A Masquerade in the Moonlight(55)
“Not Chorley, Paddy,” Thomas said, starting toward the door once it had closed behind his lordship’s back. “I want to follow the other one. There’s something not quite right about the man.”
“If you’re talking about the sad state of his coat, then I agree with you,” Dooley said, threading his way through the tables behind Thomas. “I think he’s turned the collar and cuffs three times, which is twice more than Bridget turns the kiddies’ when they start to fray.”
Once out in the street, Thomas saw the hapless gambler hail a hackney cab and quickly flagged down another for Dooley and himself. “Paddy,” he said, once they were squashed together on the greasy leather seat, “why do you suppose a man who can fuzz a card as well as our friend of the ugly coat would deliberately lose hand after hand to a far inferior opponent?”
“You’re bamming me!” Dooley swiveled around on the seat to stare at Thomas. “He was losing money back there like a leaky bucket loses water—but on purpose? Why?”
“That’s a first-rate question, Paddy,” Thomas responded, leaning out the side of the hackney to make sure his driver was following the correct cab as it made its way toward Mayfair. “Almost as good a question as to wonder why Lord Chorley, an intimate of the Prince Regent’s, is gambling for such low stakes when he could be losing his blunt at White’s or Boodle’s or in any other more pleasant surroundings. Anyone would think he’s at the edge of ruin and desperately trying to recoup his fortune out of sight of his cronies. You did notice his nondescript clothing, didn’t you, Paddy, and the fact he arrived at the gaming hall in a hired coach? I only wish that I could have seen his partner’s eyes, but he kept them well hidden beneath that leather visor, and then that brimmed hat he slapped on his head the moment he quit the table. Eyes tell you a lot, you know.”
Dooley shook his head. “I don’t understand, boyo, and I’m not about to lie and say I do. The devil fly away with the man’s eyes. And so what if Lord Chorley is pockets to let? What does that have to do with us?”
“Precious little, I suppose, except to show why he might be interested in a spot of treason meant to bring down his own government,” Thomas admitted, knowing he was still operating through instinct and not out of any real knowledge of what he was seeking. “But he’s also one of the four—five, if, we include Lord Death—I’ve counted among Marguerite’s aged beaus. We’ve already deduced she’s trying to put a spoke in Lord Mappleton’s wheels—and don’t start arguing with me again on that head, Paddy, because I know I’m right—so it’s possible there might be something in the air for Lord Stinky as well. Ah—just as I thought.”
Dooley peered out to see the hackney turning into one of the squares. “Just as you thought? What did you just think? It’s a bleeding pity, but I don’t fathom you anymore, Tommie, I swear I don’t.”
“Neither do I, Paddy,” Thomas admitted, frowning. “Neither do I. But this is Portman Square, and if that hackney doesn’t pull up outside Sir Gilbert’s mansion, I’ll buy you that walking stick you were drooling over in Bond Street yesterday.”
The hackney didn’t stop directly in front of the mansion. It halted a short way away, and the gambler of the frayed collar and cuffs alighted, then disappeared down an alleyway, in the direction of Sir Gilbert’s servant’s entrance.
“Well, I’ll be damned for a tinker!” Dooley exclaimed. “Tommie, I think you’re onto something here. I don’t pretend to know what—but you’re sure as check onto something.”
“Thank you, Paddy,” Thomas said, motioning for the driver to move away. “And now I’d like a change of clothes before we ride off to Richmond to break bread with our small group of traitors.”
“Good enough, boyo,” Dooley said, settling himself comfortably. “And I’ll take the cane with the gold knob, just as you promised. It’s a lovely thing, don’t you know, and Bridget’s ma will be that impressed.”
CHAPTER 8
There is a strength in the union even of very sorry men.
— Homer
The Star and Garter was sufficiently out of the way, the large inn occupying a spectacular vantage at the top of Richmond Hill, so that it made a favorable site for a meeting that would not hold up well to much scrutiny.
Sir Ralph Harewood stood in the courtyard outside the inn doors, not to admire the spectacular view as the sun slid toward the horizon, but to watch for Thomas Donovan and his companion—Dugan, or Dudley, or whatever the man’s name was. It mattered little. Donovan was the one to watch, the one to fear. The one to eliminate.