A Masquerade in the Moonlight(105)
“I don’t believe it,” Thomas muttered, beginning to smile as he saw the peddler holding a shiny gold vase high above his head as he walked among the crowd, a wooden tray hung from his neck laden with a booty identical to that being oohed and aahed at by the Prince of Wales and the members of society. Take the rough woolen cowl from the man’s head and replace it with a leather visor, and he would be looking at Lord Chorley’s gaming partner, not that any but someone as discerning as Thomas would notice.
“I don’t bloody believe it,” Thomas repeated as Dooley began to laugh, “and I don’t for the life of me know how she did it, but it’s bloody brilliant!”
At last, as the crowd parted, the peddler reached Sir Peregrine, who was standing as if turned into one of the statues in his office at the ministry, although all his limbs were still intact. Only his consequence had gone missing, lost amid the laughter and derision now assaulting him from every side.
“Buy me Balbus, sir?” the peddler asked Totton before passing on, disappearing into the crowd.
Sir Peregrine continued to stand there, a beaten man, all his dreams lying in the dirt at his feet, and Thomas almost felt sorry for him.
Almost. For just then he happened to look up to see Marguerite staring at him across the expanse, her head tilted slightly, holding a single finger upraised at eye level. “One,” he whispered in agreement. “Indeed, yes, my devious aingeal, one. And four to go. If only I knew why.”
The drizzle was turning cold and Sir Peregrine’s audience, now that they had been entertained, were in a rush to be off to digest what they had seen and then spread the word of his humiliation all across Mayfair with the speed of a swarm of locusts. Thomas stood his ground as they weaved around him on their way to their carriages, listening to their complaints.
“The cheek of the fellow! My boots are ruined, and all for a Balbus, whatever in blazes that is. Did you purchase one, Marcus? So did I, a coin. If he ever shows his face in public again, I vow I’ll shove it up his nose!”
“He has become a laughingstock, and none too soon. Imagine—setting himself up as an expert on Roman antiquities! Always said he valued himself too high, and now he’s gone and proved it. Twopenny a piece, indeed!”
“Twopenny? I paid threepenny! Oh, now I’m really vexed. That bacon-brained Totton! I’ll cut him dead next I see him—if he has the temerity to show his face again!”
“You paid? I scooped up one of the vases from the box. There were dozens of the things. Nothing but heavy glass painted over with gold leaf. Prinny threw one of the plates at Totton before he tripped off with his ladies, and I saw it break against his shin. Oh, we’ll dine out on this story for a month, gentlemen—perhaps more!”
With the crowd thinning, Thomas was able to move closer just in time to see Brummell look inquiringly at Sir Peregrine and say, “You know what I think, dear fellow? I think you have gotten yourself an enemy. But I will commend you, albeit belatedly, on your choice of rig-out. The color matches the dirt on your knees—and that figurative mud on your face—quite to perfection. Good day to you, Totton, or should I say, good-bye? I believe His Royal Highness would appreciate your absence from the metropolis for some space of time. A decade of Totton-free London wouldn’t come amiss. Oh, yes—and you will be receiving a bill for the posies, rest assured of that.”
Sir Peregrine was left alone, even the laborers deserting him, their spades and picks littering the ground, but he continued to stand there, allowing the rain to soak through his new coat and the buckram padding in his shoulders, his expressions ranging from disbelief to despair to what looked very much like fear.
“Pitiful, ain’t he? Always knew he’d bring himself low one day. I’d enjoy it more if I weren’t in disgrace m’self.”
Thomas turned to see Lord Chorley standing in the rain that was threatening to become a downpour, a large black umbrella held over his head by a man who looked too rough to be a personal servant.
“Introduce you to my friend here, Mr. Donovan?” Lord Chorley offered, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb. “His name is Wattle, and he’s my dun—or one of them, anyway. He came to stay yesterday and won’t leave. I think he believes I have money somewhere and he’s following me about until I lead him to it. I bent to pick up a penny piece I saw in the street as I was coming in, but he beat me to it, didn’t you, Wattle? Had to walk, for they took my phaeton last night—the curricle, too—and the horses. Stripped my stable to the walls, like jackals on the hunt. Came here to see Prinny, but he wouldn’t talk to me. I don’t owe the half of what he does, but I think he’s afraid of the taint.”