Free The Peacock Throne by Lisa Karon Richardson Page B

gave a good showing, but we were no match for three ships. We would have been taken at that moment but for a squall that hid us long enough for us to limp away. We found shelter on the lee side of a small island. The French ships scoured the sea for their prize, but we dismasted Centaur and remained hidden in our little cove.
    When we at last felt that the French must have moved on, we performed what repairs we could. Short-handed as we were, every hand took shifts at the pumps, myself included. We sailed from our haven on 20 August 1759.
    Just two days later we spotted another sail on the horizon. Chinese pirates had come upon us. Our pitiful condition was patent or they would never have had the temerity to attack a king’s ship.
    The fighting was the most brutal I have ever witnessed. The pirates fought as if possessed. My crew was the bravest set of men I’ve had the privilege of sailing with but we were outnumbered and overpowered.
    When all had been lost those few of us left alive jumped overboard. Less than a handful survived. The pirates finished looting the Centaur, and then set fire to her. In disbelief we watched as the ship became a floating pyre for our comrades, many of whom were not yet dead, but injured. In my nightmares I can still taste the smoke and ashes of that inferno.
    We lashed together wreckage from the Centaur and made a raft. To shorten a story that has already been made too long, suffice it to say that we made it to safety and eventually found our way back to England.
    Knowing that the Peacock Throne may remain where we left it, possibly lost forever to history, is a powerful temptation to greed. We have undertaken to write out this confession as a safeguard against our own natures. None of us have the means to return for the throne alone, but if we ever do, each will be aware that the others will hold him accountable. That throne has been hallowed by the blood of our comrades. We will leave it buried.”
    Scrawled at the bottom of the page were the signatures of three men.

C HAPTER 9
    The room remained utterly silent for a moment. Enthralled by the tale, Anthony had been transported to a time and place long ago. He blinked, slowly bringing the comfortable, well-furnished study back into focus. It seemed anticlimactic somehow, to find himself safe and secure in the midst of London, rather than in the heart of the Indian subcontinent.
    Harting broke the silence. “It’s hard to believe no one ever went back to retrieve the throne.”
    â€œShortly after the Seven Years War my grandfather and then father’s elder brother died. Father resigned his commission to come home and assume the title. I don’t know that he would have had the opportunity.”
    â€œI doubt the others would have had means to do so.” Lydia rifled through the pages once more and then extended the document to Anthony.
    He took it and gazed at his father’s hand, not reading the words so much as tracing the form of each familiarly shaped letter. His throat burned. If he could not find the murderer, perhaps there was a way to encourage the murderer to reveal himself. “I’ve had a thought.”
    Harting and Lydia waited politely.
    â€œI’m going to mount an expedition to retrieve this cursed throne.” He tapped the confession with his finger. “And thereby solve the murders.”
    â€œMay I point out that you have no business trying to solve anything? That’s what runners and magistrates are for.” Derision coated Harting’s tone, thick and heavy.
    Anthony regarded him coldly. The man knew nothing about the situation, yet he felt compelled to stick his oar in. “You may not, sir. I know I’m sadly lacking in experience. But I will not stand idly by while my father’s murderer walks about freely. It is obvious to me that whoever murdered my father and Mr Wolfe was intent on finding information about the throne. Why else should they seek out my