A Masquerade in the Moonlight(111)
Marguerite approached the drawing room cautiously, for Finch had only told her one of her “old twits” had come to see her and had then withdrawn, his nose in the air as if he wished nothing to do with such odious matters.
Her father’s diary was safely in the pocket of her gown, for she had been sitting at the desk in the morning room, reading over it yet again before carefully drawing her pen through two lines he had written: T.—Vain, and believes he knows everything. Just ask him, and he’ll tell you, and, farther down, Stinky—never saw a penny he couldn’t gamble away.
There were still three lines remaining to be dealt with, but soon—tonight—yet another would fall victim to her pen, and to her resolve. Lord A, the line read, Loves money more than anything. A skirt-chasing buffoon with the wits of a flea.
“Perry!” she exclaimed upon entering the drawing room, espying the man standing in a near crouch beside the windows, looking down on Portman Square as if half afraid someone out in the street might forcibly breach the walls of the mansion and slay him. “My dear friend—I’ve been so worried about you.”
He turned red-rimmed eyes to her and opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head.
“I longed to stay and support you in your trouble, but Ralph insisted we leave. He muttered something about avoiding the taint, but that’s simply ridiculous. I would never desert you!” she told him fiercely, taking hold of his arm and leading him to one of the couches. She could feel him trembling and suppressed the urge to smile by wondering why he had come to her. Did he suspect something? “What is it? What can I do for you, Perry?”
“Do for me?” he repeated questioningly, almost condescendingly, as he’d had long practice at arrogance and precious little at humility. “What could you do for me? What could anyone possibly do for me? I’m ruined, Marguerite. Don’t you comprehend that fact? Ralph certainly did!”
Oh, yes, Perry. Yes, I do comprehend that you are ruined. Completely and utterly ruined. Would you like to know why? Marguerite thought, but she answered only, “Surely something can be done. I know it looks dark now, but His Royal Highness might yet see the humor in the affair—”
“Humor!” Sir Peregrine brushed her hands away and collapsed onto the couch, not seeming to notice that she, his hostess, had not yet taken her seat. “You ignorant child. The entire city has seen the humor in the affair. I am become a laughingstock! My majordomo has resigned, not wishing to be sullied by the stain of being in the employ of such a thorough disaster as myself. I passed a man on the street—someone I don’t even know—and he pointed at me and called me Balbus. Then he held up one of those infernal gold-painted pieces!”
“Have you spoken with William? He’s wonderfully influential. Perhaps he—”
But Sir Peregrine cut her off yet again, which was a good thing, for she was having difficulty speaking without breaking into laughter. “William will have my guts for garters,” he said bitterly. “I have only come here this afternoon to say good-bye, Marguerite. I have no choice but to leave the country.”
This was better than she had hoped! “The entire country, Perry? Couldn’t you simply withdraw to one of your estates for a few months, until the furor dies down?”
“Ain’t enough months for that, my dear, not in ten thousand years,” Lord Chorley said from the doorway, his entrance followed closely by Finch’s amused announcement from the doorway that “Lord Chorley and a Mister Simon Wattle, debt chaser, are here to see you, Miss Balfour.”
Marguerite turned to see Lord Chorley bounding into the room, followed closely by a man of indeterminate years and dressed in a very bad suit of clothes. “Stinky! What are you saying? And who in the world is this man?”
“Wattle? He’s my dun. Well, one of them, and the most persistent. Sheridan used to have so many of them running tame in his household he enlisted them to serve his guests at dinner, but only Wattle here is camped in my drawing room, and I don’t have enough of the ready to pay for a dinner party. I’m ruined, my dear, all rolled up. Wattle’s sticking as close as plaster, so I can’t bolt and save myself that way, much as I want to. Prinny has deserted me, and the rest of my set has gone with him. I thought they were my friends, but they were the fair-weather sort, sure as check. Ralph is still loyal, but not by much, and only because he wants something from me. So does William, come to think of it. Well, he won’t be best pleased, now will he? Not that it matters, for I couldn’t have pleased both of them. Arthur? He’s too besotted to care if I live or die, and Perry here has enough on his own plate without my problems. Made a real cake of yourself today, Perry, stap me if you didn’t. I hear Cruikshank’s already penning a cartoon for the broadsheets. Calling it “The Balbus Bauble-leer” or some such nonsense. At a ha’penny apiece, they’ll be tacked up all over London. I dare say, Perry, you ain’t looking so good. Do you feel all right?”