A Masquerade in the Moonlight(51)
Paddy toppled backward, into the chair. “The devil you say! Laleham? I thought you said he took up against you because you’ve been sniffing around that Balfour woman. What does that Satan’s spawn have to do with any of this?”
Thomas took the cheroot from his mouth and looked at its cool tip. “That’s simple enough, Paddy. For reasons too crazy to repeat out loud, I’ve decided the Earl of Laleham—wealthy, powerful, eloquent, respected, and momentarily sidelined with his injury—is the true leader of our little group of adventurers. Now, if I could only figure out what they’ve done to have Marguerite chasing after them as well, I’d be a happy man. Because she’s up to something, my little aingeal is—I’m convinced of it. Nothing else could explain why such a beautiful young woman is spending all her time hanging around five old men.”
Dooley shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Thomas Joseph Donovan, do you know that?” he asked, suddenly looking as tired as Thomas felt. “We were sent here to do a bit of business. That’s all. Nothing more. But could you let it go at that? No, not Thomas Joseph Donovan. No, no. Serving his country isn’t enough. Not for our Thomas. He has to go looking for intrigues, for puzzles to solve and—because he is Thomas Joseph Donovan—there has to be a woman involved. Of course. There must be a woman. He wouldn’t have it any other way. God’s footstool, Tommie,” he ended, his voice rising even as he stood up, grabbed at one of Thomas’s clean shirts, and threw it at him, “but you’re a real piece of work!”
Thomas deftly caught the shirt and began to shrug an arm into it. “Thank you, Paddy,” he said brightly. “I knew you’d agree with me. Now, seeing that it’s such a fine sunny day for it, I think I’ll get dressed and go ferret out some more information about my dear, adorable, meddlesome Marguerite and our mutual friends. If we decide to add a small twist to our arrangement with our new friends—say, like finding a way to quietly turn them in to their Prime Minister—I wouldn’t want her to be in the way. I think I’ll begin with the Regent’s good friend Stinky. Are you coming, Paddy—or would you prefer to stay here and paw your rosary beads?”
“Somebody should be praying for your immortal soul, boyo,” Dooley grumbled, but he still got himself ready to go.
Marguerite sat very still as the shopkeeper held the silk flower and ribbon bedecked straw bonnet above her customer’s head, then settled it carefully, almost reverently on her coppery curls, as if she were officiating at a coronation.
The milliner stood back, her clasped hands to her breast. “Magnifique, Mademoiselle Balfour! Très chic! Monsieur, the mademoiselle, she is ravissant, non?”
Marguerite watched the mirror, seeing Sir Peregrine’s reflection as he sat behind her, tilting his head first to one side and then to the other, as if carefully weighing the milliner’s question before pronouncing judgment. “Well, Perry?” she prompted, doing her best to keep her tone light and cheerful in the face of his overweening self-assuredness. “Do I look ravishing—or would I be in danger of resembling nothing more than a living posie pot? I wouldn’t wish to confuse the bees as I make my way through the park during the Promenade.”
Totton finally shook his head. “The first one, dear Marguerite,” he pronounced at last, sighing as if he had just returned from a tiring trip down the mountain bearing clay tablets inscribed with his answer. “The yellow straw, Madame,” he then instructed the milliner, “the one with the delightful bunches of grapes. The symbolism of ripe grapes has been in use since the early Greeks. They speak of fruitfulness, you know, and endless bounty.”
Oh, really, Perry? Ancient Greeks, is it? Fruitfulness? Pompous ass! Marguerite thought meanly, removing the hat and handing it to the milliner. And would you have me traipsing around London advertising my worth as a brood mare? But then she turned on the low stool and smiled at Sir Peregrine. “Not only your unmatched eye for a pleasing bonnet, but a lesson in history as well. Ah, Perry, you are so good to me. I cannot thank you enough for making this choice, which I am now assured is the correct one. But, I vow, you spoil me. Soon I shall not be able to make a single decision without your input. Shall it be eggs for breakfast or toast with honey? Shall I walk in the park or ride?”
Sir Peregrine rose from his chair and bowed low, acknowledging her thanks as his due, so that Marguerite could accept the hatbox and pull a face at the same time without anyone save the milliner to notice.