The Peacock Throne (28 page)

The ballroom buzzed with activity. Mrs Adkins stepped away from the people she was speaking to when she saw Lydia.

“My dear, you are exquisite. That dress is indescribable, and I thought you needed the help of my paltry seamstress. Whoever made it?” The older woman took her hands and held them away from her body.

“A Mrs Deepta. She made it from a sketch by a friend of mine.”

“I adore it. I have seen some examples of the new fashions, but this is more gracious than anything I imagined.” Mrs Adkins tapped Lydia with her fan, and offered a knowing smile. “You are going to be busy in the morning. Every unattached gentleman and officer will be calling on you. And all the ladies will be pursuing you for your seamstress.”

Lydia blushed at the compliments and returned the sentiment. Mrs Adkins was in good looks. Excitement pinked her cheeks and her midnight blue gown had a dramatic flair that suited her.

The eight hundred guests were unusually prompt. Curiosity about the treasure, and the mysterious trio who had brought it to India, was too high for anyone to chance missing a thing. Instead of a trickle of arriving dignitaries, there was a flood—a gushing eddying mass of humanity intent on entertainment.

The noise in the ballroom grew exponentially as the guests poured in. This was going to be a long evening.

A flourish of music from the orchestra betokened the first dance. Lord Wellesley, with Lydia as his partner, opened the ball with the mincing, intricate steps of the minuet. The moment the minuet
ended a new tune struck up, and a handsome young lieutenant from Essex promptly claimed her. After the fourth dance, she was thirsty and relieved that she had blocked off the dance on her card. An eager captain immediately offered to fetch a glass of negus. Gratefully, she accepted his offer and stepped out to the terrace to await his return.

The press of humanity had made the ballroom exceedingly close. In contrast, the terrace seemed nearly cool. Many of the guests were taking the air, and she conversed with the young officer in complete propriety.

Danbury appeared at her side. She had forgotten that he had claimed a slot on her card. “I believe the next dance is mine.” He offered a gentlemanly bow.

“Lead on, Lord Danbury.” Relief broadened her smile. While the attention she received might be flattering, the interrogations about the treasure were importunate, and she had grown weary of fending them off. It would be a pleasure to lower her guard.

Excitement hung in the air like a physical presence. But perhaps that was simply a cloud of clashing perfumes. Anthony had always disliked balls, fêtes, soirees and all the other formal interactions of society. They were guaranteed to make a man feel like a great oaf.

This once, though, he would make an exception to his antipathy. He would do anything to catch his father's murderer—even dance past midnight.

At least he had this respite. Miss Garrett could make even dancing pleasant. Her delicate fingers resting in his own broad grip made his pulse drum to battle-stations tempo.

As they came together she leaned close. “How do you think things are proceeding? Has anything happened?”

“Nothing as yet. Everything is in place. The throne has a couple of guards outside the door. It would look suspicious if it did not. The rest are hiding.”

The Peacock Throne had been moved that afternoon into the marble hall—so named not just for the soft grey marble underfoot, but also for the greater-than-life-sized statues of Roman emperors that were inset in niches along the wall. Flanking these, in the style of a Roman atrium, tall columns were covered in
chunam
, a sort of plaster made of burnt shells that was carved and then burnished so that it glowed like old ivory. Wellesley had given them all a lecture on those columns. He was inordinately proud of them. In addition to its merit of size and location, this hall had two wide verandas which ran along the east and west sides of the room. The strategic placement of a large tapestry over a small side entry effectively hid the passage from view, making a sort of hidden room in which soldiers were mustered in readiness.

The dance separated Anthony from Lydia then brought them together again.

“When do you expect action?”

“Harting thinks something could happen at any minute. I expect them to wait until after the ball. It would be foolhardy to try to remove the throne with so many people about, but we must be prepared for all eventualities.”

Lydia nodded acknowledgment, then changed the subject. “Evening dress suits you remarkably well. You look quite distinguished.”

“Why, thank you. I believe I mentioned before how fetching you look.” Anthony heard himself utter the lukewarm praise, but the words held no relation to his actual sentiments. Miss Garrett looked like a moonbeam, straight and luminous. No other woman in the room could hold a candle to her. The pure white column of her gown shone like a beacon in a sea of florid silks and satins.

Pleasant appreciation lit the face of every gentleman who caught sight of her. Even the ladies turned their heads to watch her progress, sending quick, darting glances her way.

“And you dance very well.” Miss Garrett was trying valiantly to keep the conversational ball in play. Anthony shook himself.

“Were you afraid I might not?” he asked in mock indignation.

“Not at all. You seem to be able to turn your hand to anything you set out to do, but it is a pleasant change not to have my toes trod upon. My last partner was not nearly so proficient.”

“All in the line of duty, Miss Garrett. We must all make sacrifices for the greater good.”

“Then perhaps you will allow me to tread upon your poor toes for a quarter of an hour.”

“If I must suffer, at least you have only those pretty slippers rather than a pair of great clumsy Hessians.”

She swatted his arm. “I suppose I shall have to find some other way to make sure you are doing your fair share of sacrificing.”

“Pray, ma'am, no threats if you please. You have sacrificed so nobly that there should be no call for the rest of us to suffer. Although…” He caught sight of Harting leading a resplendent Mrs Adkins, and jerked his chin in their direction. “It looks like he ought to be doing more sacrificing, I'm sure.”

Harting certainly looked as if he were enjoying himself. Lydia bit her lip. A flash of annoyance sizzled through her, but then faded as quickly as if it had been one of the fireworks at Vauxhall. Despite what had almost transpired she had no claim upon him. Nor could she ever.

Their dance ended and Lydia took her leave of Lord Danbury, pleading the need to assist Mrs Adkins with her responsibilities. A survey of the flushed, excited faces surrounding her was all it took to convince her that the ball was a roaring success, even before the supper tables had been laid out.

Anticipation about the treasure had the guests in high spirits. They danced and chatted with gusto. Even those who could not—or would not—dance, having sought refuge in the card room, were in an unusually good humour.

Lord Wellesley's taste and refinement were praised on all sides, and when supper had been laid, the food proved a further source of
delight. It was by far the most successful ball of the season and the guests were enjoying themselves immensely.

Lydia was thrilled for Mrs Adkins' sake with how well the ball fared. Every detail was perfect. While the guests were drawn to the supper table like a tidal wave, Lydia took the opportunity to slip back out to the terrace. She breathed deeply of the scented night air and sighed, deciding to stroll out into the garden.

Even after dancing, the restless need to move propelled her forward. She fidgeted with her fan, wandering into the garden with no particular destination in mind.

Could they have allowed for every contingency? Their enemy was cunning. He would not allow himself to be easily trussed. “Miss Garrett?” An inquiring voice at her elbow pulled her from her reverie.

“Lord Danbury. It's growing quite warm in there, isn't it?”

“Yes, quite.” A pause stretched between them until at last he extended his arm. “May I walk with you?”

“Of course.”

He offered the confiding smile that never failed to lighten her mood. “To be honest, I've had dashed all I can handle of prying questions and impertinent stares. I can now fully commiserate with trained monkeys.”

Some of the tension in her shoulders eased. “Precisely. I'm rather pining for the anonymity of London at the moment.”

Jasmine and roses scented the air. Strategically spaced torches offered dim and flickering illumination. On the other side of the hedgerow a woman giggled.

He covered her hand on his arm with his. “I haven't forgotten my promise, you know. I shall find you an appropriate post when we return.”

Lydia ducked her head. “I know that, my Lord, and I thank you.”

They had reached a sort of cul-de-sac and were forced to halt. He turned to face her and his hand caressed her cheek as if she were immeasurably fragile.

“Miss Garrett, I'm not as erudite as Harting, but—” He broke
off and groaned. Then both hands were cupping her face, and his lips were on hers, warm and sweet and gentle.

For an instant she sank into the kiss. A delicious whirling, sliding fall. As natural and necessary as breathing. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he pulled her closer.

His lips moved to nuzzle her ear. “I've waited. I didn't know. I feared—”

She jerked away, panting a little. Her heart pounded wildly.

His eyes widened and it was as if she'd opened some compartment in his soul and poured in pain. And then suddenly his expression shuttered over—his face was the shade of a brick wall, and just as impassive. “I'm so sorry. I know that your position is dashed awkward. I shan't press you again, nor will I allow anyone to say—”

“No, my Lord.” She held up a hand. “I cannot, but it is because I… I have used you mercilessly.”

Stiff and formal he waited for her to continue.

Tears pooled in her eyes. She fumbled for a way to phrase her confession without seeming to cast stones. “At Mr Harting's request I have been passing along information about you. Information I gleaned from searching through your papers.”

His eyes had grown cold—so cold that goose flesh prickled her arms.

“Your inheritance?”

She nodded, miserable. “It was from the government. Payment in advance.” The chill had been replaced by a scorching, searing, suffocating heat.

Lord Danbury inclined his head with a little jerk. “I am sorry to have troubled you, ma'am. I trust you'll excuse me.”

He strode away from her as if escaping a foul odour.

Deaf and blind to any others, Lydia wandered the garden. A bench presented itself. She groped for it and sat down heavily. She might never get up again.

Gravel crunched and a shadow loomed over her. “Miss Garrett.”

Lydia could not quite force a smile as her merciful solitude took
flight. “Good evening, Dr Marshall. I hope you're enjoying yourself.”

“I am. The ball is an absolute triumph. I know you had a great deal to do with its success, so you should be congratulated.” He proffered a glass. “I thought you might be thirsty.” He held out a glass of negus.

“How kind.” Her words were automatic, as was her acceptance of the glass he held. She drank deeply, scarcely tasting the punch.

“No trouble at all. I hoped you would honour me with the next dance.”

“I regret that I have already promised it or I would happily oblige.”

“No matter. I shall endeavour to enjoy your company now.” With an abrupt change of subject, he continued, “Do you know what time they plan to unveil the throne?”

“Sometime towards the end of the evening,” Lydia said. Something was wrong. Her tongue felt thick and slow. She blinked, trying to clear her head. The world spun sickeningly.

“Are you all right, Miss Garrett?” The doctor placed a solicitous hand at her elbow and helped her rise. “Perhaps a turn around the garden?”