A Masquerade in the Moonlight(77)
She paused just at the threshold and looked back at her grandfather, knowing in her heart it would be the last time she would see him through the eyes of innocence. Then she took a deep breath, turned, lifted her chin—and went off to face her future.
“Stand still, for the love of heaven! How do you expect me to tie this thing if you’re going to be wriggling about? Anyone would think you’ve got bugs up your breeches.”
Thomas lifted his chin and peeked over the top of Dooley’s gray head, the better to see himself in the mirror. “Paddy, you’re doing it all wrong,” he complained, reaching up his own hands to adjust the neck cloth—the third he had donned in as many minutes. “And you’re choking me half to death.” He pulled the starched linen loose and threw it on the bed. “Never mind, Paddy. It’s useless to go on with this one. Hand me another. I’ll just tie it the way I’ve always done, and the devil with it.”
“And isn’t that what I’ve been saying all along?” Dooley asked, picking up the discarded neck cloth and wiping his sweaty brow with the thing. “To tell the God’s truth, boyo, you look better a little mussed—more human. Anyone would think you were fitting yourself out to be a bridegroom, the way you’ve been fussing. Good—that one looks better.” He tossed the neck cloth onto a chair and picked up his hat. “Can we be going now, or would you be wanting me to give your jacket another brush-up? Or mayhap you’d like to reconsider your rig-out entirely? You’ve changed two times already, by the hokey, so I wouldn’t be more than half surprised to see you stripping to the buff and starting over yet again.”
Thomas shrugged into his midnight blue frock coat, shaking his head, but avoiding Dooley’s eyes, for he was feeling somewhat embarrassed. He was acting like a nervous bridegroom. “No, Paddy, I think I’m ready now. Is the coach you hired waiting?”
Dooley preceded him out of the bedchamber and into the small sitting room. “It had better be, boyo, for the blunt we had to lay down for a single night’s hire.”
“A closed coach,” Thomas said, grabbing a cloak and opening the door to the hallway before motioning for Dooley to lead the way. “You did remember it’s to be a closed coach.”
“Which one of your two eyes do you want me to blacken, Tommie, asking me such a question? You told me a closed coach, and I hired a closed coach. I didn’t even ask why, now did I? Nor did I inquire as to why I’m supposed to be going along with you tonight, when you know I take to all this dressing up and carrying on like the devil loves holy water.” He stopped at the top of the stairway to look piercingly at Thomas. “You’re up to no good, aren’t you, Tommie?”
“Now, Paddy, you wouldn’t want to hear the answer to that, now would you?” Thomas brushed by Dooley and descended the stairs two at a time, leaving the shorter man to catch up.
When they reached the street and the waiting coach, Thomas changed the subject. “You saw Chorley today?” he questioned Dooley as they climbed into the coach after giving the driver Lady Jersey’s direction (and some short, private instructions he hoped with all his heart the hired coachie would soon have need to carry out).
“That I did, and in that same filthy gaming hell,” Dooley answered, settling himself for the short ride that, if Lady Jersey’s ball was going to be as crowded as most balls, would take at least two hours. “He’s losing now, boyo, just as you said he would. Losing more in one turn of a card than I’ll see in my lifetime. Near the end today he started scribbling his vowels, gambling with money he doesn’t have. Tell me, Tommie, how does any one man, even an Englisher, get so thoroughly stupid?”
Thomas smiled broadly, silently congratulating Marguerite for her unerring assessment of Lord Chorley’s weak character. “He can’t help it, Paddy. All the man’s ducks were laying for a while, and he’s convinced they will again, if only he can hold on until his luck turns. Only it won’t. Our friend of the frayed cuffs and the fuzzed cards will make sure of that. I wonder what Marguerite plans for his lordship once his pockets are completely to let, for she’s the one who’ll be holding those IOU’s, you know. We Irish may have invented the practice of scribbling our vowels for debts, but the English have taken to it like fish to water.”
The coach, that had been moving along slowly but steadily, halted as they came near the square, to join the long line of vehicles that made a three-block procession to Lady Jersey’s front door. Dooley shook his head. “She baits Mappleton with a few diamonds and a much too willing young woman, sets a sharper on Chorley, and God only knows about this business with Totton—and you think it’s funny? Don’t it all make you wonder what she might have planned for you? You’re even talking about marrying the girl.”