A Masquerade in the Moonlight(38)
“More than a few slates off this one’s roof, ain’t there, Donaldson?” Dooley whispered from behind Thomas. “I think I’ll just be taking myself off to go watch those fellas over there awhile, seeing as how nobody ever pays me a whit of attention anyways. One of them ain’t half bad with his right hand.”
“Do that, Paddy,” Thomas said with a smile before extending his hand to Lord Mappleton, who looked first to Sir. Ralph, as if appealing to him for guidance as to whether or not he should shake the American’s hand. “Lord Mappleton—how good to see you again. And to hear you’re still having such marvelous success with the ladies! How gratifying. But then, I am not surprised. An interesting gentleman such as your lordship will always be surrounded by female admirers.”
Lord Mappleton puffed up his chest (which, for the majority of the time, resided closer to his generous stomach), and grinned in genuine happiness. “Like you, Dollinger—truly I do. Don’t you like him, Ralph? Pity he’s American.”
“Shut up, Arthur,” Sir Ralph said without emotion, then gestured for Thomas to step closer. “I must be honest, Mr. Donovan. I suggested this meeting not just to show you some English hospitality, but also in order to get some of the preliminaries out of the way before our get-together on Saturday. I’ve spoken with Sir Peregrine, you understand, concerning the interview you had in his office the other day, and we—er—I felt it necessary to reassure myself of your sincerity, among other things.”
“Really?” Thomas answered, deliberately raising one eyebrow as he peered incredulously into Sir Ralph’s face. “How extraordinarily depressing. I’m so ashamed. Was it something I said?”
“You made mention of the French,” Sir Ralph told him, speaking quietly, surreptitiously, out of one corner of his mouth. Didn’t the man have any idea about the workings of subtlety? There couldn’t be anyone higher than a footman in this entire place who wouldn’t know with one look that some secret conversation was taking place. “That was an unfortunate accusation, Mr. Donovan, and totally without foundation.”
“So Sir Peregrine assured me,” Thomas answered, seeing that the man who had lately been with Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton was now being assisted from his frock coat by one of the servants. “It had been merely a random thought, and I’ve summarily dismissed it. My belief in your sincerity now knows no bounds. Anything else?”
Sir Ralph took a single step closer and cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something else. It concerns Miss Balfour. Stay away from her.”
The man had discarded his neck cloth and shirt, so that he was now bare to the waist. The servant bent to remove the man’s black pumps, so that he soon stood clothed in nothing save his snow-white hose and black tight-fitting breeches. He might have twenty years or more on Thomas, but he certainly stripped to advantage, his shoulders broad, his arms neatly muscular. “Miss Balfour, you say, Sir Ralph?” Thomas asked, frowning. “I don’t understand. Is she betrothed?”
“What? What? Betrothed? Nonsense, man! Not allowed, don’t you know. Talk, dance, keep her occupied. But betrothed? Oh, I don’t think so. He wouldn’t like that above half.”
Sir Ralph’s dark eyes flashed with anger, but only for a moment—a moment anyone less observant than Thomas would have missed. “What Lord Mappleton here means, Mr. Donovan, is we are all rather fond of Miss Balfour—Lord Mappleton, Sir Peregrine, Lord Chorley, and myself—and we do not care to hear her name bandied about as you did last night. We may have dealings with you Americans, but we do not appreciate your boldly stated salacious attention to our young ladies of quality. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Donovan?”
“Salacious, Sir Ralph?” Thomas sliced a look toward the now empty ring and the man still standing outside it. If the fellow was going to eavesdrop, Thomas didn’t wish to disappoint him. “That may have been the case in the beginning,” he said in a clear voice, “and I truly regret my rash, ungentlemanly words—but my emotions are now thoroughly engaged. I’m sure Lord Mappleton understands, also being very fond of the ladies. Ah, but when we fall, we scamps, we fall hard. I plan to wed the young lady, if she’ll have me. So you can relax, Sir Ralph. My intentions are entirely honorable.”
Lord Mappleton, who had been in the process of sipping from his wineglass, began to choke and cough, as if the wine had found its way into his windpipe. “Me?” he blustered once he could find his breath. “Why would I understand that?”