A Masquerade in the Moonlight(57)
“Busier than the devil in a high wind.” Donovan stopped on the flagstone just inside the door and turned, grinning, so that his mustache lifted at the corners and all his top front teeth glinted in the dim light. “You wouldn’t be prying now, Sir Ralph, would you? No, of course not. But I’ll tell you anyway. You English play all day, every day, so one night is much the same as the other. However, you see, in America, where most of us must work for our daily bread, Saturday night is a time for fun and frolicking. I’ll be frolicking later, Sir Ralph. It’s to be my reward to myself for working so diligently on my president’s unofficial business all week long.”
The American was deliberating baiting him, but he refused to respond. “I see,” Sir Ralph said, indicating Donovan should follow him up the stairs and into the private dining room William had rented for the evening. “We shall endeavor not to detain you then, as it would be impolite for you to keep the young lady waiting. Is she anyone I know?”
“You might have met her, Sir Ralph, but I’d wager my lovely new horse outside you don’t know her.” Donovan walked past Sir Ralph and into the private dining room. “Ah, I’m not the first to arrive, I see,” he said, tossing his hat onto a small side table, the curly brimmed beaver almost immediately buried by his carelessly flung greatcoat.
The men sitting around the long, rectangular table nodded as one.
“Lord Chorley,” Donovan said, “good to see you. You’re looking in plump currant tonight. The world, and the cards, must be treating you kindly.”
“Mr. Donovan,” Lord Chorley responded, his smile well pleased.
Donovan turned to his left. “Sir Peregrine—delighted to see you again as well. You know, my sainted mother always told me not to frown so. The devil might just sneak up behind you, she always warned, deal you a great whack on your head, and presto!—your face will stay like that forever.”
“That’s nothing but an ignorant superstition, Mr. Donovan,” Sir Peregrine asserted, looking down his nose at Donovan. “Just the sort of foolishness the simple Irish peasantry is prone to uttering. Don’t be offended, Mr. Donovan, for I am merely stating facts.”
Donovan inclined his head respectfully—or at least it would have seemed so, if Sir Ralph hadn’t noticed the devilish twinkle in the man’s eyes. “If you say so, Sir Peregrine,” Donovan agreed. “Heaven knows I wouldn’t wish to tug caps with you, for I’m quite convinced you’ve never lost an argument in your life. Lord Mappleton, hullo! That’s the smile of a man in love if ever I saw one! I take it the fair Miss Rollins proved an enjoyable companion last evening at the theater? Well, we’re all here—all except one, that is.”
Sir Ralph shot a quick, involuntary look toward the curtain in the shadows, then recovered his composure. Donovan couldn’t know William was behind the curtain. Just because he was leery of this man, leery of this scheme, he should not invest the American with powers he couldn’t possibly possess. “Missing, Donovan?” he asked, turning a quelling glare toward Lord Mappleton, who was on the point of saying something—something he shouldn’t say, or else Sir Ralph really didn’t know the man. “I fear I don’t understand.”
“Paddy, man. Patrick Dooley, my comrade in intrigue,” Donovan replied, helping himself to a glass of wine and then seating himself at the head of the table—in Sir Ralph’s seat. “I thought that would be obvious. He’ll be here in a moment, I’m sure, unless he was waylaid by the smell of strong ale coming from the barroom. Ah—here he is. Paddy, take a seat. We’re about to talk treason. It should be jolly good fun.”
“Would you kindly lower your voice?” Sir Peregrine Totton whispered through clenched teeth from his chair at Donovan’s left hand. “This is serious business, young man, with serious consequences for failure.”
Donovan winked at Totton. “Not for me, Sir Peregrine. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Lord Chorley, who had been admiring the new gold watch and fob he had bought and not yet paid for, looked across the table to Sir Peregrine. “He’s got you there, Perry. We’re not officially at war. All they’ll do to him if we’re discovered is toss him out of the country. We’re the ones who’ll hang.”
“What? What? Hang, you say?” Lord Mappleton sat forward with a lurch, his chair creaking as his weight shifted. “Stinky—we’d hang? Oh, no. Can’t do that. Not when I’m finally within Ames Ace of getting myself bracketed to a most healthy fortune. Miss Georgianna Rollins. Lovely diamonds. You remember, Donovan. You met them —er, I mean her. No, I can’t hang. Not now.”