A Masquerade in the Moonlight(120)
They had positioned themselves in a hired coach outside Sir Ralph’s residence before seven that night and been forced to cool their heels until half past eleven, until the man finally came out and entered his own closed carriage. They had then followed as the carriage led them to the entrance to what Donovan believed to be Green Park, where Sir Ralph had abandoned his carriage and walked into the park, guided only by the same moonlight that made him visible now.
Donovan and Dooley had joined him in the dark a few prudent seconds later, careful to keep their distance, and had been running, crouched over, from tree to bush to tree ever since, until a few moments ago.
“Tell me why we’re here, Tommie,” Dooley whispered to him. “I know you already told me, but now that my feet are wet and my bent back feels ready to break, I seem to have some need of hearing it all again.”
Thomas sighed and said quietly, “She’s taking them down one by one, thinking they pushed her father into suicide. Totton was allowed to bring himself low in his quest for intellectual recognition.”
“Served him right, with all his prosing and posturing. He was always running a losing race, boyo,” Dooley interrupted. “All the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.”
Thomas nodded, agreeing. Marguerite had read her man correctly. “And then Chorley was brought down by his incredibly bad luck at cards—and a little help from the man we now know as Maxwell.”
“He was happy enough when he was winning, wasn’t he, Tommie? As my beloved mother-in-law has been heard to say, the man who wagers his fortune on the turning of a card is a fool, and it isn’t today or yesterday that it happened to him. He was born a fool, Chorley was, and had to lose. There was no other way.”
“Thank you, Paddy, and my compliments to your mother-in-law. I couldn’t have said it better myself—but keep your voice down. Harewood’s waiting for someone, and I don’t want him to think we’re his company. Now, as I was saying—Totton and Chorley helped to bring themselves down and, in a way, because of his vain belief that a rich young woman would favor his suit, so did Mappleton.”
“I would have given a year’s growth to see that! I’ve been chuckling all the day long just thinking about it.”
Thomas rolled his eyes, then smiled in spite of himself. Mappleton had stood very still for a long moment after George’s declaration, then turned and run faster than the man’s bulk would have made anyone believe. For all Thomas knew, the fellow was still running. “Marguerite has taken the easy ones out of the way, but now she’s heading for trouble—not that she’ll let me help. That’s why we’re here tonight, Paddy—to help her. Can you remember that?”
“I can remember anything, boyo, except why I agreed to come to London with you. We’ve seen these fellas and we’ve decided not to have dealings with the likes of them. I still say we take up the girl and her grandfather, find ourselves a lovely big ship heading for Philadelphia, and have done with it. All this revenge business and sneaking around in the middle of the night is sure to bring us all to grief. What ho? I think I see someone, Tommie. Look—over there. Be quiet now, boyo, or you’ll give the game away.”
“I’ll give the game away?” Thomas sliced a quick, amused look at Dooley, then parted the branches of the bush he was hiding behind to see another male form beside Harewood’s. “Maxwell,” he breathed softly. “How you do get around, my beetle-browed friend. Where’s your baby brother—rigged out in another wig and dancing at Covent Garden?”
Dooley, a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, gave Thomas a shove on the shoulder and motioned for him to be quiet. It would appear, Thomas thought ruefully, his reluctant Irish friend was at last beginning to feel some of the thrill of the thing.
They watched, alternately amused and intrigued, as Harewood handed Maxwell a large packet, then sat on the damp ground as Maxwell did the same. Thomas could hear mumblings, although he was too far away to make out any of the words.
After about fifteen minutes, time during which Maxwell’s voice rose and fell—still with none of his words intelligible —and he alternately stood and sat and waved his arms about like a windmill in a summer storm, he took out a tinderbox and struck it, setting afire one corner of the packet.
In the light of the small blaze, Thomas was able to see the sack sitting on the ground beside Maxwell. The man opened the sack and pulled out a white rooster, holding it by the feet and extending his arm hard Harewood, who pulled out a knife, its blade glinting dully in the moonlight.