The Peacock Throne (32 page)

Again Lydia woke, groggy and sore, on the floor of a carriage. She appeared to be making a regular habit of it, she thought ruefully. Pain spiked through her as the carriage jolted through a particularly deep rut. A foul tasting gag made her mouth impossibly dry.
Please God, do not let it be Philippe's loathsome neckerchief.

The carriage pulled up smartly and ceased its jostling, for which Lydia was profoundly grateful. In the sudden hush, she could hear Dr Marshall talking quietly to Philippe.

“It is all very well to foment rebellion in India. But if we can remove Lord Wellesley as well, the English will be in desperate straits. It will take months to get a new Governor-General in place. English strength in India will be broken and while they pour men into the breach, General Bonaparte will strike at their heart with an invasion force.”

“You are brilliant, Monsieur. You have ordered everything perfectly.”

“Well, I had not originally intended an assassination,” said Dr Marshall modestly, “but matters have arranged themselves so nicely it would be a shame to waste such a prime opportunity. When I think of the things that have gone wrong…” He sighed. “In spite of everything things may come out better than I dared hope.”

Energy surged through Lydia. She looked around wildly for Rosalie and found her slumped on the carriage bench behind her. Relief followed on the heels of her fear; the woman had been bound but not gagged. She must have behaved well.

Lydia's wild gyrations wakened her.

“Dear, you are awake. Are you all right? He didn't hurt you too badly, did he?” She leaned towards Lydia, but with her hands tied behind her back the impulse to comfort was checked.

Lydia shook her head violently and rubbed her face against the carriage floor in an attempt to dislodge the gag.

“What's wrong?” asked Rosalie. “You frighten me. What is wrong?”

Outside, a masculine voice hailed Marshall in French. This must be some of the crew from the French sloop. Lydia listened intently and realized from their conversation that they had heaved to in a sheltered cove just north of a village—which village, she could not make out. They were ready to load the throne and escape as soon as the exchange had taken place. Marshall began to discuss his plans with the men, but he must have been moving away. The sounds grew fainter until they were inaudible.

Lydia prayed fervently for help and continued to struggle with her bonds. There was no give at all in the ropes. She must warn someone of the trap.

Marshall returned and opened the carriage door. “They should be here any moment. Shall we set the stage?” He lifted Rosalie from the carriage and then turned back. “Do not try my patience, Miss Garrett. You have irritated me and I will kill you if you give me the slightest bit of trouble. Do you understand?”

Lydia nodded mutely, trying to look docile—which was not difficult given that she was bound and gagged. He pulled her from the carriage and stood her beside Mrs Adkins.

“Come along now, ladies. We must make sure you are displayed to best advantage.”

Lydia's gaze swept the scene wildly. Thankfully, the night was clear, with a bright moon illuminating the landscape. They were in the ruins of some sort of building. Fantastical carvings covered every remaining surface. It must be some sort of temple.

Dr Marshall led them into a wide courtyard in the centre of the
structure. He positioned Mrs Adkins with Philippe in the shadows at one side and dragged Lydia, stumbling along behind him, to the other.

Lydia could hear the rattle and slide of rocks as men took up their positions around the courtyard. A long, tense silence ensued. Lydia frantically worried the knots that bound her hands behind her back. She thought they gave way a little, but she was by no means certain: her fingers had grown numb and she feared testing the notion. It was imperative not to give away what she was doing. Without doubt Marshall would keep his promise if she provoked him.

A hail from one of the lookouts caused everyone to jump. “They're coming.”

Anthony surveyed the temple as they approached. “This is a godforsaken spot if ever I saw one.”

“Kali is a Hindu goddess associated with death and change. Her followers once performed horrible human sacrifices here,” said Lord Wellesley.

“Then I am even more correct than I supposed.”

They lapsed into silence as they drew nearer. No one approached and they saw no one as they pulled in front of the temple.

“Perhaps we ought to drive through those arches. It looks as if there might be an inner courtyard,” said Anthony.

Lord Wellesley nodded and flicked the reins. They rumbled slowly through the arches, which formed a short tunnel, until they came to the central courtyard.

A man stepped from the shadows, pushing Mrs Adkins forward with him. “I see you followed my instructions,” he said in a French accent. “Please step away from the throne. I must warn you, gentlemen, not to try anything dangerous—you are surrounded by my men.”

Lord Wellesley and Anthony climbed from their seats, taking care to appear non-threatening. Anthony's every sense was attuned to the slight rustlings as the men surrounding them shifted their weight and fidgeted.

“Have they hurt you, my dear?” called Lord Wellesley.

“No, darling, but I think Miss Garrett may be rather badly injured,” she answered before her captor jerked her arm and she subsided.

Anthony's hand reached for a sword that was not there. “Where is Marshall? We know he is behind this. Is he even more of a coward than we imagined?”

“Bravo.” Marshall stepped from the shadows behind them. “I had hoped to keep my identity secure, but it is no matter. The
coup d'état
has been accomplished.”

Anthony spun round to face Marshall. His heart gave a wrench when he saw Lydia with the man. One eye looked swollen and puffy, and her mouth had been tied so tightly shut, he could see where the bonds bit into her flesh. Still, she could stand on her own. He took comfort in the hope that no permanent injury had been done.

“You have been pitifully sloppy, Marshall. The little corporal will not be pleased. You didn't accomplish any of the things you desired. You may have the throne, but it will do you no good.”

“Wrong as usual, Danbury. I have accomplished even more than I first hoped. It will be interesting to see what happens to India when there is no English leader in place.” Marshall raised the pistol he had been holding casually at his side and pointed it directly at Lord Wellesley.

Lydia had been unable to free herself from her bonds, but she could wait no longer. In a single desperate movement she whipped around, barrelling into Marshall with every ounce of strength she could muster. He staggered backwards while she went sprawling and tumbling sideways down a short flight of stairs. The shot he fired went high and wide, but the sound reverberated through the courtyard. A stunned pause froze everyone in place for a fraction of an instant as people tried to comprehend what just had happened. Then chaos surged into the void.

Lydia craned her neck to see what had become of Lord Wellesley. She was just in time to catch a glimpse as Danbury pushed him beneath the cart, trying to shield him with his own body.

Rosalie wrenched free of Philippe and ran towards the Governor-General. Marshall's men charged the cart with an outraged howl. From behind them, Lydia heard another mighty shout. Harting appeared in the arched entryway of the temple, leading a band of men who poured in behind him. The warning from the lookouts had come too late.

The clash of swords and curses pealed through the courtyard like an awful chorus of bells. Marshall swore viciously and darted down the stairs to grab Lydia, who struggled to gain her feet without the use of her hands. He snatched her upper arm, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh.

Lydia refused to be a convenient hostage. She writhed and struggled in his grasp, hoping at least to delay his escape. The train
of her dress wrapped about her legs, tripping her, and her weight carried Marshall down too. He was up again in an instant, trying to cuff her into submission while at the same time dragging her away with him.

Anthony succeeded in getting Lord Wellesley and his paramour safely tucked beneath the cart. Fortunately the horses were cavalry beasts, used to warfare, and they remained complacent as the fighting raged around them. Eager to join the battle, Anthony sought wildly for a weapon.

Harting tore past, practically chasing a great hulk of a man who—despite his size—had no apparent idea of how to handle a sword.

“Danbury.” He tossed Anthony his sword, still in its scabbard.

Instantly forgiving him for every deception, Anthony caught it and bounded to the top of the cart to survey the scene. He wanted to join battle with only one man.

“Lordship, she's over there,” old Angus Robb hollered with a jerk of his thumb.

Anthony finally caught sight of Marshall as he dragged Lydia through the portico at the far end of the courtyard. Rage slithered through Anthony. He leapt from the cart and darted after them. He shoved and slashed his way through the battling figures in his path. Once free of the struggling men he ran flat out.

Marshall turned and spied Anthony. He pushed Lydia to the ground. An instant later he thought better of his plan and jerked her upright again, putting his sword to her throat.

Anthony stopped some fifteen paces from the couple. He couldn't reach them in time to prevent Marshall slitting her throat.

“Surely you are more of a man than to murder a helpless woman? Let her go and fight me,” Anthony said.

“Helpless? She is the least helpless woman I've met in my life.
This entire debacle is her fault. I do have plans for her, however.” Marshall pushed the point of his blade even further into her flesh until blood oozed in a thin line down her throat. “I made her a promise.”

Anthony took a step forward, but stopped as Marshall's lips pulled back in a snarl. He held up his free hand in a staying gesture. “The others will be coming soon. You should fight me now or you will never get away.” He advanced again, cautiously.

“I will kill her if you do not stop.” Marshall retreated a step.

Anthony continued to close the gap between them.

He made a dismissive wave of his sword. “There are plenty more where she came from, but I will not allow my father's murderer to get away again.” His muscles were so tense he could scarce continue his deliberate advance.

Marshall seemed to realize the only way he was going to get away quickly would be to fight and win. With a savage cry he shoved Lydia at Anthony and attacked.

Thrown off balance as she hurtled into him, Anthony scarcely managed to raise his sword to fend off the blow.

Hands tied behind her, Lydia could not crawl out of the way; instead, she rolled awkwardly away from Danbury. She kicked out at Marshall and the blow went home enough to cause him to falter for an instant. It was all the time Danbury needed to recover himself, and he rallied with a vengeance.

She scrabbled out of the way. She ached to help Danbury in some way, but feared tripping him up rather than Marshall. Once she managed to get clear of the men, she struggled into a sitting position. She could hardly breathe. Horror constricted her lungs like a snake.

Back and forth the figures danced. Lunging, feinting, parrying. Attacking and then retreating. Marshall drew first blood with his
initial rush. But Danbury gradually gained the upper hand. After several passes it became apparent that Danbury was the stronger, more skilled, of the two. Still Marshall battled on with the sober determination of a bulldog, making up with sheer audacity what he lacked in finesse.

Danbury lunged, forcing the doctor to retreat. Marshall's swings were becoming erratic, less powerful. He half stumbled, but righted himself almost instantly.

“Yield,” demanded Danbury.

Marshall did not respond, doggedly fighting on. He was breathing hard now, his face red and streaming with sweat. Danbury pressed his advantage. He drew blood again. A slick, red stain spread across the doctor's thigh.

“Do you yield?”

“I yield,” Marshall said, his voice pitched high by strain. He bent over panting and braced his free hand on his knee.

Danbury reached for Marshall's sword. Uttering a primeval yell that made Lydia shiver despite the heat, Marshall lunged in a desperate attack. Danbury twisted away. Marshall's sword pierced jacket, waistcoat, and shirt, coming out on the other side. Danbury's sword found more solid fodder.

Dr Adam Marshall gazed down in astonishment at the blade protruding from his gut. He dropped his weapon and stumbled to his knees. He appeared shocked at being confronted by his own mortality. His hands found the wound, attempting feebly to staunch the blood.

Danbury knelt and pulled the sword from Marshall's body. He took out a handkerchief and, removing Marshall's hands, pressed the cloth against the wound. Marshall groaned pitifully and his eyes glazed over with pain. Lydia heard an English huzzah and realized the Frenchmen in the temple had been routed.

In an awkward writhing motion, she gained her knees and crawled to where the duelists sat on the ground. Nodding frantically, she succeeded in signalling Danbury to remove her gag.

She spat out the flannel wadding and said, “You are not injured?”

He put a hand to the blood that seeped along his abdomen; he was breathing heavily. “Only a scrape.”

Lydia nodded towards the doctor. “Then help him lie flat.”

Danbury did as directed.

“Keep firm, direct pressure on the wound. Your cravat would make a handsome bandage to help slow the bleeding.” Danbury scowled, but removed his neck cloth with one hand. Already his handkerchief could absorb no more of Marshall's lifeblood.

Following Lydia's instruction, Danbury attended the dying man.

Footsteps pounded towards them and Danbury called for someone to take his place. A sailor did so, and Danbury turned to Lydia.

Utterly drained, Lydia sat statue still. Danbury crouched by her side and held her close.

“Are you all right?” The gentle embrace was too much, and she began to cry.

Danbury pulled back. “I'm sorry, I've hurt you. I ought to have released you from these bonds. I'm sorry.” He cut her hands apart. Cupping her face in his hands, he brushed the curls from her eyes. “Now are you all right?”

“You should not have come alone; it was too dangerous.” Lydia hiccoughed but summoned a smile.

“My dear girl… I'm so sorry for the things I said. I was angry, but from the beginning I have been using you just as much to help solve all this. I had no place to—”

Danbury pulled her close. Her head rested securely against his broad chest. His fingers tangled in her hair.

“Oh, but you did. I've felt so dreadfully guilty. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I ever suspected you, or agreed to the plan.” Lydia couldn't restrain a final sniffle. “Could I have a handkerchief, please?”

Harting appeared now and offered a fine square of linen to Lydia. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose gratefully. She knew
she must look awful, but she was too tired to do much more than push her tangled hair back from her face. Danbury helped her to her feet as Lord Wellesley approached.

“He's dead then?” asked Lord Wellesley.

“Not yet.” Danbury gestured to where a couple of men still laboured over the fallen man. “He will be soon.”

“I shall see if he will give us any information about the French intelligence services. Excuse me.” Wellesley walked stiffly away.

Rosalie stayed with Lydia and the two embraced. “I am indebted to you forever.”

“Not at all,” rasped Lydia. She longed for a cool drink. The flannel stuffed in her mouth had left her feeling as parched as a desert.

“Come along, let's get you back to Government House and have a physician look at you.” Harting shepherded her away from Danbury and the crowd with infinite tenderness.

In a matter of moments, Lydia and Rosalie were ensconced in Marshall's carriage and on their way back to Government House. It was a fairly comfortable conveyance if one were not trussed and dumped in a heap on the floor, thought Lydia.

Neither Lydia nor Rosalie attempted conversation. In the grip of deep exhaustion they both fell asleep long before the carriage rattled up in front of the mansion.

Their arrival at Government House prompted a flurry of activity. Harting rang for a pitcher of lemon water. Accepting the offering gratefully, Lydia drank long and deep. The relief of the first swallow was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

She had no notion what would happen next, but with her hands unbound she felt as if she could face anything. Right after a nap.