The Peacock Throne (3 page)

A rough bump jolted Lydia back to unpleasant reality. An involuntary gasp of pain escaped her lips, and she struggled to sit up. Groaning, she leaned forward, holding her head.

“You're in my carriage.” A gentle male voice from the shadowy corner answered her unasked question.

“Who are you?” A spike of fear skewered her to the seat.

“Careful,” he said, sitting forward so that she could see his face more clearly.

“The Earl?”

“Yes.”

He dabbed with a clean linen handkerchief at the blood trickling from her lip. She flinched away from the touch and he sat back.

Lydia sucked in a lungful of air. She refused to succumb to the darkness again. She needed her wits about her to discover what this gentleman wanted. In no condition to fight, she sat back, rallying her strength and biding her time in case she needed to bolt.

Anthony suppressed a sigh as he stared at the girl. She looked as timid as a caged sparrow. Her glance darted about as if searching for a means of escape. He needed to gain her trust before she tried to fly the coop. The girl leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. He needed whatever information she might have. The runner's investigation was going nowhere.

He would take her home with him. There he could find out what she had to tell him away from prying eyes. Her wounds would need to be tended, and perhaps he could find a friend in need of a maid—then she wouldn't have to return to the Green Peacock at all. A neat solution all around. He rapped on the carriage roof.

“Home, Martin.” Settling back comfortably into his seat, he tried to think of some topic of conversation. He had never been in such an odd situation. “Might I know your name?” Perhaps not the most ingenious of openings, but at least it was practical.

The girl widened her eyes as if he had pulled her from a deep reverie. “Lydia Garrett.” Her dark eyes held his in a steady gaze. “Why did you take me from the Peacock?”

“I couldn't leave you there. If convicted of thievery you might have faced the gallows.”

“He wouldn't send me to the gallows. There would be no one left to do the work.”

“No?” Anthony cocked an eyebrow. He'd always been rather proud of that particular ability. He felt it gave him a rakish air.

For some reason the girl flushed. “No,” she said. Her tone cut the topic off at the legs. “Why did you really take me away?”

“I don't know why you should refuse to accept altruism as my motivation.” He flashed her a smile. They were almost home. He needed to gain her trust before she tried to flee. Perhaps it would be best to state the facts openly. He held his palms up. “I admit it. I do have need of you—preferably conscious—to tell me more about your cousin's death. It's possible you may be right and his murder is related to my father's, though I can't see why that might be the case.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes. She opened her mouth, probably to deliver a cutting remark, but a particularly rough bump caused her to gasp. She swayed in her seat. For a moment, Anthony feared she would faint again.

“We'll have a physician in.”

She shook her head and grimaced, what little colour she had draining from her face. “No, sir.” Her voice was so fragile he could scarcely hear her over the rattle of carriage wheels and hawkers' cries.

“I intend no offence, my girl, but you don't look well.”

Lydia dabbed gingerly at her bleeding lip. “Some hot water to wash with will put me to rights.”

“I insist.” Anthony held up a hand. “I need you in proper working order.”

She almost smiled, but the slight upward twitch at the corners of her mouth was turned back by a fierce scowl. She stared at him for a long moment. “I will tell you why I believe the murders are connected on two conditions.”

Anthony angled his chin and one eyebrow up a fraction, waiting to hear her terms.

“First, if I tell you what I know, you will not go hire some Bow Street runner, and leave me in the dark. My cousin was my last… I owe him a great deal. I need to know who did this. I need justice.” Tears pooled in her eyes and Anthony pressed his handkerchief into her hand.

“Is there a second condition?”

Her lips tightened and she breathed in deeply. He could see her shepherding her emotions together. She did not speak until she was once more composed. “As you pointed out, I can't return to the Green Peacock.” She paused pointedly. “Fenn will be even angrier now. You must promise to write a letter of reference for me, and assist me in finding a suitable position elsewhere.”

Anthony couldn't blame her. A woman alone needed a mercenary edge to survive. What would he have done if their positions were reversed? The silence stretched between them. He narrowed his eyes and studied her, but she met his gaze, refusing to flinch or fidget.

“I'm willing to agree to your terms.” He saw the girl exhale and realized she had been holding her breath awaiting his response.

The horses rattled to a halt and Anthony stole a glance out of the window. “Ah, we're here.”

Lydia welcomed the cessation of movement. She had managed not to disgrace herself by fainting again, but the continuous jostling put her tenacity to the test.

A footman hurried to open the door of the carriage and the young gentleman led the way. Lydia followed more slowly, her legs threatening to fail her. She clutched her ribs and tried to breathe shallowly. She must keep her wits about her.

The grand houses on the fashionable cul-de-sac stood solid and graceful, guarding their quiet street from incursion by the unwashed masses. Even the air here behaved more genteelly than it did on Brant Street. The wind fluttered past like a fine lady in trailing lace, rather than darting and snagging at one like a ragamuffin.

The gazes of several servants pierced her, and she imagined she could hear their disapproving thoughts. Using the handkerchief the gentleman had given her, she dabbed again at her face, trying to wipe away any signs of squalor.

She kept her movements deliberate for fear she might break one of the treasures that graced the front hall. None of the fine houses she had visited as a child could compare to the elegance of this London mansion.

The gentleman led the way to a spacious study. He motioned for her to sit, and seated himself behind the desk. Obeying gingerly, she tucked her skirts close. She didn't want to sully the fine leather or beautiful carpets. She peeked at the soles of her shoes, hoping she hadn't tracked anything disgraceful in with her.

“Can you read, Lydia?” At her nod, he handed her a letter.

She read the short missive and then, brow creased in confusion, looked up. “I don't understand. Who is Jahan Pasha?”

“I haven't been able to determine that, but his letter arrived for my father on the day of his death.”

Lydia glanced again at the letter, fingering the distinctive seal as if she could discern the answer to a puzzle from the ridges of wax.
“I'm beginning to see. That morning—after they took his body away—I found a patch of wax on the hearthstone while cleaning away the mess. I thought it odd because we don't generally have dealings with the type of people who can afford sealing wax this fine, nor is Mrs Wolfe one to pay for fancy wax candles when tallow will do. I didn't assign any particular significance to it at the time.” She glanced back up at him.

He half stood, palms flat on his desk. “Did you say Wolfe?”

“Yes.” Involuntarily she reared away from his intensity, wincing as she did so. “My guardian.” Deliberately she sat forward again. She would not be intimidated by this man. Or, at least, she would not show that he intimidated her.

He sat back down. “Mr Wolfe served as boatswain on the
Centaur
.”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

He tried to hide a quick smile behind his hand. Lydia almost smiled herself. He had brought her to his home in order to interrogate her, not the other way around. He made no comment, however, but rifled through a sheaf of papers on the desk.

“The first I heard of Mr Wolfe was in a letter my father wrote to me on the day he was murdered. My valet found it stuffed into one of my boots. Here.” He pulled a couple of pages from the pile and handed them to her. Once again he sat quietly while Lydia read.

Lydia glanced from the letter to his Lordship and back again, trying to wrap her mind around the information. He had been forthright. It was time to offer him some of what she knew. “I found Mr Wolfe in the kitchen.” Lydia could almost see and smell his corpse again. She forced herself to speak, though an acrid taste fouled her tongue. “I'm always the first to get up in the mornings, to stoke the fires and begin the morning chores. He had been stabbed.”

She raised her eyes to meet Lord Danbury's and the force of his gaze made the words shrivel and stick to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed hard and tried again. “The oddest thing I noticed was that the murderer left behind a fine knife with a carved ivory handle. It was more valuable than anything a thief could have possibly hoped to cart away from the coffee house. The magistrate confiscated it as evidence, of course.”

“What was the carving?”

“A peacock.”

Her interrogator leaned closer, his attention fixed on her as if she were the only person in the world. “Was he stabbed from the front or the back?”

“The back. There were two wounds.” Poor, poor Mr Wolfe. They had stood together so long against the petty cruelties of Mrs Wolfe and the misbegotten Fenn. She shut her eyes against the tide of sorrow. The Earl must think her an utter ninny. She had done little but weep and snivel since she had met him. If only she could think clearly.

“So he either turned his back on his attacker, or did not know he was there. Did you notice anything else out of place?”

Lydia fought back the distress that threatened to choke her. Her head ached, her throat burned with the effort of stifling her nausea. “The door was off the latch. The magistrate declared that someone must have neglected to secure it. He thought thieves happened on the unlocked door and came in to rob us—a simple crime of opportunity.”

“And the murder?”

“When Mr Wolfe caught them, they killed him, then fled in horror at what they had done.” She rubbed at her temples. “No one had the slightest interest in listening to my protestations.”

Lydia's head swam. Thumping, throbbing pain coursed throughout her frame, making it difficult to hear above her own pulse. She dabbed at the blood oozing from her split lip, determined not to mar the elegantly upholstered chair in which she sat.