A Masquerade in the Moonlight(49)
“Optimism,” said Candide, “is a mania for maintaining that all is well when things are going badly.”
— Voltaire
Thomas nudged a mound of clothing from the chair to the floor and then deposited his long frame in the space he had cleared, his legs flung out in front of him, his head leaning back as he stared up at the ceiling. Lord, he was tired. He’d barely slept all night, thinking about the disappointment on Marguerite’s beautiful face when she’d realized he had led her on, only to refuse to kiss her.
He had been thinking about it, but had not enjoyed the memory of his small victory. But then, cutting off one’s own nose to spite one’s face never was a pleasant experience. She’d punish him tonight—he was sure of it. Punish him, and then give in, just as he would give in, both of them losing a little, both of them winning. Their battles only added fuel to the fire that smoldered between them.
Today, however, still had to be gotten through, and he and Dooley had important matters to discuss. He mentally shoved his plans for Marguerite to the back of his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the real object of his mission to England. “All right, now that the breakfast dishes are gone—let’s go over it again, Paddy. Start with Mappleton.”
“I don’t know why, boyo. We’ve been around and around this a million times already this morning.” But Thomas just met his inquiring gaze with a determined stare. “Oh, all right. You won’t give over until we’ve done it a million and one times.” Dooley sighed and bent to pick up the clothing Thomas had tossed aside, none of it his, and began to return it to the places it belonged. “Lord Mappleton is associated with the Royal Treasury. That’s where the money is kept, boyo, in case you’re wondering. The way we’ve figured it so far, he’ll be the one who funnels us the funds that are supposed to be going to the war against Napoleon. From the little I’ve seen of his lumbering lordship, and from what you’ve told me of the creature, I’m surprised they let him anywhere near anything so important.”
“Birth, Paddy,” Thomas responded, still staring at the ceiling, refusing to dwell on the knowledge that Marguerite’s birth and position and his were as dissimilar as that of a queen and a chimney sweep. “Birth and breeding—or, in Mappleton’s case, maybe it’s inbreeding. Stick a ‘your lordship’ or a ‘your grace’ in front of a man’s name and these English think they know everything. Mappleton doesn’t know his way out of a room, but no one will admit it, which should serve us well. Stupid, vain, and with a pronounced weakness for a well-turned ankle or, as was the case last night, an impressive pair of eyebrows—as long as there’s a fortune involved, that is. Dear Arthur does seem rather impressed by the idea of making an advantageous marriage. That’s Mappleton. He must have been better—once. But that also must have been a few years ago. Go on—tell me about Sir Peregrine.”
Dooley snorted. “That one!” he exclaimed, dusting off Thomas’s bottle-green frock coat and settling it into the wardrobe. “All his hens are layers, Tommie, or didn’t you notice? Thinks he knows everything, and isn’t shy about his great opinion of his own intelligence—acting as if he were lord high mayor of all the world or something.” He gave an elaborate shudder. “I haven’t met a bloke so cocksure of himself and his brilliance since Bridget’s ma moved in with us.”
“Again we agree. And Totton is also invaluable to us, thanks to his situation in the War Ministry. But we’ve already been all over that.” Thomas rose from the chair and poured himself a glass of wine. “All right, Paddy, now let’s talk some more about Sir Ralph Harewood, our friend at the Admiralty. Interesting fellow, don’t you think?”
Dooley shook his head. “Not to me, boyo. I kept peeping at him during your sparring match yesterday, just to see if he was wishing your eyes blackened. You would have thought he was watching grass grow, for all the interest he showed. Mappleton was nearly in tears when that fella Laleham went down—but not Harewood. He just kept on about his business, trying to rouse the earl, but that was all. No, Tommie, Harewood is nothing but a cipher, following orders, doing what he’s told to do. He couldn’t care less—like a dog at his father’s wake. Totton has to be the one of the four that’s in command. I don’t see what you’re getting at, truly I don’t.”
Thomas tossed off the last of the wine and turned to smile at Dooley. “And that, dear Paddy, is why I’m in charge of this little expedition. Totton is not the leader of our lovely group of wishful traitors. But then, neither is Harewood, although I believe that’s the impression I’m supposed to have. Not that Harewood’s harmless. I don’t trust a man who tries so hard to appear colorless. He has to be hiding something.”