A Masquerade in the Moonlight(22)
Sir Ralph knew once their plan succeeded he would be content to count his money, while William, who had no need of money, was probably already planning the details of his coronation. And God knew the man had already chosen his consort.
Sir Ralph felt a moment’s pity for his old friends gone to seed, but no more than a single moment. It was so difficult to remember how all five of them had once worked as a cohesive unit—daring, unafraid, brilliant. When had it all begun to go downhill, so that the three were all sorry enough, and desperate enough, that they had agreed to come together one last time, that they had agreed to play integral parts in his and William’s grandiose scheme?
No. No, he wouldn’t think about that. If he thought about that, he’d have to think about the beginning of the end, of the years that had taken their toll, until they had been so foolish, so overconfident, thanks to their past successes, that they had made a near fatal mistake with Geoffrey Balfour. It did no good to think about Geoffrey Balfour, or the deed that held the five of them bound together almost seven long years after they wanted, needed, to go their separate ways.
If he were to look too hard, to examine Arthur’s pathetic flirtations, Stinky’s dedicated gaming, Perry’s insistence upon demonstrating his brilliance, he would be able to put out a finger and touch the moment they had all begun to fall apart. Even the moment he had come face to face with his own personal weakness, witnessed the certainty, the inevitability of his most secret, lifelong fear. That moment. That horror. That “business” of Geoffrey Balfour.
So, no, he would not think of that now, not now they were so close to achieving the most brilliant coup of the century, now that he and William were at last to reap the reward of a lifetime of scheming by carrying off the most daring, inventive plan ever devised.
“Hullo there! What are you gentlemen doing stuck in this dim corner—holding a silent vigil for past or future glories? Or were you sitting here, statue-like, waiting for me? I sincerely pray that is not the case, much as I’d be flattered. And you’re right not to offer me a chair. Someone might think you actually pleased I stopped by to chat. But I shan’t linger. You see, I intend amusing myself by toppling ears over tail in love this evening, so we shall not meet again until Saturday, at the earliest. Love rarely outlives two sunsets, does it, gentlemen? Tell me—except for Sir Peregrine and Lord Mappleton, of course, who need not answer —are you at all familiar with the beauteous Miss Marguerite Balfour?”
Sir Ralph looked up at Thomas Donovan, taking in the man’s impeccable clothing, his relaxed posture, and the amusement in his clear blue eyes—merriment Sir Ralph was sure was at their expense, although he didn’t for the life of him know why. “So you plan a courtship of Miss Balfour, Mr. Donovan? How enterprising of you—and how brave. Miss Balfour eats young pups like yourself for breakfast. You see, dear man, the lady much prefers the company of mature gentlemen.”
“Yes,” Thomas said, smiling at each of the men in turn, his full, healthy mustache an abomination to Sir Ralph’s sensibilities, “just such a depressing rumor did reach my ears—by way of a fellow named Quist, as I remember it. Do you think that could be because Miss Balfour believes she can outrun doddering old men—or just outlive them? Oh—forgive me, Sir Peregrine, Lord Mappleton. It’s no more than my impetuous American tongue. Well, I must be going. I’m escorting the little darling down to supper, you know—does she eat young men for supper as well? What an intriguing, nay, titillating thought! See you Saturday?”
“Saturday,” Sir Ralph repeated from between clenched teeth. Once the tall American had taken himself off—his step too long for fashion, his sure, lord-of-the-hill gait setting Sir Ralph’s nerves on edge—he sat back in his chair, absentmindedly stroking his own clean upper lip.
“I cannot believe the success of our plan resides with that impertinent, skirt-chasing Irishman,” he said, his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Donovan is either eminently clever or criminally ignorant. Perry, for once I agree with you, much as it pains me to admit it. It’s time our good friend Willie came out into the open. Why should we be the ones taking all the chances?”
“Do I have a smut on my nose, Mr. Donovan? You’ve been staring at me for a full minute. It’s most disconcerting, you know.”
Thomas, who had been lounging against the back of the uncomfortable chair, leaned forward, placing his elbows on the tabletop and his chin in his hands. “For an entire minute, Miss Balfour? I had thought it no more than a second. Indeed, I could spend an eternity gazing into your magnificent emerald eyes. They remind me of my beloved, native Ireland.”