A Masquerade in the Moonlight(79)
“I hold no animosity toward you, Mr. Donovan,” Harewood responded, his dark eyes looking as dead as nail heads in a coffin. “Perhaps you are made uneasy with having to deal with those fools who exhibited themselves so poorly at Richmond. I cannot blame you. But their work is all but completed, soon making them unnecessary to our plans. If you were to deal with me directly, exclusively—”
Harewood’s voice trailed off, his mouth snapped shut as if someone had pulled on a string attached to his jaw, and Thomas turned and looked behind him, surprised to see the Earl of Laleham enter the room, dressed most elegantly in his usual funereal black and dazzling white linen. The earl stopped just inside the room and lifted a hand to one corner of his tightly compressed mouth as if attempting to soothe away a pain, then moved on.
The thieves begin to fall out, Thomas thought, and so much so that an ailing Laleham must abandon his bandages and exert the power of his intimidating presence in order to keep his minions in line. How very intriguing.
Thomas smiled at Harewood, laying a hand on the man’s forearm in an openly friendly gesture he knew would not be lost on Lord Laleham. “You begin to interest me, sir,” he said, nodding to Laleham to show he’d seen him. The earl turned away, bowing politely to a dowager rigged out in ghastly purple. “I’ll be taking the air in the park tomorrow, at eleven. Perhaps you, too, enjoy a morning constitutional?”
Harewood shook his head. “No. That’s too public. On Friday Lord Brill and his lady will be hosting a masquerade at Vauxhall. Both Vauxhall and masquerades are entirely déclassé in this enlightened age, but it will serve us nicely, as there are too many eyes about for us to meet informally. You won’t even need an invitation, as long as you are in costume. I shall be wearing a gray domino.”
“Of course you will,” Thomas responded, enjoying the mental image of unremitting drabness Harewood had evoked. “And what shall I wear? Could I arrive dressed as Saint Patrick, casting out snakes before me, or do you believe that would be pushing the matter too far?”
“I fail to see any need for levity. A black domino will be sufficient—and a mask over your eyes. You would not wish to call attention to yourself.”
“Indeed, no,” Thomas agreed solemnly, or at least as solemnly as he could without questioning his own sanity. He removed his hand from Harewood’s arm and bowed, more than ready to remove himself from the fellow’s company. “Very well, Sir Ralph. Until Friday? At midnight? Midnight seems to be the appropriate hour, don’t you think?”
Harewood shook his head, looking disgusted. “It is quite obvious you have had little experience in society. Everyone is to unmask at midnight. We will have to meet earlier—say, at eleven. Then we can be gone our separate ways long before the unmasking.”
Thomas inclined his head a second time. “I bow to your superior planning and intelligence, my friend.”
Harewood lifted a hand to just below his left eye, where a nerve had begun to twitch. “Your friend? How nice of you to say that, Mr. Donovan. I like it. Yes, I believe you’re correct. Friends can be very helpful to each other, can’t they?”
“Extremely helpful, Sir Ralph,” Thomas said, suddenly realizing Marguerite had been busy again, for this was not quite the same Sir Ralph he had been dealing with since coming to London. He seemed less sure of himself, yet at the same time was showing signs of independent thinking Thomas had not noticed earlier. “But now I must be off, for I have promised Miss Balfour I would speak with her tonight about her grandfather’s wish to meet and discuss life in Philadelphia.”
“Marguerite?” Harewood questioned, frowning. “She is in disgrace this evening, Mr. Donovan, having flaunted convention by eschewing maidenly pearls for colored stones. Sir Gilbert has let her run wild and, much as I wish to be her friend”—he blinked hard as he said the words, then collected himself—“I, and the rest of us, cannot continue to champion her if she’s determined to make a spectacle of herself.”
“Then I am no longer being warned off, Sir Ralph? And do your associates agree as well? Lord Chorley? Lord Mappleton? Sir Peregrine? Laleham? How accommodating of you all.”
Harewood slipped a finger beneath his collar, easing it away from his throat, as if he felt the rough hemp of a noose around his neck and was seeking escape. “I don’t care what you do with her, Mr. Donovan. She’s no longer of any concern to me. Just meet with me at Vauxhall so that we might conclude our negotiations. Our plans must move forward, and quickly. I need my future assured now that—never mind. I see Lord Mappleton over there, with his latest, and only, conquest. I believe it’s time I congratulated him on his good fortune, even if Sir Peregrine is convinced he will be throwing himself away on a rich tradesman’s chit—as if I care either way. Good evening to you, Mr. Donovan—until Friday night?”