Free The Peacock Throne by Lisa Karon Richardson

loose the knotted string holding it closed. After a moment’s frustration, in which his agitated fumbling made the knots worse, he uttered a low oath. Dropping the package on his desk he rummaged about for a knife to cut the string.
    Lydia picked up the package and worried the knot. Of all his sailor’s skills, Mr Wolfe had always been proud of his knots.
    With a triumphant grunt, Lord Danbury held aloft a penknife just as Lydia extended the opened parcel.
    He had the grace to laugh. “I suppose I’m a bit anxious to see what is in this.” Accepting the proffered package he folded back the wrapping paper.
    Inside lay a leather-bound book of foolscap and a handful of loose papers. Danbury’s hands trembled slightly as he picked up the book and examined it. Lydia glanced at Mr Harting, who reclined negligently in his chair. His posture declared him uninterested, but his presence in this house forbore that conclusion. Disquiet roiled her belly, but she turned resolutely away from him. She was far more interested in finding what her cousin had so carefully hidden away.
    â€œHe kept a log of the journey.” Lord Danbury’s cheeks flushed crimson, and his eyes glittered in excitement. He leafed through the pages. “No, it is more a diary than a log.”
    Unable to restrain herself any longer, Lydia reached for the loose sheets. She glanced at the top page and then read it again, more thoroughly. “Lord Danbury, I believe this must have been written by your father.”
    She read aloud.
    â€œThis document is a complete explanation of the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of the great Peacock Throne of the Mughals in 1758. My name is Captain Richard Douglas; I am the youngest son of the Viscount Graham.”
    â€œHe must have written this long ago,” Lord Danbury murmured.
    â€œIn 1757 I was fortunate enough to be appointed post-captain and given charge of the Centaur, a 28-gun frigate. We were sent out to India on a mission to protect English trade in the region.
    We had good cruising and were doing well for ourselves in the matter of prize money when we turned in to Bombay for a complete refitting. The process in those parts takes even longer than it does at an English dockyard. I had plenty of opportunity to become acquainted with the East India Company officials and, through them, some of the members of the Mughal’s family.
    I cannot adequately describe the atmosphere of those days. The Mughal Empire had long since been crumbling into ruin; armies had invaded from the north. Yet at the court, frivolity reigned. Gold and jewels flowed about the royals like water, while the people starved. Decadence was the order of the day. The richness of the palace hid the rotting corpse of the empire, but poorly.
    While we were taking on a load of fresh water and fruit for the crew in preparation for sailing, a young lady approached me from the shadows with a request. I knew her to be a member of the Mughal’s family and gave her every consideration.
    This lady begged me on behalf of her cousin to take the jewelled Peacock Throne to a place of safety. It had been placed in hiding after an Indian holy man had prophesied that if the throne were captured, the light of the Mughals would be extinguished forever. But if the throne escaped the Shah’s clutches, a new Mughal empire would arise from the ashes of the old.
    They had come up with a scheme to spirit the throne out of the country in a manner no one would suspect. That was when my services were requested.
    At first I would have nothing to do with their plan. Would to God I had listened to my own reservations, but I did not. I allowed myself to be persuaded when an official from the East India Company also approached me.
    I followed him to a dilapidated old warehouse lying empty and unused in the seediest part of that sordid port. Wishing mightily that I had not agreed to this folly, I yet allowed him to show me a