A Masquerade in the Moonlight (38 page)

Only Sir Peregrine still looked relaxed as he walked around the perimeter of the digging site, his smile wide, his chin high, and his hopes, obviously, ever loftier.

The flowers were all uprooted, many of them already crushed beneath the boots of the energetic diggers, and earth was piled high everywhere before one of the laborers called out, “Oi hit sumthin’, yer worship! Oi hit sumthin’!” 

Thomas leaned forward, surprised. He hadn’t thought there would be anything to find in the bottom of the hole except for, possibly, Sir Peregrine’s long missing humility. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said quietly, looking to Marguerite in something akin to awe. “You’re even better than I thought.”

The Prince of Wales was moved to rise from his seat, and minced across the grass in his shiny Hessians, all the way to the edge of the excavation, peering intently into the three foot-deep pit. “It’s a box, by God—” he shouted, giving Brummell a soft punch in the belly as if to say he had been right and his sartorially infallible friend had been wrong in this single case, “a
strongbox
! You—Totton—have them bring it here to me at once!”

Dooley leaned close to Thomas. “That thing looks older than the flood, Tommie,” he said, shaking his head. “Look at all those leather straps and such. What d’you suppose is in it? And take a peek at Totton.
He
looks like to burst, he’s that proud of himself.”

Thomas saw that Marguerite had folded her parasol and was now standing very quietly, a smile playing about her lips as she looked to her right, as if searching for something or someone she had every reason to believe she would find. “I won’t pretend to know what’s going on, Paddy,” he said as one of the laborers cut the leather straps with his knife and prepared to raise the lid of the box, “but I don’t think we’ll have to wait too much longer for an answer.”

Sir Peregrine rudely pushed the laborer away from the box and knelt down in the dirt in front of it, reverently raising the heavy lid, then dramatically throwing it back and lifting a crumbling cloth that protected its contents, to allow everyone to see what was inside.

“Gold!” someone exclaimed excitedly a moment later as Sir Peregrine lifted out a vase no larger than his hand and held it aloft, where it winked like a flirtatious lover even in the dim daylight. Then he rose, bowed deeply—although entirely without humility—and passed the piece over to the prince.

“Look at it!” others shouted, shaken from their usual skepticism and practiced ennui. “And there’s more! Gold spoons! Golden plate! Gold coins! Dozens and dozens of them! Oh, well done, Totton! Well done!”

The crowd pressed forward, everyone eager to sec Totton’s Treasure, as it was already being called. Only Thomas and Paddy hung back—they and, Thomas noticed, Marguerite and Sir Ralph.

Sir Peregrine was surrounded by well-wishers and his thin face beamed with pleasure as he acknowledged the tribute he obviously believed he so richly deserved. Any remaining flowers were trampled beneath ladies’ heels and gentlemen’s boots as the
ton
braved the dirt and the damp mist that had changed to a steady drizzle in order to get a closer look at the magnificent treasure.

And then, just as Thomas had about given up cudgeling his brain for the reason behind this scene, he heard a single male voice raised in entreaty. “Balbus! Good gentlefolk, who’ll buy my Balbus? Coins, plate, pretty pots fer the ladies. Who’ll buy my Balbus? Threepenny a piece!”

One by one, people at the back of the crowd began to turn, looking at the peddler, until everyone was nudging the person next to him, pointing out the man hawking his “Balbus.”

The three ladies positioned in front of Thomas and Dooley saw the man as well. “What’s that?” said the first. “What’s the fellow selling? Balbus? But—but that’s impossible! Unless—”

“Unless that pretentious fool Totton has been thoroughly disgraced!
Balbus!
Oh, this is too delicious! I simply
must
have one!” the second lady exclaimed, already joining the throng of people surging toward the hawker.

The third remained immobile, making up one of the crowd directing their attention to Totton and shouting questions that held a hint of threat in them.

“I don’t believe it,” Thomas muttered, beginning to smile as he saw the peddler holding a shiny gold vase high above his head as he walked among the crowd, a wooden tray hung from his neck laden with a booty identical to that being oohed and aahed at by the Prince of Wales and the members of society. Take the rough woolen cowl from the man’s head and replace it with a leather visor, and he would be looking at Lord Chorley’s gaming partner, not that any but someone as discerning as Thomas would notice.

“I don’t bloody believe it,” Thomas repeated as Dooley began to laugh, “and I don’t for the life of me know how she did it, but it’s bloody
brilliant
!”

At last, as the crowd parted, the peddler reached Sir Peregrine, who was standing as if turned into one of the statues in his office at the ministry, although all his limbs were still intact. Only his consequence had gone missing, lost amid the laughter and derision now assaulting him from every side.

“Buy me Balbus, sir?” the peddler asked Totton before passing on, disappearing into the crowd.

Sir Peregrine continued to stand there, a beaten man, all his dreams lying in the dirt at his feet, and Thomas almost felt sorry for him.

Almost. For just then he happened to look up to see Marguerite staring at him across the expanse, her head tilted slightly, holding a single finger upraised at eye level. “One,” he whispered in agreement. “Indeed, yes, my devious
aingeal
, one. And four to go. If only I knew why.”

The drizzle was turning cold and Sir Peregrine’s audience, now that they had been entertained, were in a rush to be off to digest what they had seen and then spread the word of his humiliation all across Mayfair with the speed of a swarm of locusts. Thomas stood his ground as they weaved around him on their way to their carriages, listening to their complaints.

“The cheek of the fellow! My boots are ruined, and all for a Balbus, whatever in blazes that is. Did you purchase one, Marcus? So did I, a coin. If he ever shows his face in public again, I vow I’ll shove it up his nose!”

“He has become a laughingstock, and none too soon. Imagine—setting himself up as an expert on Roman antiquities! Always said he valued himself too high, and now he’s gone and proved it. Twopenny a piece, indeed!”

“Twopenny? I paid threepenny! Oh, now I’m really vexed. That bacon-brained Totton! I’ll cut him dead next I see him—if he has the temerity to show his face again!”

“You paid? I scooped up one of the vases from the box. There were dozens of the things. Nothing but heavy glass painted over with gold leaf. Prinny threw one of the plates at Totton before he tripped off with his ladies, and I saw it break against his shin. Oh, we’ll dine out on this story for a month, gentlemen—perhaps more!”

With the crowd thinning, Thomas was able to move closer just in time to see Brummell look inquiringly at Sir Peregrine and say, “You know what I think, dear fellow? I think you have gotten yourself an enemy. But I will commend you, albeit belatedly, on your choice of rig-out. The color matches the dirt on your knees—and that figurative mud on your face—quite to perfection. Good day to you, Totton, or should I say,
good-bye
? I believe His Royal Highness would appreciate your absence from the metropolis for some space of time. A decade of Totton-free London wouldn’t come amiss. Oh, yes—and you will be receiving a bill for the posies, rest assured of that.”

Sir Peregrine was left alone, even the laborers deserting him, their spades and picks littering the ground, but he continued to stand there, allowing the rain to soak through his new coat and the buckram padding in his shoulders, his expressions ranging from disbelief to despair to what looked very much like fear.

“Pitiful, ain’t he? Always knew he’d bring himself low one day. I’d enjoy it more if I weren’t in disgrace m’self.”

Thomas turned to see Lord Chorley standing in the rain that was threatening to become a downpour, a large black umbrella held over his head by a man who looked too rough to be a personal servant.

“Introduce you to my friend here, Mr. Donovan?” Lord Chorley offered, pointing back over his shoulder with his thumb. “His name is Wattle, and he’s my dun—or one of them, anyway. He came to stay yesterday and won’t leave. I think he believes I have money somewhere and he’s following me about until I lead him to it. I bent to pick up a penny piece I saw in the street as I was coming in, but he beat me to it, didn’t you, Wattle? Had to walk, for they took my phaeton last night—the curricle, too—and the horses. Stripped my stable to the walls, like jackals on the hunt. Came here to see Prinny, but he wouldn’t talk to me. I don’t owe the half of what he does, but I think he’s afraid of the taint.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my lord. I had no idea you might be somewhat under the hatches,” Thomas said, discreetly stepping on Dooley’s toes as that man began to chuckle.

“Under the hatches,” his lordship repeated dolefully, then added, “up the River Tick sans boat or oar, left without a feather to fly with, pockets to let, scalded, burnt, down at the heels and out at the cuffs.”

Lord Chorley took a deep breath, then sighed. “Yesterday I thought it would be the end of me, but it ain’t. I’m going to have to leave London, of course—once I can shake Wattle here—but I don’t feel so bad now, for Perry’s going to have to go, too, and he won’t be able to show his face for a dozen dog years, while I’ll be back once you and Ralph straighten things out between you. You will still be able to do that, won’t you, with Perry gone? Did you ever see such a sorry mess as Perry? I saw Ralph earlier, leaving. Wouldn’t go near him right now, Donovan, he’s that angry. I would have been able to whisper a word in the prince’s ear, placing someone we could trust in Perry’s place, but you can put paid to any thoughts of that now, can’t you? Matter of fact, it’s the only thing I can put paid to—ain’t that right, Wattle?” he called over his shoulder. “Here now, hold that brolly over my head! Deuced lot of good it’s doing keeping
you
dry! If I were to take a chill and die, you’d be left with no chance of bleeding me of the rest of my money. Well, I’ll toddle off now, Donovan—it’s a long walk back to Grosvenor Square. Wattle has promised me some eggs. Good enough fellow, Wattle, and a decent man with an egg, even if he is a dun.”

Thomas, who had been unable to keep from smiling as Lord Chorley prattled on and on, waved the man on his way, then called after him, taking a leaf from Beau Brummell’s book. “My lord—do you have any enemies? Anyone? Perhaps someone nursing an old hurt who’d wish to see you brought low?”

Lord Chorley stopped, then turned to look at Thomas, his skin deadly white, his sunny disposition in the face of his financial and social ruin now completely vanished. Then, without answering, he walked on, Wattle holding the umbrella over his quarry’s bent head.

“What was that all about, Tommie?” Dooley, who had been off collecting Balbus plates and coins for his children, asked as he came up to Thomas. “You already know your little Miss Balfour is out to make trouble for all five of ‘em. We’ve lost our contact at the War Ministry today, no thanks to her, and now Lord Chorley as well, I suppose, who was thick as thieves with the Prince of Wales. She’s making mischief, I agree, but why ask a question that might send the man thinking, and maybe deciding she might be the one bringing him down?”

“He’s not that smart, Paddy. None of them is, except Harewood and Laleham. Mappleton and Totton would be nothing without their assistants, who have probably done all their work for them anyway, and Chorley has been trading on his pleasing disposition all his life, not his brainpower,” Thomas said, tipping his hat forward so that rain poured from the brim. “I just wanted to see his lordship’s face when I asked the question, and measure his guilt. And now I know. Whatever it is The Club did, Marguerite isn’t out to ruin their reputations because of some imagined slight. She’s got a terrible secret she’s been brooding over, and I just have to wait until she trusts me enough to tell me what it is.”

“You said she loves you,” Paddy pointed out as they walked toward their hired hack. “How can she love you and not trust you?”

Thomas increased his pace as it began to thunder. “I haven’t told her what
we’re
about, Paddy, and I love her. Sometimes too much truth is not a good thing. But there’s no denying she’s put a spoke in our wheels. She’s moving fast now, probably so that none of them will have time to figure out that they’re being targeted and begin thinking about who is out to bring them to grief. With any luck, this all should be over within a matter of days.”

“I suppose I should be thanking her, for she’s not dragging her heels, is she?”

“Hardly, Paddy. Two of them are gone already, with three to go. While I won’t be seeing Harewood until the masquerade tonight, and as I don’t trust myself to see Marguerite just now, I believe you should go searching for our friend of the frayed cuffs. He’s been as busy as the devil in a high wind, and I think he might have some answers for us. You should probably begin with waiting for him to show at Harewood’s, for Sir Ralph might lead us to him the way Chorley did.”

“Harewood? Why him?”

“Totton’s done, as is Chorley, although I do believe he may have found genuine happiness with his dun. Mappleton is already on his way down, even if I’m not sure how Marguerite plans to do him in. That leaves only Harewood —and Laleham. Somehow I don’t think Marguerite will chance going after him until the others are out of the way. I wouldn’t.”

“Which leads us straight back to Harewood,” Dooley said as they reached the relative dryness of the hackney cab. “But why me, I’m asking you? Where are you off to this time.”

Thomas patted Dooley on the back. “I’ve got to go find myself a domino and a mask, remember? Now, are you going to help me? It’s for your country, remember.”

“My country? In a pig’s eye! It’s for you, and that little girl. Any help to our country will only be by chance, as I see it. But you’ve been right so far, boyo, so who am I to gainsay you? Let’s go split a bird and a bottle someplace dry and then get on with it. I’m beginning to miss my Bridget, and want to be shed of this damp island before she stops missing me.”