A Masquerade in the Moonlight(104)
Sir Ralph, Thomas noticed, remained stationed beside Marguerite, shaking his head, although otherwise looking as noncommittal as always. It was impossible to determine whether he was angry or amused or simply bored by the spectacle of his friend’s “scientific investigation.”
Only Sir Peregrine still looked relaxed as he walked around the perimeter of the digging site, his smile wide, his chin high, and his hopes, obviously, ever loftier.
The flowers were all uprooted, many of them already crushed beneath the boots of the energetic diggers, and earth was piled high everywhere before one of the laborers called out, “Oi hit sumthin’, yer worship! Oi hit sumthin’!”
Thomas leaned forward, surprised. He hadn’t thought there would be anything to find in the bottom of the hole except for, possibly, Sir Peregrine’s long missing humility. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said quietly, looking to Marguerite in something akin to awe. “You’re even better than I thought.”
The Prince of Wales was moved to rise from his seat, and minced across the grass in his shiny Hessians, all the way to the edge of the excavation, peering intently into the three foot-deep pit. “It’s a box, by God—” he shouted, giving Brummell a soft punch in the belly as if to say he had been right and his sartorially infallible friend had been wrong in this single case, “a strongbox! You—Totton—have them bring it here to me at once!”
Dooley leaned close to Thomas. “That thing looks older than the flood, Tommie,” he said, shaking his head. “Look at all those leather straps and such. What d’you suppose is in it? And take a peek at Totton. He looks like to burst, he’s that proud of himself.”
Thomas saw that Marguerite had folded her parasol and was now standing very quietly, a smile playing about her lips as she looked to her right, as if searching for something or someone she had every reason to believe she would find. “I won’t pretend to know what’s going on, Paddy,” he said as one of the laborers cut the leather straps with his knife and prepared to raise the lid of the box, “but I don’t think we’ll have to wait too much longer for an answer.”
Sir Peregrine rudely pushed the laborer away from the box and knelt down in the dirt in front of it, reverently raising the heavy lid, then dramatically throwing it back and lifting a crumbling cloth that protected its contents, to allow everyone to see what was inside.
“Gold!” someone exclaimed excitedly a moment later as Sir Peregrine lifted out a vase no larger than his hand and held it aloft, where it winked like a flirtatious lover even in the dim daylight. Then he rose, bowed deeply—although entirely without humility—and passed the piece over to the prince.
“Look at it!” others shouted, shaken from their usual skepticism and practiced ennui. “And there’s more! Gold spoons! Golden plate! Gold coins! Dozens and dozens of them! Oh, well done, Totton! Well done!”
The crowd pressed forward, everyone eager to sec Totton’s Treasure, as it was already being called. Only Thomas and Paddy hung back—they and, Thomas noticed, Marguerite and Sir Ralph.
Sir Peregrine was surrounded by well-wishers and his thin face beamed with pleasure as he acknowledged the tribute he obviously believed he so richly deserved. Any remaining flowers were trampled beneath ladies’ heels and gentlemen’s boots as the ton braved the dirt and the damp mist that had changed to a steady drizzle in order to get a closer look at the magnificent treasure.
And then, just as Thomas had about given up cudgeling his brain for the reason behind this scene, he heard a single male voice raised in entreaty. “Balbus! Good gentlefolk, who’ll buy my Balbus? Coins, plate, pretty pots fer the ladies. Who’ll buy my Balbus? Threepenny a piece!”
One by one, people at the back of the crowd began to turn, looking at the peddler, until everyone was nudging the person next to him, pointing out the man hawking his “Balbus.”
The three ladies positioned in front of Thomas and Dooley saw the man as well. “What’s that?” said the first. “What’s the fellow selling? Balbus? But—but that’s impossible! Unless—”
“Unless that pretentious fool Totton has been thoroughly disgraced! Balbus! Oh, this is too delicious! I simply must have one!” the second lady exclaimed, already joining the throng of people surging toward the hawker.
The third remained immobile, making up one of the crowd directing their attention to Totton and shouting questions that held a hint of threat in them.