A Masquerade in the Moonlight(76)
Marguerite’s hands flew to her bare throat. “Why, you terrible old man, to shock me with such plain speech.”
Sir Gilbert gave a blustering cough and made for the drinks table and a glass of the gin he favored—and the same gin Marguerite had generously watered just that afternoon, although her grandfather was not to know that. “I couldn’t shock you, little girl, if I were to spout a string of curses as long as Sir Peregrine Totton’s nose.”
After pouring himself a generous portion, he turned to squint in Marguerite’s direction. “I tripped over Totton this afternoon as he was mincing out of here, as full of himself as ever. Worst fiver I ever made, damn if it wasn’t. He ain’t going to be there tonight, is he? Him, or that hangdog Harewood, or that paper-skulled Mappleton? I don’t mind Laleham, seeing as how he’s our neighbor and all—and at least he don’t spend all his time making a cake of himself.”
Marguerite seated herself in the chair Sir Gilbert had recently vacated, demurely spreading her skirts around her. “Why, I suppose they will all be in attendance. Along with my other beau, of course, Lord Chorley.”
Sir Gilbert threw back the gin in one long gulp, then shivered. “Odds fish! I’d as lief offer m’self up to be purged by that quack you hired to ride herd on me. Chorley’s so dense he takes all the joy out of stripping him of his blunt. Marguerite—darling child—can’t you see it in your heart to muddle through tonight without me? That Billings woman should be enough for you. God knows she’s more than enough for me!”
Marguerite, who felt herself to be getting more than sufficient experience at playacting these days, drew her fine features into a disappointed frown, then brightened, as if she’d just had a most wonderful idea. “Are you open to bribes, Grandfather?” she asked, grinning up at him.
Sir Gilbert slammed the empty glass down on the table. “Done!” he exclaimed, obviously delighted with his granddaughter’s ready acceptance of his defection. Then he sobered. “What is it? I won’t be tricked into allowing you use of my saddle, the way you do at Chertsey. This is London, gel, and it’s your sidesaddle or nothing here. And I won’t let you shoot anybody either—unless it’s one of those old fools you’ve got running tame in my house. I’ll make an exception in that case.”
“Oh, pooh!” Marguerite exclaimed, feigning displeasure as she stood. “Very well, old man. But could we compromise? You mentioned that I look naked without Mama’s pearls. However, I expressly did not wear them because they were not the correct shade with this gown—not that I would ask you to worry your head about such things.”
She approached Sir Gilbert, sliding her arms around his neck and tilting her head to one side coquettishly. “But Grandmother’s beautiful ruby necklace—ah, Grandfather, it would be perfect!”
“My Margy’s rubies?” Sir Gilbert shook his head. “Pretty enough baubles, I suppose. But they’re as red as spilled blood, as l recall, and not the thing for an innocent young gel to be sporting.”
“Yes, blood red.” Marguerite leaned forward, laying her cheek on the old man’s broad chest. Like the blood of a virgin, offered to the man she gives herself to. She wished, had planned, for this to be a night of omens, of veiled symbolism; a momentous night, and one Thomas Joseph Donovan would never dare to forget. “Did I forget to tell you Lord Mappleton is bringing Georgianna Rollins with him tonight? He sent round a note this afternoon in which he expressly wished the opportunity to visit with you this evening at Lady Jersey’s, to thank you for introducing him to his lovely Georgianna.”
“Oh, no. Not that. Anything but that decrepit Romeo and Miss Eyebrows! Miss Eyebrows—that’s what Donovan calls her. Now, there’s a man I could welcome!” He disentangled himself from Marguerite’s embrace and approached the fireplace, pushing a concealed button on the ornately carved mantelpiece so that the painting of his late wife slipped to one side, revealing a shallow compartment and a metal strongbox. In less than a moment he was rooting through its contents for the delicate gold and ruby necklace.
“And the earrings, Grandfather,” Marguerite prompted from behind him, knowing she’d as much be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Society would not take kindly to seeing her in rubies. “They are quite small, as I remember, and not in the least decadent. And, as my arms are bare, the bracelet as well?”
Five minutes later, after Mrs. Billings had appeared, drab gray gown and resigned expression intact—even in the face of her charge’s outlandish jewelry—Marguerite kissed Sir Gilbert good night and headed for the doorway.