult, you shall be in no doubt
about it.” A smile broke through at the absurdity of the threat. An instant later Lydia was laughing with her.

Lydia collected herself. “We seem to be sniping at one another for no good reason.”

Mrs Adkins reached for the glass at her elbow and sipped. “I am so accustomed to fending off supercilious busybodies I have begun to leap to the conclusion that every woman who arrives in Calcutta will try to take her pound of flesh from my person.”

Lydia swallowed. Dear heavens, she had been defending her own reputation when the entire time she was in the presence of Wellesley's mistress.

“May I offer a bit of advice? The harridans around here can be… unkind.” Pain lurked deep in the lady's eyes, and Lydia knew she was speaking from the heart of her experience. “Construct a small fiction. Say that one of the gentlemen is your guardian or some such. Your life will be easier.”

Lydia bit her lip. Perhaps such a tale would stave off the rumourmongers. But her conduct gave her no cause for embarrassment. Perhaps it was time to refuse to be embarrassed.

“Well, now that we are to be friends, perhaps you will tell me something of yourself.”

Lydia shared her story willingly since it seemed to distract Mrs Adkins.

“The little lost heiress!” Mrs Adkins clapped her hands delightedly at the conclusion of the tale.

“Hardly an heiress,” Lydia protested through her smile. “My parents were as poor as church mice and I never had a claim on my mother's family.”

“Nonsense. I shall make up a lovely story for you. You have the beginnings of a very nice novel in your tale, but it must have a happy ending. I'll have it no other way.”

Lydia could not help but laugh.

“Perhaps one of your gentlemen…”

The blood seemed to freeze in Lydia's veins. She shied away from
the insidious notion. Harbouring any such ridiculous hopes would only invite heartache. “It's out of the question, I assure you.”

Mrs Adkins shrugged, apparently unperturbed by Lydia's harshness. “And now you are in this very unique position—able to travel the world. If the proper misses of London society knew what they were missing—”

The tramp of booted feet sounded in the hall, and they paused in their conversation.

Lord Wellesley pushed through the door, followed closely by Danbury and Harting. “M'dear, you look in exceptionally good spirits. I thought Miss Garrett might be good company for you.”

“You were very right, sir. She is a charming young woman and I thank you for sending her to me.”

Wellesley patted her hand. “I have a few more guests for you. May I present the Earl of Danbury and the Honourable Marcus Harting.”

Both gentlemen bowed.

“I am charmed to meet you both. Lord Danbury, you have my sincere condolences on your father's passing.”

“You are very kind. He is sorely missed.”

“I imagine so. He was one of the few who welcomed me in London, and I always appreciated his kind treatment. Please, won't you sit? I'm sure you're dreadfully thirsty after your exertions.” She rang for refreshments.

Lord Wellesley excused himself, citing other pressing concerns. They spent the balance of the afternoon in Mrs Adkins' company until the time came to dress for dinner and they were shown to guest rooms.

Lydia's chamber was lovely. Decorated in a formal style, it was saved from pretension by the liberal use of beautiful Indian silks and native flowers, which gave the room an exotic flavour.

Lydia pulled off her sweltering garments and, after a quick wash, she exchanged wool stockings for the cooler luxury of silk ones, and allowed herself to be pushed into a chair in front of the vanity so a maid could dress her hair.

Despite her best efforts, she found herself unprepared for the arch looks and knowing scorn that were sure to come. It rankled that any insolent fool might question her virtue and she had little recourse. When they'd left London, no one had anticipated this detour. Lydia had certainly never prepared for the possibility of having to defend her honour to a host of strangers.

The maid, Annette, cleared her throat pointedly and Lydia yanked her attention back to the looking glass. She regarded her reflection sceptically. She was in good looks. The maid had pulled the hair back from her face in a classic Grecian style, banding it with narrow white ribbons and securing the ends in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Some of the curls escaped, framing Lydia's face and kissing her neck.

She met the girl's eye in the mirror. “You've done wonders.”

Annette curtsied. “Thank you, Miss.”

From down the hall a sonorous gong announced dinner. Lydia jumped from her seat. Her stomach churned as if setting up to make butter. Wistful thoughts of remaining in her room with the windows open to welcome in the evening breeze beguiled her imagination.

As the girl did up the last button, Lydia stepped into a pair of slippers. She turned around for an inspection. Annette smoothed a hair back into place and smiled. With that glowing recommendation, Lydia placed a penny in the maid's hand and hastened downstairs. She could not afford to be late and give Calcutta's denizens another reason to gossip.

Following dinner, the Governor-General's guests were treated to a concert by a violinist. Marcus watched Miss Garrett swaying minutely in her seat. Colour high, lips slightly parted, fingers unconsciously moving to the music, her gaze rapturously intent on the musician—she was a vision to behold.

He was not the only one taking note. Several of the men in the room openly studied her. Heat rose beneath his cravat, until—blasphemy—he wanted to rip it off.
Lecherous brutes
. He turned slightly in his seat to catch a better view of her audience. They looked like wolves sizing up a toothsome lamb.

The song ended and she returned his gaze, flashing a dazzling smile in response. Marcus revised his earlier opinion. He had done the other gentlemen in the room an injustice. They could hardly be blamed for admiring her. Luckily, she had the good sense to disregard their unwelcome attention. He always had believed her to be possessed of excellent sense.

In truth, Miss Garrett appeared to have no notion of the effect she was having on the gentlemen of Calcutta. As the violinist began his next selection, she once more turned towards the music with that whimsical half-smile and closed her eyes.

His eyes narrowed and he turned to find Danbury's face. There his Lordship was, with a pretty little thing to his right, but he paid her no mind. Like so many others, his eyes were fastened on Miss Garrett. Could it be that he had procured no employment for her by design? Perhaps the blackguard wanted to see her destitute, in a position of dependence. When her circumstances had been sufficiently reduced, she would be at his mercy.

Marcus could not release the tension in his jaw, but gave vent to his feelings by plucking a bloom from the nearest arrangement and shredding it. He was being ridiculous. His attention ought to be on the French spy, not Miss Garrett, no matter how fetching she looked.

He had to maintain his priorities.

He'd capture the man who meant to destroy England. Then he'd deal with Danbury.

The next morning Lydia found breakfast laid out in chafing dishes on the sideboard in the morning room. She was delighted to see
that there was not a single ship's biscuit in sight. Inhaling the familiar scents of an English breakfast, she helped herself to eggs, toast and sausages before sitting down at the table.

With a cheery smile Lydia joined a newlywed couple she'd been introduced to the evening before, but the young woman's greeting was markedly cooler than their previous exchange. In a few pointed remarks, Lydia was given to understand that the new bride had heard tales.

Lydia tightened her grip on the teapot. Squaring her shoulders, she offered up a silent plea for grace. Head held high, she sipped at the steaming brew, but could not manage a bite of the food on her plate. Her throat had closed tight, perhaps from the effort of holding back tart comments.

Danbury entered and an impish impulse snatched hold of Lydia. She greeted him warmly. “Good morning, Anthony. I hope you slept well.”

He blinked at her use of his given name. “Like a top, Miss Garrett. Quite a long day we had.” He filled his plate and took a place across from Lydia.

“Tea?” she asked sweetly.

“Ah, yes. Thank you.” He motioned towards her piled plate. “I see you've recovered some of your appetite. You've been getting too thin lately.”

Amused at the scandalized expression on the young bride's face, and knowing what the woman believed, Lydia couldn't help but pique her a little more, despite Lord Danbury's quizzical expression. “Have you met Lieutenant Carrington and his lovely wife?” She waved an airy hand towards the couple.

The wife gave a tiny squeak of alarm at being singled out to a man she thought quite dissolute, but her husband rose, extending his hand cordially. He gave his bride an odd look. Either Lieutenant Carrington was unaware of Lord Danbury's supposed wickedness or he was not as shocked by it as he might have been.

Lydia watched Lord Danbury. The poor sweet man never turned a hair. Indeed, he seemed entirely unaware of any particular undercurrents. He greeted the lieutenant cordially and they spoke of the Marathas for a few moments until at last Mrs Carrington's continual plucking at his sleeve managed to gain her husband's attention.

The couple excused themselves from the table, Mrs Carrington whispering agitatedly in her husband's ear. Lydia shook her head at their departure and turned her attention back to her meal, finding that she was able to eat heartily after all.

Dinner was a smaller affair than it had been the previous evening. The company was made up entirely of Europeans. To Lydia's surprise, Dr Marshall was among the party.