A Masquerade in the Moonlight(42)
Thomas took a deep breath and looked around the room to see Lord Mappleton was biting on his knuckle as if in fear and that many of the gentlemen who had been watching were melting away from the ring, going quietly, as if they didn’t want anyone to remember they had been witness to the earl’s defeat. Sir Ralph, he saw, was on his knees beside William Renfrew, whom he had turned over onto his back and was now fanning him with a towel.
“A bucket of cold water would do it faster, Harewood, if you’d dare such a thing,” Thomas told Sir Ralph quietly, seeing that the earl’s limbs were beginning to move, so that he knew he hadn’t done the man any permanent harm. As a matter of fact, he was beginning to realize he may have done himself some dangerous disservice—and not just to his right hand, which was beginning to pain him like the very devil. “Well, I must be going, as I have just this moment remembered a pressing engagement with a jeweler further up Bond Street. It’s always a good thing, don’t you know, to thrill a lady with a bauble or two when you’re courting her. Please thank Lord Laleham for me when he wakes, and tell him I’d be pleased to buy him a drink next time I see him. I believe his instructions were very educational. I may even attempt this again one day soon. Yes, yes, very educational. Thank you all for inviting me. Well, ta-ta. Paddy—my clothes, if you please.”
Thomas dressed unhurriedly, refusing to look down at his right hand, and only watching as the earl regained consciousness and Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton helped him to a nearby chair, Sir Ralph still fanning him with the towel. Haphazardly tying his neck cloth, he motioned for Dooley to follow him out of the room, ignoring the stares of the men that followed him all the way to the stairs.
“Rushing away in the middle of your glory, aren’t you, boyo?” Dooley asked, frowning. “I would think you’d want to stay a bit, and take a few bows.”
“There’s no time for gloating, Paddy. Something strange was going on here today, and it has nothing to do with boxing. Something between the gentlemen we’re dealing with and Marguerite Balfour, and I’ve just stepped squarely into the middle of it. And even if I’m wrong about any sort of intrigue—the bastards just warned me off her and, Paddy, old friend, you know I’m not the sort to take that lying down. Come on—I have to get back to the hotel and get ready to go out again.”
“You have no engagements tonight, Tommie,” Dooley told him, fairly running to keep up with Thomas’s lengthy strides once they were on the flagway, heading up Bond Street.
“On the contrary, Paddy. And not just me, but the both of us. First, I’ll need a bath. Then we’re going to treat ourselves to a bird and a bottle, for I’ve begun to notice I’m suffering from a most prodigious appetite, and follow it up with a visit to Covent Garden. I have a niggling suspicion I’ll want to witness what’s going to happen there tonight. Oh, yes. And I have to visit a jeweler. Damn, but my hand hurts!”
“Do you think you smashed the thing?” Dooley asked quickly, lifting Thomas’s right arm at the wrist and eyeing his hand consideringly. “That one knuckle looks none too pretty, boyo. Was it worth it?”
Thomas grinned as Dooley used his own handkerchief to wrap the hand. “Worth it? Ah, Paddy, how can you ask? Didn’t you take a good look at his lordship? It’s a good thing he isn’t a talkative sort, for his jaw is broken for sure—sure as I am that I’ll be kissing Marguerite Balfour’s willing lips again before this night is over.”
“You’re a naughty man, Thomas Joseph Donovan,” Dooley said, clapping Thomas on the back so hard he nearly pitched forward into the street. “A bad, roguish, man. And it’s pleased and honored that I am to know you.” His grin slipped a fraction. “Just don’t tell m’wife!”
CHAPTER 6
Thy complexion is black, says the raven.
— Irish Saying
“Here we are, Marguerite. Number Seven, and a whacking great pile of blunt I paid down for a single season, too,” Sir Gilbert grumbled, lowering his considerable bulk into a chair at the back of the box so that he could sleep through the performance without being gawked at by the rest of the company in attendance at the Royal Opera House. “How many flights of stairs did we climb, do you think, Twelve? And I still don’t know why I’m here. Got Mrs. Billings. Got this Georgianna gel meetin’ you here. Can’t imagine why I’m needed, especially since I can’t stand the sort of caterwauling they torture you with in this place.”