“Why is it so important to you that I have a new wardrobe?”
He raised an eyebrow and glanced at her down his long nose. “You should be properly outfitted as befits your station – not as if you are some scullion from the East End. Besides, I expect any woman on my arm to look her best, and the people you will be interacting with will respond better to a lady than a street urchin.”
“I’m to play a role then?”
“You are to be your charming and educated self, while you never ever forget that you have an assignment which you must not lose sight of.” His expression sobered. “Miss Garrett, I have not asked you to do this lightly. The stakes are…” He shook his head. “I find no pleasure in placing you in an awkward situation. I simply wish to find the traitor, and if that means putting a good man under close scrutiny in order to eliminate him as a suspect, so be it. I would put a hundred good men under such surveillance in order to find the one guilty fellow.” His colour had risen, but his step never strayed from its desultory pace.
How had she suddenly been placed in the wrong? Lydia cast her gaze down at her feet. She bit her lip to keep from responding, but after a moment the words spilled past the safeguard of her common sense. “So in your mind the end justifies the means.”
“It’s not as simple as that.”
“Oh?”
For the first time in her experience he looked almost flustered.
“One must think of the greater good. Is it better that good men die, or that innocent men be investigated for something they did not do?”
“Perhaps I am simple, but it seems that a great many good English men have died to maintain our traditional English liberties. This current war against the French is a prime example. We don’t abhor French domination simply because they are French, but because their system of government, even under the banner of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, offers none of those things. As a nation we have offered up our life’s blood in order to protect from the French the very liberties which may come under attack from our own leaders were your philosophy to take hold among them.”
Harting contemplated her for a long moment, his probing gaze at odds with his languid motions. “I believe I have chosen wisely indeed, in this case.”
“How can you say such a thing? Even if I do find something to assist your cause I cannot testify against his Lordship. I have no legal standing with the courts.”
“That is why you must bring any proof you find to me.”
His lips quirked up again, and an almost uncontrollable urge to throttle him with his own cravat welled within her bosom.
“Ah, here we are. Madame D’Arcy’s.” He turned aside at a well-kept shop.
He had successfully diverted her wrath.
For the moment.
“Who is Madame D’Arcy?”
Harting eyed her again; he seemed perpetually to be revising his opinion of her. “She is the smartest mantua maker in Mayfair. She is in great demand with the highest ladies of the land.”
“Then why are we here? I have no need for such expensive frippery.”
“That is what you think.” Mr Harting held the door open for her with a gentlemanly flourish. “Besides, she owes me a favour.”
A tall, exquisitely dressed woman held her hands out to Mr Harting in greeting. “My dear, it has been an age. Where have you been hiding yourself?” If this was the proprietress her title was clearly an affectation.
As inconspicuous as a kitten among lions, Lydia lingered near the door. In spite of herself, she drank in the sights and scents of the shop. A flowing summer frock in dainty cotton clothed a dress form, its lace as ephemeral as frost. She leaned forward to examine the detail. Nearby, a few bolts of luxurious material lounged against the wall. Unable to resist, Lydia caressed a piece of sky blue silk.
She started up guiltily when Mr Harting called her. Judging from his tone, it must have been the second or third time.
At his side, Madame D’Arcy also regarded her oddly and Lydia blushed. “I apologize. I was not attending.”
“This is what you have to work with?” Madame D’Arcy said in a whisper, which Lydia could hear perfectly well. “Ah, well, it could be worse.” With barely a rustle she turned and headed for the far door.
“Madame D’Arcy has her book of sketches for you to go through. You must look and decide what you want.”
Despite the modiste’s dismissive behaviour, excitement bubbled within Lydia as though she were a child about to try ice cream for the first time. She had not bought clothes for herself since well before her parents were killed. The three dresses she had owned were all made from Mrs Wolfe’s old gowns. The idea of purchasing something new thrilled her to her toes. She could not seem to wipe the imbecilic grin from her face. Lydia caught Lord Harting once or twice concealing a small smile of his own. Surrounded by such lovely things, Lydia couldn’t even find it within herself to be angry with him for his condescension.
Several large books were presented to her for inspection. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of charming options, Lydia hesitated. The styles were disarmingly different from the round gowns she was familiar with. These dresses featured slim silhouettes and dainty puffed sleeves. They looked modern and daring, and yet classical at the same time.
With a shrewd look, Madame D’Arcy assessed her. “I assure you, these are in the latest styles from the continent. With your slender figure, you will look well in these gowns.”
“They are lovely.” Lydia caressed one of the drawings with gentle fingers. “I simply do not know where to begin.”
Madame took matters in hand. Lydia’s head whirled—dress patterns, fabric swatches and trims tumbling over one another in her mind. Two dresses were to be delivered that afternoon, the rest within the week. After leaving Madame D’Arcy’s, Mr Harting directed her to another shop to purchase hats. A third store provided hosiery and slippers, underclothing, handkerchiefs, gloves and all the final, innumerable elements needed to complete her toilet. Mr Harting did at least allow her to handle these purchases on her own, while he waited outside with a gaggle of husbands, fathers, and brothers.
Deeply concerned about the amount of money being spent, she paused at the door to the emporium and shot him a searching look. He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear as if he had the power to read her mind. “Give no thought to the cost. The ministry has agreed to outfit you in the appropriate manner for this case.”
“Why should the ministry care one whit—”
He did not answer, merely nudged her shoulder and urged her inside the shop.
Lydia quickly put away the few packages they had elected to carry back with them. The altered dresses had already been delivered and she pulled one from the wardrobe, simply to look at it again. It was, by far, the loveliest gown she had ever owned. She sighed. When would she ever have the courage to wear it? His Lordship would probably think she was pasting peacock feathers to a chicken. She returned the gown to the wardrobe, and closed the door with a touch too much force.
She hurried down the stairs to Lord Danbury’s study. She had been longer than she intended and he was no doubt awaiting her return.
The deep furrows of his brow lightened considerably at her entrance. “You are back. I shall be heartily glad to leave the duties of a landlord behind for a time.”
Her heart plummeted. How could she betray this man who had been naught but kind to her? She wanted to seize him and shake him, and tell him to toss her out on her ear while he still had the chance. But she did none of those things. Instead she greeted him politely and resumed her place on the opposite side of the desk.
She must not lose sight of the chance to find Mr Wolfe’s murderer.
They worked steadily through the evening in quiet companionship. Lydia continued copying the diary, while Lord Danbury wrote letter after letter, and constructed list after list. Lost in their separate tasks the hours slid by unheeded.
Monotony weighed upon her. She could scarce keep her eyes ope
n. Page after page she transcribed, until her hand had moved far past pain into numbness.
Lydia read a sentence and had almost completed copying it, when it dawned on her what she had read. The blood drained from her face and her fingertips went cold. She dropped her pen, splattering her fingers and the blotting paper with droplets of ink. She read it again.
“My Lord, I’ve found it.” The words shouted so loudly through her being, that it was difficult to realize she had done naught but whisper.
Danbury regarded her quizzically as if unsure whether he had heard her speak.
Shoving away from the desk, she snatched up the diary. “I have found it.”
Lord Danbury dropped the papers he was perusing to accept the diary as she thrust it into his hands.
She pointed to the passage in question.
“Here. They took the throne to Abundance Island.” They had done it. Now that they knew which island to search, Lord Danbury’s plan had ceased to be a hare-brained scheme and become a looming reality. They might just manage it.
Lord Danbury stared at the open diary as if he were looking into the Book of Life. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from the words it contained.
All at once he jumped up and rushed to a table where he had spread out a large map of the Indian Ocean.
“Well done, Miss Garrett.” He spared her a glance and a flashing smile that made a warm glow flit through her belly.
His trembling finger slid over the map as he sought the island. His motion slowed, and he turned a disconcerted gaze to hers. “It’s not here.”
CHAPTER 12
Lydia drew nearer, cradling the diary. “I would stake my life on it that it says Abundance Island.”
Lord Danbury’s shoulders slumped slightly. He stared at the map as Lydia took up position by his side. His eyes continued to scour every inch for the island.
She read and reread the diary entry and then turned the page. “Here! He included coordinates on the next page.” Lydia read off the numbers. Their heads nearly touched as they bent to find the location.
Triumph flared in Lord Danbury’s eyes. “Here it is. It was renamed Mahe at some point.” He whooped and swept her into a rollicking country dance. Breathless and laughing, they whirled and cavorted. Hands clasped and facing one another, they bounded to one end of the room and back.
A footman’s voice at the door announced Mr Harting.
Abruptly conscious of the picture of lunacy they must be painting, Lydia broke free of Lord Danbury’s hold and spun to face the meddlesome agent.
Harting’s single raised eyebrow spoke more elegantly than any words.
Lord Danbury straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat. “Good evening, Harting. I believe we’ve found the vital bit of information we’ve been searching for.”
Lydia continued to edge away. This was the sort of mortification that impetuosity purchased. She must school her emotions better in future. Propriety and a plan. Those were to be her bywords.
Lord Danbury turned to her before she could make her escape. “Miss Garrett, I was hoping you would also join us for dinner.”
Lydia swallowed. Her position in the household was becoming more confused by the moment. She had never dreamed of being asked to dine with his Lordship. Wrapping composure about herself like a shroud, she inclined her head. “As you wish, my Lord. And since you have been so kind as to honour me, would you then please excuse me? I must dress for dinner.” She did not wait for a reply, only nodding at Mr Harting as she all but fled from the room.
Safely ensconced in the new guest room to which she had been moved, Lydia found that several packages had been delivered. She donned the dress of fine green muslin she had so admired earlier, then sat in a comfortable armchair, holding a new pair of silk stockings and garters in her hand.
She sighed as she slid on the hose and stepped into a pair of kidskin slippers. This was the pinnacle of luxury.
Moving to the glass she took earnest stock of her appearance. Gone was the shabby serving wench and even the pale maidservant. In their place stood a young lady of grace and consequence. An imposter. Lydia turned from the glass and made her way blindly downstairs, joy swallowed in doubt.
Mr Harting had been cooling his heels in the drawing room. He stood swiftly upon her entrance, offering a half bow. And then he drew back his head, cocking it minutely to the side as if he had just recognized her. Determined to do justice to her mother’s tutelage, Lydia made her curtsy and chose a seat, sitting down gingerly in her finery.
Harting played the gallant. “Miss Garrett, you look radiant.”
“You are very kind, Mr Harting.” She could not prevent the flush that crept up her neck and into her cheeks. It was infuriating to respond so when she knew very well that his admiration was not sincere.
Harting leaned nearer and lowered his voice.
“I have decided to take your Lord Danbury into my confidence—at least to an extent. If, as you hope, he is not guilty then I want him on my side. If he is guilty, then I want him to labour under the illusion that I have swallowed his tale whole-heartedly. You must play along.”
Anthony paused at the entrance to the drawing room. Harting sat with his head bent close to Miss Garrett, speaking to her softly. They might as well have been sharing the same couch. At least she didn’t appear too happy about it. Should he say something? Rebuke Harting for forwardness? After all, he was her guardian in some way, wasn’t he?
Clearing his throat pointedly, he entered the drawing room. “I believe our meal is ready,” he said too heartily.
Harting and Miss Garrett both stood at his entrance. His gait checked slightly when he saw Lydia fully. “Miss Garrett, you have a new gown.”
Idiotic. It was the only word that fit. He was idiotic.
The pale green made her look especially fresh and winsome—a sylph from some forest glade where spring was born. But he had never been good at saying the right thing.
A faint pink flush coloured her cheeks. “Yes, sir.”
Anthony held out his arm to lead her into the dining room. At least he could seat her beside himself, rather than that rogue Harting. “Shall we go in?”
Once Marcus set aside professional indignation at an amateur’s interference, Danbury’s idea to roust the murderers had grown on him the more he mulled it over. In light of British interests it might not be a bad plan.
They had no way of knowing who might have learned that the Peacock Throne had come into the hands of the Centaur’s crew. Although the old Earl and Rudolph Wolfe apparently kept their vow of silence, the other surviving seaman may not have been so reliable. Even the Mughal’s representative could have spread the information. Particularly if he had come under duress. Half a century after the event it would be well nigh impossible to determine who might know of the affair.
Danbury’s plan to provoke action on the part of the murderer was brilliant in that it challenged the murderer, and with luck would lead the culprit pell-mell into their hands. Assuming that, after telling him where the throne had been hidden, the two men were murdered to prevent them from divulging information about the throne and its location to anyone else, it seemed a reasonable hypothesis that the murderer had plans to retrieve the throne. They just had to beat him to the island, or at least catch up with him while he was about his task.
There were, of course, drawbacks to Danbury’s plan. They might miss the murderer altogether. Worse yet they might actually find the throne and have to decide what to do with it. The logistics would be nightmarish. Moreover, there was the danger—not for himself, but the others.
Marcus had no desire to go to any godforsaken island in the Indian Ocean, but he could not allow Danbury to go on his own. Aside from the possibility that he was a traitor, if the young imbecile encountered trouble and got wounded or killed, the blame would be laid at Marcus’s door—even if by no one but himself. Perhaps he would get lucky and determine that the whole tale of thrones and jewels had all been a hoa
x. He kneaded his knee, fingers sensitive to the ridge of scar tissue discernible through the fabric of his breeches. Alas, that wasn’t his kind of luck. It was highly likely that this little adventure wasn’t going to end well.
He sighed and approached the necessary conversation in a roundabout way. “Have you uncovered any new information from the diary?”
Danbury grinned like an idiot. In fact he had been grinning like an idiot since Marcus had come in. This could not possibly bode well.
“Yes, we did. Mr Wolfe revealed the location of the throne. His coordinates match those of an island named Mahe, part of the Seychelles chain.”
Marcus summoned a smile. It probably looked more sickly than celebratory, but he could muster no enthusiasm. “How are the preparations coming along for your expedition?”
“The details are coming together more quickly than I dared hope. The peace will make things much simpler. I plan to set sail in April or May. It is impossible that the murderer could be any quicker. Even if he could afford to mount his own expedition, what are the odds he would have access to a ship of his own that could make the journey at a moment’s notice?”
His stomach gurgled and Marcus set down his soup spoon. “That is a question for the gentlemen of Tattersalls. Still, I think you are correct.” It was his prerogative to collect information, to horde it for himself, not to share it with all and sundry. It felt wrong. He had already revealed more information than was his wont. But now he needed to share even more. Just enough so Danbury could make a noose for himself with it if he were so inclined. After all, if he was the traitor, then Marcus wouldn’t be sharing anything Danbury didn’t already know. “Danbury, there are some things you must know. The danger you face is greater than you may have realized.”
The happy glow drained away, leaving Danbury’s face taut and hard. “What are you hiding?”
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