The Peacock Throne by Lisa Karon Richardson Page B

to try the back entrance. No matter how she jostled the handle it would not budge. She grimaced in annoyance. Fenn would remember to lock the door on the one night she wanted to get in. She motioned for Anthony to follow her to the edge of the coffee house. About nine feet above them a narrow eave nestled in the crook of the house.
    â€œMy window is there.” Lydia pointed out the tiny opening above them.
    â€œIt looks rather small,” Lord Danbury said dubiously.
    â€œI’ll fit.” She wanted to be done and gone. Her heart pounded in her throat, and her lips were growing chapped from being worried by her teeth, but she had to know what lay behind Mr Wolfe’s death. She wiped her palms on her skirt. “Help me?”
    Sucking in a deep lungful of air, Lydia stepped up into the basket Lord Danbury made of his hands. Then she stepped to his shoulders. From that vantage, she was able to get enough of a grip on the edge of the overhang to haul herself up the rest of the way. Perched precariously on the narrow ledge, she paused to catch her breath. Her ribs ached from the effort of the climb and she held them protectively. Sweat sprang to her brow. Palms flat on the window she jiggled it gently from side to side. The bolt slipped down into its chamber with a satisfying snick.
    Again she rubbed damp palms on her skirt as she paused for a moment to see if the sound of the latch had roused any sign of life from Mrs Wolfe. Ever so carefully she raised the window, mindful of each squeak and groan of the wood. It seemed to take ages, but eventually she had it opened all the way.
    Thrusting one arm through, she pushed through the window at an angle until she had enough leverage to redistribute her weight and pull in the other arm. Hands planted on the garret floor, she pulled her lower body through. Her bodice caught at the waist on a protruding nail. The unwelcome sound of tearing cloth caused her to wince—to her over-sensitive ears it sounded as loud as a night watchman’s rattle. She reached up with one hand and freed the torn fabric, then proceeded to worm her way through the window. Until—
    For a heart-stopping moment she feared her hips had stuck fast. She wriggled madly and lost a bit of skin, but at last she found herself fully inside the familiar old room.
    Lydia scrambled to her feet and, taking care to make no noise, leaned out of the window and signalled Lord Danbury. He retreated to even deeper shadow and she lowered the sash back into place.
    Congratulating herself on her foresight, she pulled a tiny vial of oil from her apron pocket and liberally doused the hinges of her door. She eased the door open, breathing a sigh of relief when no hideous screech sounded.
    She knew the house so well she did not need a light in order to reach the stairs and make her way down them, which was just as well since no light was to be had in the dreary interior.
    Breathless from nerves she slunk into the kitchen, unlatched the door and peered outside, motioning Danbury to enter. He darted in from the darkness and stepped aside, making way for her to close the door behind him.
    â€œWhere is it?” he hissed.
    â€œOver there.” She motioned towards the big fireplace at the end of the kitchen.
    The fire had been banked for the night and provided no illumination. Lydia felt the wall near the fireplace, her fingers sensitive to each variation in the rough brick surface. It took but a moment to find the two loose bricks and pry them out. Danbury took them from her almost reverently.
    Lydia reached inside the gaping hole. Her groping was rewarded by the smoother texture of a paper-wrapped parcel. The package slid out easily.
    Grinning like an imbecile, she handed the thin package to Lord Danbury and hastily replaced the bricks. They turned to go, but then froze. Someone rattled the latch. Lord Danbury leapt for the cellar door. He yanked it open and held it for her.
    Too late.
    The back door opened