A Masquerade in the Moonlight (28 page)

He lifted one bushy gray eyebrow and glared up at her. “You’ve got a mean streak in you, Marguerite,” he growled, shifting in his chair. “Remind me of your grandmother more with each passing day.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Marguerite responded, curtsying. “Aren’t you going to compliment me on my toilette? It will doubtless take Maisie entire days to recover from the miracle she has wrought this evening.”

“You won’t send anyone screaming for cover, little girl, if that’s what you mean,” Sir Gilbert answered gruffly, pushing himself up from his chair as if reluctant to leave its comfort. “Now, now. Don’t pout. You know very well how beautiful you are, and shouldn’t be dangling after compliments. Where’s your mother’s pearls? Shouldn’t you be wearing them? Look sort of naked without anything, you know.”

Marguerite’s hands flew to her bare throat. “Why, you terrible old man, to shock me with such plain speech.”

Sir Gilbert gave a blustering cough and made for the drinks table and a glass of the gin he favored—and the same gin Marguerite had generously watered just that afternoon, although her grandfather was not to know that. “I couldn’t shock you, little girl, if I were to spout a string of curses as long as Sir Peregrine Totton’s nose.”

After pouring himself a generous portion, he turned to squint in Marguerite’s direction. “I tripped over Totton this afternoon as he was mincing out of here, as full of himself as ever. Worst fiver I ever made, damn if it wasn’t. He ain’t going to be there tonight, is he? Him, or that hangdog Harewood, or that paper-skulled Mappleton? I don’t mind Laleham, seeing as how he’s our neighbor and all—and at least he don’t spend all his time making a cake of himself.”

Marguerite seated herself in the chair Sir Gilbert had recently vacated, demurely spreading her skirts around her. “Why, I suppose they will all be in attendance. Along with my other beau, of course, Lord Chorley.”

Sir Gilbert threw back the gin in one long gulp, then shivered. “Odds fish! I’d as lief offer m’self up to be purged by that quack you hired to ride herd on me. Chorley’s so dense he takes all the joy out of stripping him of his blunt. Marguerite—darling child—can’t you see it in your heart to muddle through tonight without me? That Billings woman should be enough for you. God knows she’s more than enough for me!”

Marguerite, who felt herself to be getting more than sufficient experience at playacting these days, drew her fine features into a disappointed frown, then brightened, as if she’d just had a most wonderful idea. “Are you open to bribes, Grandfather?” she asked, grinning up at him.

Sir Gilbert slammed the empty glass down on the table. “Done!” he exclaimed, obviously delighted with his granddaughter’s ready acceptance of his defection. Then he sobered. “What is it? I won’t be tricked into allowing you use of my saddle, the way you do at Chertsey. This is London, gel, and it’s your sidesaddle or nothing here. And I won’t let you shoot anybody either—unless it’s one of those old fools you’ve got running tame in my house. I’ll make an exception in that case.”

“Oh, pooh!” Marguerite exclaimed, feigning displeasure as she stood. “Very well, old man. But could we compromise? You mentioned that I look naked without Mama’s pearls. However, I expressly did not wear them because they were not the correct shade with this gown—not that I would ask you to worry your head about such things.”

She approached Sir Gilbert, sliding her arms around his neck and tilting her head to one side coquettishly. “But Grandmother’s beautiful ruby necklace—ah, Grandfather, it would be perfect!”

“My Margy’s rubies?” Sir Gilbert shook his head. “Pretty enough baubles, I suppose. But they’re as red as spilled blood, as l recall, and not the thing for an innocent young gel to be sporting.”

“Yes, blood red.” Marguerite leaned forward, laying her cheek on the old man’s broad chest.
Like the blood of a virgin, offered to the man she gives herself to.
She wished, had planned, for this to be a night of omens, of veiled symbolism; a momentous night, and one Thomas Joseph Donovan would never dare to forget. “Did I forget to tell you Lord Mappleton is bringing Georgianna Rollins with him tonight? He sent round a note this afternoon in which he expressly wished the opportunity to visit with you this evening at Lady Jersey’s, to thank you for introducing him to his lovely Georgianna.”

“Oh, no. Not that. Anything but that decrepit Romeo and Miss Eyebrows! Miss Eyebrows—that’s what Donovan calls her. Now, there’s a man I could welcome!” He disentangled himself from Marguerite’s embrace and approached the fireplace, pushing a concealed button on the ornately carved mantelpiece so that the painting of his late wife slipped to one side, revealing a shallow compartment and a metal strongbox. In less than a moment he was rooting through its contents for the delicate gold and ruby necklace.

“And the earrings, Grandfather,” Marguerite prompted from behind him, knowing she’d as much be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Society would not take kindly to seeing her in rubies. “They are quite small, as I remember, and not in the least decadent. And, as my arms are bare, the bracelet as well?”

Five minutes later, after Mrs. Billings had appeared, drab gray gown and resigned expression intact—even in the face of her charge’s outlandish jewelry—Marguerite kissed Sir Gilbert good night and headed for the doorway.

She paused just at the threshold and looked back at her grandfather, knowing in her heart it would be the last time she would see him through the eyes of innocence. Then she took a deep breath, turned, lifted her chin—and went off to face her future.

“Stand still, for the love of heaven! How do you expect me to tie this thing if you’re going to be wriggling about? Anyone would think you’ve got bugs up your breeches.”

Thomas lifted his chin and peeked over the top of Dooley’s gray head, the better to see himself in the mirror. “Paddy, you’re doing it all wrong,” he complained, reaching up his own hands to adjust the neck cloth—the third he had donned in as many minutes. “And you’re choking me half to death.” He pulled the starched linen loose and threw it on the bed. “Never mind, Paddy. It’s useless to go on with this one. Hand me another. I’ll just tie it the way I’ve always done, and the devil with it.”

“And isn’t that what I’ve been saying all along?” Dooley asked, picking up the discarded neck cloth and wiping his sweaty brow with the thing. “To tell the God’s truth, boyo, you look better a little mussed—more human. Anyone would think you were fitting yourself out to be a bridegroom, the way you’ve been fussing. Good—that one looks better.” He tossed the neck cloth onto a chair and picked up his hat. “Can we be going now, or would you be wanting me to give your jacket another brush-up? Or mayhap you’d like to reconsider your rig-out entirely? You’ve changed two times already, by the hokey, so I wouldn’t be more than half surprised to see you stripping to the buff and starting over yet again.”

Thomas shrugged into his midnight blue frock coat, shaking his head, but avoiding Dooley’s eyes, for he was feeling somewhat embarrassed. He
was
acting like a nervous bridegroom. “No, Paddy, I think I’m ready now. Is the coach you hired waiting?”

Dooley preceded him out of the bedchamber and into the small sitting room. “It had better be, boyo, for the blunt we had to lay down for a single night’s hire.”

“A closed coach,” Thomas said, grabbing a cloak and opening the door to the hallway before motioning for Dooley to lead the way. “You did remember it’s to be a closed coach.”

“Which one of your two eyes do you want me to blacken, Tommie, asking me such a question? You told me a closed coach, and I hired a closed coach. I didn’t even ask why, now did I? Nor did I inquire as to why I’m supposed to be going along with you tonight, when you know I take to all this dressing up and carrying on like the devil loves holy water.” He stopped at the top of the stairway to look piercingly at Thomas. “You’re up to no good, aren’t you, Tommie?”

“Now, Paddy, you wouldn’t want to hear the answer to that, now would you?” Thomas brushed by Dooley and descended the stairs two at a time, leaving the shorter man to catch up.

When they reached the street and the waiting coach, Thomas changed the subject. “You saw Chorley today?” he questioned Dooley as they climbed into the coach after giving the driver Lady Jersey’s direction (and some short, private instructions he hoped with all his heart the hired coachie would soon have need to carry out).

“That I did, and in that same filthy gaming hell,” Dooley answered, settling himself for the short ride that, if Lady Jersey’s ball was going to be as crowded as most balls, would take at least two hours. “He’s losing now, boyo, just as you said he would. Losing more in one turn of a card than I’ll see in my lifetime. Near the end today he started scribbling his vowels, gambling with money he doesn’t have. Tell me, Tommie, how does any one man, even an Englisher, get so thoroughly stupid?”

Thomas smiled broadly, silently congratulating Marguerite for her unerring assessment of Lord Chorley’s weak character. “He can’t help it, Paddy. All the man’s ducks were laying for a while, and he’s convinced they will again, if only he can hold on until his luck turns. Only it won’t. Our friend of the frayed cuffs and the fuzzed cards will make sure of that. I wonder what Marguerite plans for his lordship once his pockets are completely to let, for she’s the one who’ll be holding those IOU’s, you know. We Irish may have invented the practice of scribbling our vowels for debts, but the English have taken to it like fish to water.”

The coach, that had been moving along slowly but steadily, halted as they came near the square, to join the long line of vehicles that made a three-block procession to Lady Jersey’s front door. Dooley shook his head. “She baits Mappleton with a few diamonds and a much too willing young woman, sets a sharper on Chorley, and God only knows about this business with Totton—and you think it’s funny? Don’t it all make you wonder what she might have planned for
you
? You’re even talking about
marrying
the girl.”

Thomas pulled a cheroot from his pocket and stuck it, unlit, between his teeth. “Ah, Paddy, I know,” he said, grinning again. “Isn’t love grand?”

Those who’ll play with cats must expect to be scratched.

— Miguel de Cervantes

T
he first words Thomas heard upon entering the overheated ballroom were about “that Balfour chit. Doesn’t her chaperone have a ha’p’orth of sense, letting her wear rubies? Running with old men to make up for her lack of dowry is bad enough—but this puts the gel beyond the pale. Rubies! Mark me, next she’ll be rouging her lips.”

Thomas was amused. The woman he had overheard couldn’t hold a candle to his Marguerite—as could none of the other females clogging the ballroom with their ruffles and flounces and overpowering scents. No wonder Marguerite was never found in the company of women—they most probably bored her half to death. She didn’t have time to waste in idle gossip or worrying about what other people would say. She was too busy running her private war against the men who believed themselves to be her beaux.

“Paddy,” Thomas said when he had scanned the room and spied Marguerite sitting alone with her nervously smiling chaperone, her chin high as if she knew very well people were talking about her but didn’t care so much as a jot what anyone thought, “why don’t you take yourself off to the card room and see if Chorley is as busy losing what’s left of his fortune this evening as he was this afternoon? And don’t bother to look for me. I won’t join you for several hours—four at the least.”

Dooley was looking around the violet-bunting-hung chamber with open disgust. “Four hours? You’re going to leave me propping up a wall in this place for four hours?”

“Or more.” Thomas reached into his pocket, drew out a wad of bills, and handed it to his friend. “Here you go, Paddy—that is, if you want to gamble with these Englishmen.”

“Does a fish swim?” Paddy asked, grabbing at the money Donovan had so lately won from the honorable Julian Quist. He pocketed it, then looked at Thomas. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take yourself off, boyo—I’ve got business to attend to in the other room.”