A Masquerade in the Moonlight(20)
“I shall take your words to heart, Billie,” Marguerite lied. “But please don’t fear for my girlish inclinations, for I have only agreed to go down to supper with the gentleman to ascertain for myself if our opportunistic American eats his peas with a knife. After tomorrow you will not have to worry about the man.”
“After tomorrow? Then you are planning to drive out with Mr. Donovan tomorrow? Oh, Marguerite, do you really think you should?”
Marguerite stiffened. “That, dear Billie, is entirely beside the point. Now, excuse me, please, for I must not keep Lord Whittenham waiting. You know how cross he gets if he has to thread his way all across the room to us, bumping noses with everyone he meets until he is close enough to see me. I can only hope he doesn’t misplace me in the middle of the dance floor. Lady Whittenham told me he once lost her for an hour at the opera, and she was standing less than five feet from him.”
“If you didn’t persist in being partnered by shortsighted old men such as their lordships Whittenham and Mappleton you would not have to worry your head about such things,” Mrs. Billings pointed out as Marguerite rose, gaily waving to Lord Whittenham as that gentleman stood not ten feet away, peering inquiringly into the face of a purple turbaned dowager.
“Again you’re correct, Billie,” Marguerite told her before moving away, momentarily unnerved to see Thomas Donovan was standing not twenty feet away, looking at her intently, appraisingly. “You’re always correct. Does such unwavering surety in your own knowledge ever fatigue you? No, don’t answer, dear lady. It was an unfair question. Lord Whittenham and I will be sure to bring you some lemonade once the set is over. Ta-ta.”
“I tell you, I cannot like him.”
“We are not required to crawl into bed with the man, Perry,” Sir Ralph Harewood drawled, playing down a card as he, Sir Peregrine Totton, Lord Arthur Mappleton, and Lord James Chorley sat around a small table in a corner of the room Lady Sefton had set aside for her guests who preferred gaming for high stakes over dancing. “Stinky,” he prompted, addressing Lord Chorley, “I have played a card. As you are to my left, you are to play a card now. That is how it is done. Please pay attention.”
Lord Chorley, who had been busying himself inspecting a passerby and obviously judging the man’s rig-out totally unacceptable, turned to Sir Ralph, frowning. “Did you see that coxcomb? Green satin. And those red heels! I mean, now really, gentlemen! It is more than laughable. Beau will have something wonderfully witty to say about that when I ask him. I’m meeting him later, you know—he and His Royal Highness both. A private party. Sorry.”
“We may whimper, Stinky,” Sir Ralph replied, “but we will survive the slight. Tell us, please—however do you stand being so avidly courted by both the preening Brummell and our dearest Prince of Whales? That’s spelled with an H, Stinky.”
“What! What!” Lord Mappleton exclaimed. “Prince of Whales? Oh, Ralph, that was jolly good! Better if you scribbled it, o’course, for they both sound the same, don’t they? Wales. Whales. But never mind. It’s still a whacking good joke!”
“Thank you, Arthur, but it’s not mine. I borrowed it from Charles Lamb,” Sir Ralph said tersely, inclining his head to Lord Mappleton before looking to Lord Chorley once more. “Stinky, are you going to play a card or not?”
“What does it matter, Ralph?” Sir Peregrine piped up peevishly, throwing down his own cards. “I have naught but trumps remaining, so the rubber goes to me. You really should concentrate your minds, gentlemen, for to play without counting trumps is inviting disaster. I have devised a stratagem for card playing that has yet to fail me, not that I particularly care for gaming. And, James,” he said, leaning toward Lord Chorley, who was still frowning over his own cards, “you really should strive to overcome your penchant for hoarding kings. Fawn on them outwardly, yes, but never put your faith in them. It’s woefully unproductive. My aces best you every time.”
“What? What? You’ve got all the trumps, Perry?” Lord Mappleton asked, frowning. “Well, stap me if that don’t smack of nastiness on your part. Weren’t none of the rest of us paying attention, save you—and James, of course, when he isn’t vetting everyone who passes by, looking for red heels. But he always loses anyway—don’t you, Stinky?”
“Quiet, Arthur, before James realizes he’s been insulted and calls the both of you out,” Sir Ralph warned, then leaned back in his chair, applauding softly. “And thank you so much, Perry, for your modest homily concerning your own brilliance, although I will agree James should restrict himself to playing for straws. That’s three hundred you owe me, Stinky. I’ll expect your vowels before we adjourn. But to get back to the matter at hand before Perry here has an apoplexy—who is next to meet with Donovan, now that Arthur here has abdicated? William believes it’s Stinky.”