A Masquerade in the Moonlight(71)
Thomas arched one eyebrow as he glared up at Dooley. “Feeling pretty full of yourself, aren’t you, Paddy?”
The Irishman smiled so widely the gap on the top left side of his mouth—where he had long ago lost a tooth to an angry Scotsman with fists like hams—was visible. “Fair to brimming, boyo,” he admitted. “It clean takes the cockles off this old heart of mine to see the cock of the walk fitting himself out for hen stubbles.” His grin faded. “But, happy as I am, I have to remind you that if this Marguerite of yours is fixing to do terrible things to our group of traitors it could put paid to all our plans.”
Thomas stood and began stripping off the rumpled shirt that had been a marvel of pristine perfection when he had donned it to meet with Harewood and the others the night before in Richmond. “That’s what I like most about you, Paddy—your unflagging determination in pointing out the obvious. However, if Marguerite fails in whatever it is she’s about, she could be in danger. These men are desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable. Remember, President Madison left it up to me to decide whether or not to go along with their plans. I’m not so sure we’d be serving our country to deal with them.”
Dooley shrugged, accepting the discarded shirt rather than see it hit the floor. “So what are we doin’ cooling our heels here then, boyo? We can settle the whole business easily enough. Just toss the girl over your shoulder and we can all three of us escape to Philadelphia on the next tide. We could take Sir Gilbert up with us while we’re at it. He’s a friendly enough fellow, for an Englisher, and he wants to meet a wild Indian or two before he cocks up his toes. Told me so the other night at the theater. Just go—that’s all we have to do—and let the bloody earl and the others discover us gone.”
“And leave Laleham to rethink his scheme and perhaps begin dealings with the French, you mean. I’m not so deep in my cups that I would entertain such folly. No, Paddy, if we decide not to enter into an agreement with them—and I still haven’t ruled it out—we’ll have to do more than spike their guns. We’ll have to destroy them.”
“Destroy them? Kill them, you mean?”
“It’s only a minor possibility. So—how’s that old heart of yours now, Paddy?” He grinned at the gape-mouthed Dooley as he sat down and held out his foot for the Irishman to help him remove his boots. “Relax. I’m not saying we do the deed today. For now, I think we’ll amuse ourselves by sitting back and letting my darling Marguerite have at it. She may just make up my mind for me, the little dear, and do our dirty work for us as well.”
“No wonder you’re crazy mad for the girl. You’re both bloodthirsty little demons.” Dooley threw a leg over Thomas’s, turning his back and waiting for the pressure of his friend’s foot against his rump, assisting him in easing the first boot loose. “Is anything else to be going on while your ‘little darling’ is causing a dustup and you’re watching?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I believe, Paddy, my good friend, that I shall be enjoying myself by passionately wooing Miss Marguerite Balfour, and to hell with her grandfather’s title. And then, my very good friend, since you’ve asked, I shall do my level best to make your Bridget a happy woman.”
Dooley staggered across the room from the force of Thomas’s pushing foot, one boot in his hands and struggling to keep his balance. He turned to goggle at Thomas. “You don’t mean—”
“Why, as a matter of fact, Paddy, I do. I believe I’ll simply toss my bachelorhood away on Miss Marguerite Balfour. I have to—may God and your lovely wife forgive me—for I most certainly intend to seduce the little cat before another week passes.”
BOOK TWO
INTO THE FIRE
What is love? Ask him who lives, what is life? Ask him who adores, what is God?
— Percy Bysshe Shelley
CHAPTER 11
Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.
— Henry Fielding
Thomas sought out Marguerite late that same day, finding her walking in the park with her chaperone, Mrs. Billings, and approached her on the path when the older woman was detained, speaking to a friend.
“Good afternoon, my darling,” Thomas chirped, tipping his hat to her while admiring her trim walking dress—and the even trimmer form it covered. “I trust you passed a pleasant night. Oh, dear. Is that a trace of rice powder on your upper lip? Don’t tell me your tender skin became chafed some way. Perhaps I should consider doing the gentlemanly thing and consign my mustache to the shaving bowl. After all, I would be the last man on earth to wish you any pain—or embarrassment. A gentleman to his toes—that’s Thomas Joseph Donovan.”