A Masquerade in the Moonlight(14)
Thomas and Dooley whirled about to see Sir Peregrine Totton sweeping into the room, his small, esthetically thin body fairly quivering with rage, a harried-looking clerk following three paces behind him.
“Now, now, sir,” Thomas hastened to assure the man, stepping in front of Dooley, “my assistant meant no harm. Please forgive his ignorance. He is American, yes, but one only lately arrived from Ireland, and forever corrupted by the taint. The poor fellow has no appreciation of art beyond the lovely construction of his favorite potato pot.”
“You’ll pay dear for that, boyo,” Dooley hissed under his breath, before saying loudly, “A thousand pardons, sir,” and retreating a step or two, as befitted an “assistant.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I, too, have to labor under the ignorance of inferiors,” Sir Peregrine said in open scorn, skewering his own assistant with a piercing glare until that man scurried to the desk, pulled out his employer’s high, elaborately carved chair, and assisted the gentleman to his seat. “Good enough, Grouse,” he then commented, so that the clerk quickly retired to the nearest wall, where he stood braced against a tapestry depicting the sacking of Rome, unknowingly putting his head in some danger from the silver-thread depicted ax wielded by some wild-eyed savage.
Looking about him, Thomas saw that, although there were a few straight-back chairs scattered around the perimeter of the chamber, none was close enough to the desk to make conversation below a bellow comprehensible. Clearly Sir Peregrine expected his American visitors to stand, like petitioners come with hat in hand to beg some favor.
Bloody hell they would!
“Paddy, please procure two chairs and place them just here,” he said, pointing to the area directly in front of the desk. “Grouse?” he called out, inclining his head to the clerk. “You want to rest your rump, too, or do you think those spindly shanks of yours can hold you up until Sir Peregrine and I are through talking about the despicable way you skulking Englishers are pulling good Americans from their ships and pressing them into service in your navy?”
Sir Peregrine leapt to his feet, his palms pressed down on the desktop, a reaction that Thomas found eminently soothing to his soul. “How dare you, sirrah!” Sir Peregrine exclaimed, blustering. “Might I remind you that you are here on sufferance and that we wouldn’t be having this interview at all if it weren’t for the fact you sent in documents signed by your own president saying you had his fullest confidence? I am quite sure Mr. Madison is woefully misinformed if he believes that even a letter of introduction penned in his hand is enough to coerce any of His Royal Majesty’s loyal servants to suffer listening to such baseless assertions! You may consider this interview as concluded, Mr. Donovan!”
Dooley noisily plunked down two straight-back chairs, seating himself comfortably before motioning for Thomas to take his own seat. “Ye’ve a winning way about you, Tommie, and that’s a fact,” he said, smiling up at Thomas, who remained standing. “Why don’t you say something nasty about the man’s sainted mother while you’re about if?”
Thomas frowned warningly at his friend and then bowed in Sir Peregrine’s direction. “Forgive me, sir,” he said in subdued tones, smiling ingratiatingly. “I am most heartily sorry for my ill-mannered behavior. I can’t imagine where that reprehensible outburst came from. Perhaps it is just I’ve been waiting without for so long that I have missed my luncheon. Grouse, dear fellow—do you suppose you could find it in your heart to search out a tray of bread and cheese, and perhaps a heavy decanter of burgundy? I’m convinced this meeting will progress much more congenially if I can only quiet my rumbling stomach.”
Sir Peregrine looked to Thomas, who returned that look deliberately, unwaveringly—daring the Englishman to contradict him—then subsided into his chair once more. “Oh, very well,” Sir Peregrine agreed at last. “Grouse, go into my private chamber and see what you can find. I’m sure there’s something we can serve these people.”
“This people wouldn’t be sorry to get a bite or two of meat, boyo,” Dooley called after the clerk, causing Thomas to look down at him and sigh. “And what may I ask, would you be gawking at now, Tommie? There was no sense in asking for ale, now was there?” Dooley countered, shrugging, so that Thomas had to cover his mouth with his fist, and pretend to cough in order to hide an appreciative smile.
Once the door closed behind the clerk, Thomas advanced to the front of the desk and deliberately sat his long frame on the left corner, first shifting a bust of Socrates out of his way. He wanted to be closer to Sir Peregrine, smell the man’s cologne, the man’s fear. He knew he was twice the man physically as his reluctant host, and he wanted Sir Peregrine to be unable to forget it. This might be a game they were all playing, but it was a deadly serious game, and it had deadly serious rules. “Did you think I’d countenance a witness, Totton?” he asked now, conversationally.