A Masquerade in the Moonlight (14 page)

“Not if he has half a brain in his head, but I doubt even a full brain would stop an Englishman from believing he could wipe your Irish mug all over the floor,” Dooley said, grinning as he held out a bottle-green frock coat once Thomas had succeeded in pulling on hose and a freshly pressed pair of buff-colored breeches, his shirttails neatly tucked inside before he closed the buttons against his flat belly. “Wear the pumps. You’ll not be wanting your boots, boyo, if you’re going to have to step into the ring, for I’m not going to act the valet in the middle of Bond Street.”

“Who says I’m going to mill anybody down, not that the thought doesn’t serve to brighten my day? And you’re getting fairly full of yourself, aren’t you, Paddy?” Thomas teased, searching through a pile of clothes and papers lying on the desk in hopes of locating his hat. “Anyone would think I’d asked for your assistance. I’m fully grown and capable of looking after myself, thank you.”

“Your hat is in the other room, hanging from a candelabra, your cane propped on the floor beside it,” Dooley told him, heading out of the bedroom they had been sharing since coming to London three weeks earlier. “Now, come on, boyo—we’ve got our country’s business to attend to and, if we’re lucky, an Englishman or two to bash.”

It took almost a full half hour for the rented hack to take them through the early afternoon traffic from Piccadilly to Bond Street, and Thomas passed the time munching on a meat pie he had purchased from a hawker just outside the hotel, so that he was refreshed, if thirsty, when he and Dooley walked into Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and asked for Sir Ralph Harewood.

“The gentlemen’s party is awaiting them upstairs,” the liveried servant said, bowing, and then ushered them toward the staircase with a wave of his hand.

Dooley looked back at the liveried servant before he and Thomas climbed the stairs two at a time, and remarked, “Bunch of nonsense, Tommie. Bowing servants, great hulking chandeliers, Chinese wallpapers. It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is. Ah—this is more like it! A place like this—full of fists aching for a hit—I’ve died and the sweet angels have lifted me up to heaven’s gate.”

Thomas stopped at the head of the stairs and grinned in agreement. They were faced with a most enormous room filled with roped-off rings and painted squares marking areas on the sawdust-strewn wood floor. Sawdust was good. It meant the gentlemen were expected not only to hit each other, but to bleed as well. He felt his palms itch, aching for the friendly opportunity to beat one of his fellowman’s two ears into one.

Everywhere Thomas looked gentlemen, some stripped to their waists, some still dressed for the street and standing by idly, drinks in their hands, were immersed in performing or observing the manly sport of boxing as it was practiced in London.

In Philadelphia the scene would have been very different. Mills took place out-of-doors, for one thing, and the rules weren’t quite so stringent. But spilled blood was still red, and a fist was still a man’s best weapon. How different could it all be?

The room, Thomas noticed, was as bright as it was big, for there were floor-to-ceiling windows lining two walls, and dust motes danced in the sunlight pouring in through those uncurtained windows.

The noise level was delightfully high, the air smelled of sawdust and sweat, and there wasn’t a lady to be seen—which was as it should be, for females did nothing but muck up what they couldn’t understand, crying and fainting at the sight of a little blood. Although he thought Marguerite might appreciate the scene.

No nuances here though, either, such as Thomas had faced in society, had just encountered with Marguerite. No saying one thing and meaning another. No foolery. Just fists and jaws—and backslaps and drinks once it was over. No hard feelings. No recriminations. This was a man’s world, a man’s kingdom, and Thomas immediately felt at home.

“There’s Sir Ralph,” Dooley said, breaking into Thomas’s thoughts as he gestured to a small knot of men standing to the right of one of the rings. “He’s over there with Mappleton and some bloke I don’t recognize. Now there’s Death, boyo—and I didn’t even have to send you for him.”

Thomas looked in the direction of Dooley’s pointed finger, immediately seeing Harewood and Mappleton, and just as quickly dismissing them. There was a third gentleman standing with them, half a head taller than the tall Harewood, and he was speaking to them earnestly while they seemed to listen as if he was saying something of immeasurable importance. The man’s jaw, remarkably square and spare, was topped by a wide, thin-lipped mouth below a long, aquiline nose, and his dark eyes were framed by black slashing brows. The silver hair at his temples added nothing to his age, but only to his air of consequence. Dressed all in black, his snowy white neck cloth climbing halfway up his throat, the man had an air of leashed energy about him.

Death? No, not Death
, Thomas decided, one side of his mouth lifting in a thoughtful smile.
Danger
.

“Give me the time, if you’d be so kind, Paddy,” Thomas said quietly. “Are we unfashionably early?”

Dooley pulled a huge pocket watch from his waistcoat and snapped it open. “Only by about twenty minutes, Tommie. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, although I believe Sir Ralph and his friends may have thought we’d be fashionably late. Come along. Now that we’re here, we wouldn’t wish to keep our host waiting.” Thomas snatched a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant—a bandy-legged little man who looked up at Thomas angrily then, seeing how far he had to tip back his head to do his looking, smiled nervously and blurted out, “Thank you, sir!” even before Thomas tossed him a coin.

Raising his voice about three notches, so that he would be heard over the din all around them, Thomas employed both hands to protectively clutch the knob of his cane against his chest and all but shouted, “Where do you suppose Sir Ralph to be, Paddy? Surely you misread our invitation—for whatever would civilized gentlemen do in a place like this? Good Lord, Paddy—that man’s bleeding! Terrible!”

“That’s a little too thick and rare, boyo,” Dooley whispered out of the corner of his mouth as Thomas noted with some satisfaction that the tall black-clad gentleman had already moved off, to stand looking into the ring at two combatants in the process of exchanging sloppy, ineffectual punches. “It would take the world’s worst looby to believe you were one what couldn’t handle his fives.”

“Never underestimate the thickheadedness of those who would believe you their inferiors, Paddy,” Thomas said softly, then stepped forward to extend his hand to Sir Ralph, who was approaching them from across the room, an undecipherable smile on his nondescript face. “Sir Ralph! A pleasure, I’m sure. How condescending of you to agree to meet with us.”

“As official representatives of your government, Mr. Donovan, Mr. Dooley, how could I refuse this interview?” Sir Ralph responded, his voice carrying over the din all around them. “Although I must warn you beforehand, my own government is adamant in refusing to assume any culpability in this business of English sailors called to serve their country.”

“Then I expect our business is already concluded.” Thomas’s grin was wide and unaffected. “Which does not mean we three cannot enjoy each other’s company on such a fine afternoon, does it, Sir Ralph?”

“Indeed, no. We are all civilized people, Mr. Donovan. In truth, my invitation for you and your friend to join Lord Mappleton and myself today was strictly social. We can’t always be speaking of business, now can we?”

Thomas nodded, considering the man’s words. “How very kind, Sir Ralph.”

“Thank you. Now, won’t you join Lord Mappleton and me as we watch the sparring going on just over here between Lord Ludworth and Baron Strath? It has so far proved to be an impressive display of the proper science of attack and defense.”

“Really? How interesting. I’m ashamed to admit I am not familiar with the
science
of the thing. Coming, Paddy?” Thomas asked as Sir Ralph headed back the way he had come.

“I shouldn’t. Not if I had a thimbleful of sense,” Dooley growled in an undertone, taking the cane Thomas held out to him. “The devil’s peeking out from between your two eyes, boyo, and no mistake. Remember—we’re here for a reason, and it has precious little to do with bashing anyone on the noggin. Although I wish I were five years younger and two stone lighter, so I might climb in the ring m’self.”

“Twenty years, at the least, and three stone, Paddy, but I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

Sir Ralph had walked ahead of Thomas and Paddy, and by the time they had caught up with him, Lord Mappleton was glaring at them through a quizzing glass stuck to his left eye. “What? What? I
know
they’re here, Ralph, for pity’s sake, for I can see them clear as day. You don’t have to remind me. I say, hello there, Donaldson. Awfully good to see you again. Sorry about the other night. Busy, you know. Dreadfully busy. Tonight the Royal Opera House. Miss Balfour has expressly insisted upon my attendance in Sir Gilbert’s box.” He shook his head and the quizzing glass became unstuck, falling to the middle of his chest, where it hung from a green, satin riband. “Busy, busy, busy.”

“More than a few slates off this one’s roof, ain’t there,
Donaldson
?” Dooley whispered from behind Thomas. “I think I’ll just be taking myself off to go watch those fellas over there awhile, seeing as how nobody ever pays me a whit of attention anyways. One of them ain’t half bad with his right hand.”

“Do that, Paddy,” Thomas said with a smile before extending his hand to Lord Mappleton, who looked first to Sir. Ralph, as if appealing to him for guidance as to whether or not he should shake the American’s hand. “Lord Mappleton—how good to see you again. And to hear you’re still having such marvelous success with the ladies! How gratifying. But then, I am not surprised. An interesting gentleman such as your lordship will always be surrounded by female admirers.”

Lord Mappleton puffed up his chest (which, for the majority of the time, resided closer to his generous stomach), and grinned in genuine happiness. “Like you, Dollinger—truly I do. Don’t you like him, Ralph? Pity he’s American.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” Sir Ralph said without emotion, then gestured for Thomas to step closer. “I must be honest, Mr. Donovan. I suggested this meeting not just to show you some English hospitality, but also in order to get some of the preliminaries out of the way before our get-together on Saturday. I’ve spoken with Sir Peregrine, you understand, concerning the interview you had in his office the other day, and we—er—I felt it necessary to reassure myself of your sincerity, among other things.”

“Really?” Thomas answered, deliberately raising one eyebrow as he peered incredulously into Sir Ralph’s face. “How extraordinarily depressing. I’m so ashamed. Was it something I said?”

“You made mention of the French,” Sir Ralph told him, speaking quietly, surreptitiously, out of one corner of his mouth. Didn’t the man have any idea about the workings of subtlety? There couldn’t be anyone higher than a footman in this entire place who wouldn’t know with one look that some secret conversation was taking place. “That was an unfortunate accusation, Mr. Donovan, and totally without foundation.”

“So Sir Peregrine assured me,” Thomas answered, seeing that the man who had lately been with Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton was now being assisted from his frock coat by one of the servants. “It had been merely a random thought, and I’ve summarily dismissed it. My belief in your sincerity now knows no bounds. Anything else?”

Sir Ralph took a single step closer and cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something else. It concerns Miss Balfour. Stay away from her.”

The man had discarded his neck cloth and shirt, so that he was now bare to the waist. The servant bent to remove the man’s black pumps, so that he soon stood clothed in nothing save his snow-white hose and black tight-fitting breeches. He might have twenty years or more on Thomas, but he certainly stripped to advantage, his shoulders broad, his arms neatly muscular. “Miss Balfour, you say, Sir Ralph?” Thomas asked, frowning. “I don’t understand. Is she betrothed?”

“What? What? Betrothed? Nonsense, man! Not allowed, don’t you know. Talk, dance, keep her occupied. But betrothed? Oh, I don’t think so. He wouldn’t like that above half.”

Sir Ralph’s dark eyes flashed with anger, but only for a moment—a moment anyone less observant than Thomas would have missed. “What Lord Mappleton here means, Mr. Donovan, is we are all rather fond of Miss Balfour—Lord Mappleton, Sir Peregrine, Lord Chorley, and myself—and we do not care to hear her name bandied about as you did last night. We may have dealings with you Americans, but we do not appreciate your boldly stated salacious attention to our young ladies of quality. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Donovan?”

“Salacious, Sir Ralph?” Thomas sliced a look toward the now empty ring and the man still standing outside it. If the fellow was going to eavesdrop, Thomas didn’t wish to disappoint him. “That may have been the case in the beginning,” he said in a clear voice, “and I truly regret my rash, ungentlemanly words—but my emotions are now thoroughly engaged. I’m sure Lord Mappleton understands, also being very fond of the ladies. Ah, but when we fall, we scamps, we fall hard. I plan to wed the young lady, if she’ll have me. So you can relax, Sir Ralph. My intentions are entirely honorable.”

Lord Mappleton, who had been in the process of sipping from his wineglass, began to choke and cough, as if the wine had found its way into his windpipe. “Me?” he blustered once he could find his breath. “Why would I understand that?”

Thomas pretended not to hear Lord Mappleton’s remark, just as he pretended not to notice that the man beside the ring had straightened his already stunningly erect posture. “I say, Sir Ralph,” he began enthusiastically, “I see the ring just behind you is no longer occupied, although there is a gentleman standing there, apparently without an opponent. I realize I’m not a member, but do you suppose, now that our business is concluded, could I presume—I mean, not that I’ve ever done more than engage in the random alleyway brawl after a night of drinking—but would it be possible...?” He allowed his voice to trail off as he raised his hands, palms up, as if unable to find the correct words to describe the “science” of boxing.