A Masquerade in the Moonlight (19 page)

Dooley shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Thomas Joseph Donovan, do you know that?” he asked, suddenly looking as tired as Thomas felt. “We were sent here to do a bit of business. That’s all. Nothing more. But could you let it go at that? No, not Thomas Joseph Donovan. No, no. Serving his country isn’t enough. Not for our Thomas. He has to go looking for intrigues, for puzzles to solve and—because he
is
Thomas Joseph Donovan—there has to be a woman involved. Of course. There must be a woman. He wouldn’t have it any other way. God’s footstool, Tommie,” he ended, his voice rising even as he stood up, grabbed at one of Thomas’s clean shirts, and threw it at him, “but you’re a real
piece of work!
”

Thomas deftly caught the shirt and began to shrug an arm into it. “Thank you, Paddy,” he said brightly. “I knew you’d agree with me. Now, seeing that it’s such a fine sunny day for it, I think I’ll get dressed and go ferret out some more information about my dear, adorable, meddlesome Marguerite and our mutual friends. If we decide to add a small twist to our arrangement with our new friends—say, like finding a way to quietly turn them in to their Prime Minister—I wouldn’t want her to be in the way. I think I’ll begin with the Regent’s good friend Stinky. Are you coming, Paddy—or would you prefer to stay here and paw your rosary beads?”

“
Somebody
should be praying for your immortal soul, boyo,” Dooley grumbled, but he still got himself ready to go.

Marguerite sat very still as the shopkeeper held the silk flower and ribbon bedecked straw bonnet above her customer’s head, then settled it carefully, almost reverently on her coppery curls, as if she were officiating at a coronation.

The milliner stood back, her clasped hands to her breast. “
Magnifique
, Mademoiselle Balfour!
Très chic
! Monsieur, the mademoiselle, she is
ravissant
,
non
?”

Marguerite watched the mirror, seeing Sir Peregrine’s reflection as he sat behind her, tilting his head first to one side and then to the other, as if carefully weighing the milliner’s question before pronouncing judgment. “Well, Perry?” she prompted, doing her best to keep her tone light and cheerful in the face of his overweening self-assuredness. “Do I look ravishing—or would I be in danger of resembling nothing more than a living posie pot? I wouldn’t wish to confuse the bees as I make my way through the park during the Promenade.”

Totton finally shook his head. “The first one, dear Marguerite,” he pronounced at last, sighing as if he had just returned from a tiring trip down the mountain bearing clay tablets inscribed with his answer. “The yellow straw, Madame,” he then instructed the milliner, “the one with the delightful bunches of grapes. The symbolism of ripe grapes has been in use since the early Greeks. They speak of fruitfulness, you know, and endless bounty.”

Oh, really, Perry? Ancient Greeks, is it? Fruitfulness? Pompous ass!
Marguerite thought meanly, removing the hat and handing it to the milliner.
And would you have me traipsing around London advertising my worth as a brood mare?
But then she turned on the low stool and smiled at Sir Peregrine. “Not only your unmatched eye for a pleasing bonnet, but a lesson in history as well. Ah, Perry, you are so good to me. I cannot thank you enough for making this choice, which I am now assured is the correct one. But, I vow, you spoil me. Soon I shall not be able to make a single decision without your input. Shall it be eggs for breakfast or toast with honey? Shall I walk in the park or ride?”

Sir Peregrine rose from his chair and bowed low, acknowledging her thanks as his due, so that Marguerite could accept the hatbox and pull a face at the same time without anyone save the milliner to notice.

Once they were out in the sunshine again, making their way back up Bond Street, Sir Peregrine patted Marguerite’s hand, which he had pulled through his crooked arm. “How long have I known you, dear Marguerite?”

Now what was he about? Turning to look at him—and she could look straight into his eyes, for he was as short for a man as she was tall for a woman—she said, “Forever, I suppose, Perry. With William’s estate so close by Grandfather’s, and everyone visiting back and forth, I imagine you can remember me when I was still in leading strings. You, Arthur, Ralph, Stinky, and William. You were all such good, dear, and
trusted
friends to my parents.”

“Exactly,” Sir Peregrine answered, nodding, as if she had said precisely what he had wished her to say. “We feel rather like honorary godparents, Marguerite—all of us. We were there for your mother when Geoffrey died”—he lifted a fist to his mouth and coughed, as if having trouble with his throat—“and then again that terrible day at William’s when your dear mother collapsed.”

“You were all quite wonderful, Perry,” Marguerite responded woodenly, longing to push the man past her and into the path of an oncoming curricle. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. To do murder would make her like them. Her revenges would be more subtle. “And so endlessly helpful.”

“Yes, yes, of course. We were all good friends. Which is why, dear Marguerite, we have all taken such pains to be sure your entry into society is a smooth one, using our combined consequence to make up for your sad lack of a mother to introduce you.”

“And my sad lack of a substantial dowry, Perry,” she added, wondering just where this conversation was heading. Surely the man wasn’t so ridiculous as to be about to propose a marriage between them? “We wouldn’t want to forget that, now would we? Papa died greatly in debt, and my grandfather is not all that plump in the pocket that I would allow him to throw his money away on anything so silly as a dowry.”

“The matter of a dowry is insignificant. Your grandfather’s consequence is enough to overlook such a lapse. But—and my dear child, I am only saying this because of the love I bear both you and your deceased parents—you cannot allow your good name to be muddied by associating with undesirables.”

Marguerite grinned. “Oh? And which one of you is undesirable, Perry? Stinky? Ralph? Surely not William. It is early days yet for the Season, and I have not had sufficient time to cultivate any undesirable associations.”

He helped her into the open carriage that waited at the corner, then sat down across from her, carefully splitting his coattails as he settled himself against the squabs. “Don’t tease me, child,” he said sternly. “This is no time for frivolous speech. I’m speaking of the American, this Donovan fellow. He’s totally unacceptable.”

Marguerite felt her smile freeze in place. So, she had been right to worry. The members of The Club disliked Donovan. She forced herself to giggle like a brainless chit fresh out of the schoolroom—which was, after all, what she was supposed to be. “You cannot be serious, Perry. I have no involvement with the American. None of any importance, that is. He merely saved me from a slight embarrassment a few nights ago and I thanked him by riding in the park with him the other morning. He did stop by our box last night, but that was only to see my grandfather, who is fond of his absurd stories about the wilds of Philadelphia.”

She allowed her smile to fade and leaned forward worriedly. “Although I did hear a rumor about Mr. Donovan and William. Is it true the American cracked William’s jaw at Gentleman Jackson’s? It seemed unbelievable when first I heard of it, but I haven’t seen William, so I cannot be sure. I had wanted to ask you, but knowing how proud William is, I felt it wiser to pretend I was ignorant of the rumors.”

Perry’s beady brown eyes shifted warily, as if he were in fear of being overheard. “William’s physician has assured him it is only a minor split in the bone, although it is monstrously inconvenient, and exceedingly painful and swollen.” Then he, too, leaned forward, his normally stern features curled upward in glee, like an eager child about to impart a deep, dark secret. “The surgeon has him rigged out in a wide bandage tied on top of his head, keeping his mouth all but shut. He looks like an old lady about to go out into her garden who has bound up her chin so that if her Maker should call her to his bosom while she is outside, she won’t be found with her jaws agape.”

Now Marguerite did laugh in earnest, immediately conjuring up a picture of the sartorially splendid Earl of Laleham with his chin in a sling. “Oh, Perry! We shouldn’t be seeing any humor in this. Poor,
poor
William!”

Sir Peregrine sobered immediately. “He’s not happy, that much is certain. But you can see why he—none of us—wishes your name to be bandied about in the same breath as that upstart American’s. Besides, Donovan has been telling all who will listen that he is going to marry you. Did you ever hear of such cheek! No, no—
you
must listen to the people who have your best interests at heart. You must not see the American again.”

“Why do
you
see him, Perry?” Marguerite asked, her hands drawing into fists in her lap as she longed to hop out of the carriage, seek out Donovan, and crack
his
jaw. Marry her indeed. She knew he had plans for her, but they had nothing to do with marriage! “What is he doing in England in the first place? He certainly is no diplomat, even though that’s what he proclaims himself to be. Does it have anything to do with this talk of war between us and America I’ve heard whispered about these past weeks since coming to London?”

Sir Peregrine sat back once more, his eyes hooded. “He’s only one of President Madison’s many whining, impertinent diplomats, Marguerite, and a very minor one. But protocol dictates people like Arthur and Ralph and I meet with him.”

“And William?” Marguerite pursued doggedly, feeling she had stumbled into an area it might pay her to explore. “What has he to do with diplomacy?”

Sir Peregrine smiled at her indulgently, so she immediately knew they were back to their usual roles of tutor and willing pupil. “William? Why, nothing, my dear. He was at Gentleman Jackson’s with Ralph and Arthur, and the American bullied him into sparring, then milled him down with an illegal blow. Another man would call Donovan out, but William is too much the gentleman to do any such thing.”

“At least until his jaw is whole once more and he
can
speak,” Marguerite slipped in quietly, bristling to hear Donovan’s actions condemned as unfair, although she couldn’t understand why it bothered her. “But enough of Thomas Donovan, Perry. Mere mention of the man’s name fatigues me. I will not be seeing him again, I promise you. I would much rather speak with you about something that happened last night at the theater. Something rather disturbing, as a matter of fact. Can I rely upon you to be discreet?”

Totton lifted a hand to his throat, to adjust his highly starched cravat. “Need you ask, my dear? I am always flattered to be of service. Now, what is the problem?”

Marguerite had been holding her breath since she asked her question, forcing color into her cheeks. “I blush to mention it,” she said after a moment, nervously pulling at the satin strings holding her reticule shut. “I feel like such a silly goose, to have been taken in—but I believe my dear grandfather and I may have become the unwitting victims of an adventuress.”

“An adventuress?” Sir Peregrine’s long, thin nose began to quiver like a hound that has picked up a scent. “How so?”

“Well,” Marguerite began, searching in her reticule for a lace-edged handkerchief she used to dab at her dry eyes, “there is this young woman—a Miss Georgianna Rollins—who sent a note round to Portman Square the other day telling of her deceased mother’s deportment school friendship with my mother and begging that we meet.” She blew her nose delicately and replaced the handkerchief. “I vow Perry, she all but wrote that Mama had promised to bring her out if something should happen to her own mother. Of course, with Mama marrying so young, and confining herself almost entirely to Chertsey, it is possible the two women never even saw each other again.”

“I see,” Totton said, tapping one index finger against the tip of his pointed nose. “You should have applied to me at once, my dear. There’s no limit importuning chits will not surpass in their desire for entry into a world to which they can never belong. What did Sir Gilbert say? What did you do?”

Marguerite fluttered her hands helplessly. “Oh, Perry. You know Grandfather. The name Rollins was not familiar to him, but he didn’t give me so much as a single hint as to how to go on. He doesn’t wish to be bothered with such silliness, and I love him too dearly to badger him. So, thinking I was being quite brilliant, I invited Miss Rollins to join us last night at the theater. If she were an unexceptionable young woman, I would be free to encourage her further acquaintance, and if she was unacceptable, I would not have to see her again.”

“A prudent course of action,” Sir Peregrine agreed consideringly. “And this Miss Rollins proved to be unacceptable? I imagine so, else you wouldn’t be telling me any of this, now would you?”

“Once again, dear Perry, you are so wise.”
And so easily led, just like the others.
Marguerite looked forward to the box, as if to show she wished to be certain the driver could not hear what she was to say next. Sir Peregrine leaned forward so that she would not have to speak loudly. “It’s Arthur, Perry,” she said, her tone low and urgent. “I had forgotten that I had asked him to join me last night. He and Miss Rollins—well, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company exceedingly and—Oh, how can I say this without you thinking I trust my own silly judgment more than I do Arthur’s?”