The Peacock Throne by Lisa Karon Richardson Page A

needn’t be involved.”
    â€œAnd let you have all the fun?” Even as she said it her tongue felt thick.
    He nodded as if she had passed some sort of test and strode from the room, leaving her to follow. Despite the bravado of her words, it took all her courage to follow Lord Danbury out to the carriage.

    Marcus stood half dozing as he kept an eye on the house from the darkened mews. His hireling should be here in half an hour or so. Rubbing his gloved hands together he thought longingly of his club—his warm, comfortable, well-provisioned club.
    Drat Pitt and all politicians anyway.
    A carriage rattled up in front of the house and Marcus started to attention. Finally something unorthodox was happening. Awash for a moment in the light from the open door, Lord Danbury and a girl glanced about furtively as they bustled out to the carriage. The hour had grown too late for any legitimate business. And that girl was dressed like a scullery maid. She was neither a fine lady nor a demirep ready to spend the night in frivolity.
    Marcus nearly crowed in exhilaration. He had known they were up to something. They didn’t even have a footman in attendance. The coachman sat alone on the box. It could only mean they wanted as few as possible to be aware of their activities.
    Taking advantage of the lack of attendants, Marcus darted to the side of the carriage and eased onto the backboard, being careful to keep his head low so they would not spot him. Unwitting of the stowaway, the carriage clattered off into the night.

    Emerging from the coach, Lydia took the lead, guiding Lord Danbury through a warren of alleys and side streets. Neither Lydia nor his Lordship had spoken during their journey. The murky darkness hindered their progress and they moved cautiously, having no desire to meet anyone on this particular errand.
    Music and hazy light spilled along the street as the door of a nearby bawdy house opened and an obviously inebriated young man teetered out. He waved a cheery good-bye, which was answered by a chorus of ribald humour and raucous laughter before the doorshut firmly behind him. Making an attempt at dignity, the fellow tried to straighten his cravat. Having hopelessly disarranged it he set off, his course wobbling and unsure, presumably towards home.
    Lydia and Danbury stayed silent and still in the shadows until he had disappeared around a corner.
    â€œThe fool is going to get himself killed,” whispered Lord Danbury ferociously.
    Something in his tone made Lydia turn and look at him. “You know him, then?”
    â€œThe idiot recently inherited a large fortune. He seems bent on spending it all as quickly and uselessly as possible.”
    Lydia understood his frustration. The dolt would undoubtedly wake on the street somewhere to find himself the possessor of a pounding headache and a bruise the size of a goose egg, while at the same time missing his expensive coat, cravat, shoes, hat and walking stick, as well as his purse—if indeed there were anything in it left to take.
    The desire to follow and see the poor fellow home tugged at her. A single glance at Lord Danbury’s impatient figure silenced the notion. Perhaps it would do the man good to learn such a lesson, painful though it might be.
    Pushing the young man’s folly from her mind, she led the way through the gloom until they reached the rear of the coffee house. They had scarcely taken up position across the street in an alcove when the door opened and Fenn appeared. She stiffened at the sight of him and held her breath. He was so close. How could he fail to spot them hovering in the shadows? But he hummed a gin-house tune and seemed to be looking forward to his carousing.
    Gradually she let out her breath as Fenn made his way down the street with a jaunty stride.
    â€œI think it would be safe to go in now. He doesn’t generally leave until Mrs Wolfe is in bed,” Lydia whispered, before darting across the street