A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 7

“Optimism,” said Candide, “is a mania for maintaining that all is well when things are going badly.”

— Voltaire

Thomas nudged a mound of clothing from the chair to the floor and then deposited his long frame in the space he had cleared, his legs flung out in front of him, his head leaning back as he stared up at the ceiling. Lord, he was tired. He’d barely slept all night, thinking about the disappointment on Marguerite’s beautiful face when she’d realized he had led her on, only to refuse to kiss her.

He had been thinking about it, but had not enjoyed the memory of his small victory. But then, cutting off one’s own nose to spite one’s face never was a pleasant experience. She’d punish him tonight—he was sure of it. Punish him, and then give in, just as he would give in, both of them losing a little, both of them winning. Their battles only added fuel to the fire that smoldered between them.

Today, however, still had to be gotten through, and he and Dooley had important matters to discuss. He mentally shoved his plans for Marguerite to the back of his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the real object of his mission to England. “All right, now that the breakfast dishes are gone—let’s go over it again, Paddy. Start with Mappleton.”

“I don’t know why, boyo. We’ve been around and around this a million times already this morning.” But Thomas just met his inquiring gaze with a determined stare. “Oh, all right. You won’t give over until we’ve done it a million and one times.” Dooley sighed and bent to pick up the clothing Thomas had tossed aside, none of it his, and began to return it to the places it belonged. “Lord Mappleton is associated with the Royal Treasury. That’s where the money is kept, boyo, in case you’re wondering. The way we’ve figured it so far, he’ll be the one who funnels us the funds that are supposed to be going to the war against Napoleon. From the little I’ve seen of his lumbering lordship, and from what you’ve told me of the creature, I’m surprised they let him anywhere near anything so important.”

“Birth, Paddy,” Thomas responded, still staring at the ceiling, refusing to dwell on the knowledge that Marguerite’s birth and position and his were as dissimilar as that of a queen and a chimney sweep. “Birth and breeding—or, in Mappleton’s case, maybe it’s inbreeding. Stick a ‘your lordship’ or a ‘your grace’ in front of a man’s name and these English think they know everything. Mappleton doesn’t know his way out of a room, but no one will admit it, which should serve us well. Stupid, vain, and with a pronounced weakness for a well-turned ankle or, as was the case last night, an impressive pair of eyebrows—as long as there’s a fortune involved, that is. Dear Arthur does seem rather impressed by the idea of making an advantageous marriage. That’s Mappleton. He must have been better—once. But that also must have been a few years ago. Go on—tell me about Sir Peregrine.”

Dooley snorted. “That one!” he exclaimed, dusting off Thomas’s bottle-green frock coat and settling it into the wardrobe. “All his hens are layers, Tommie, or didn’t you notice? Thinks he knows everything, and isn’t shy about his great opinion of his own intelligence—acting as if he were lord high mayor of all the world or something.” He gave an elaborate shudder. “I haven’t met a bloke so cocksure of himself and his brilliance since Bridget’s ma moved in with us.”

“Again we agree. And Totton is also invaluable to us, thanks to his situation in the War Ministry. But we’ve already been all over that.” Thomas rose from the chair and poured himself a glass of wine. “All right, Paddy, now let’s talk some more about Sir Ralph Harewood, our friend at the Admiralty. Interesting fellow, don’t you think?”

Dooley shook his head. “Not to me, boyo. I kept peeping at him during your sparring match yesterday, just to see if he was wishing your eyes blackened. You would have thought he was watching grass grow, for all the interest he showed. Mappleton was nearly in tears when that fella Laleham went down—but not Harewood. He just kept on about his business, trying to rouse the earl, but that was all. No, Tommie, Harewood is nothing but a cipher, following orders, doing what he’s told to do. He couldn’t care less—like a dog at his father’s wake. Totton has to be the one of the four that’s in command. I don’t see what you’re getting at, truly I don’t.”

Thomas tossed off the last of the wine and turned to smile at Dooley. “And that, dear Paddy, is why I’m in charge of this little expedition. Totton is not the leader of our lovely group of wishful traitors. But then, neither is Harewood, although I believe that’s the impression I’m supposed to have. Not that Harewood’s harmless. I don’t trust a man who tries so hard to appear colorless. He has to be hiding something.”

“Maybe he drinks,” Dooley suggested, seating himself in Thomas’s chair. “My Uncle Finney, Lord rest his soul, sopped up gin like a sponge, but you wouldn’t have known it. Stood straight and sober as a judge, never cracking a smile or losing his temper. Couldn’t. He was too busy trying not to fall flat on his face.” He shifted on the chair when Thomas looked at him owlishly. “Well—it’s possible! Besides, if it ain’t Harewood, and it ain’t Totton—and not even you could make me believe that it’s Mappleton—who is in charge, Tommie? Lord Chorley? There’s only the four of them.”

Thomas swept the newspapers from the striped satin couch and laid himself down on it, his stockinged feet dangling off one end, his arms crossed behind him to pillow his head. Maybe he’d think better on his back. “Chorley is interesting, Paddy. He isn’t involved with any of the ministries, like the other three. But he is a bosom chum to the Prince of Wales—or so I’ve heard. I understand the prince even calls him Stinky, which has to be a measure of his affection for the man. Friends can be very influential, Paddy, dropping hints as to who might best serve the Crown—or Chorley’s private treason. But, no. It can’t be him. Chorley is just another cog in the wheel.”

Dooley clapped his hands together once, then hauled his short, squat frame to his feet and began to pace. “Well, now, Tommie—you’ve gone and done it this time. I can see why you say you’re the one in charge. Congratulations, boyo—you’ve just eliminated every last one of them. According to you—and I’d be the last man to think you’ve muddled your brains with this Balfour creature—there is no leader. All we’ve got are four men trying their best to ruin their country. Four none-too-young men, left with nothing to do one night but gaze at their own shoetops, who decided to commit treason. Makes sense to me. And now that I think on it—so what? We’re only here to help ourselves to whatever they’re stupid enough to offer us. What does it matter if we don’t understand why they’re doing it?”

Thomas pulled his hands from behind his head and pushed them out behind him, arching and stretching his long frame like a cat waking from a nap, making Dooley wait for his answer while he gathered his own thoughts.

“All right,” he said at last, jackknifing to a sitting position as he came to the decision that had first occurred to him at three that morning. “Consider this, Paddy. These men—Totton, Harewood, and the other two—they succeed in diverting arms and money to us. England is weakened and our country shows enough strength to keep itself from attack, especially since the British will most probably still be too busy with Napoleon to bother about us. France wins the war against England without America ever having to fire a shot or—as I see it—England and her allies sue for peace, leaving everyone bruised and battered, but the countries all still pretty much the way they were before the war ever started. The war is finally ended—but not quite honorably. Dotty King George and his government fall under the weight of the sure censure of the citizenry—helped along by Harewood and the rest of them pointing out the flaws of the current government. I got that idea from seeing Totton the other day, remember? The man, like Caesar’s Cassius, is ambitious. Then what, Paddy? What is America left with—worrying about an eventual new attack from Totton and Harewood and their dreams of power and glory? I don’t think Madison had any such thing in mind when he sent us over here to listen to what they had to say.”

Dooley frowned, rubbing at his forehead as if he had a headache. “Better the devil you know—is that what you’re getting at, Tommie? We might fare worse with a new England with Totton and Harewood in charge than we would going on as we are, even if that means war?” He raised his hands, squeezing his fingers into his palms, as if trying to grasp at something too nebulous to feel. “But, Tommie—we’re on the brink of open hostilities now. Could it really be worse to take what they’re offering us than to wait and see which way the wind blows? Either way, to hear you tell it, America is facing a war.”

Thomas took a cheroot from the table and stuck it, unlit, into his mouth. Dooley wasn’t going to believe him, but it had to be said. “I’m afraid so, Paddy. There’s no way to avoid a battle. It’s inevitable—only a matter of time. Madison has to be made to believe that or it’ll be a fine mess. But do we want to wage war now with an England that will be simultaneously fighting on two fronts—American and French—or do we want to wait another five years and then have to defend against a new England, an England ruled by someone as ambitious for conquest as the Earl of Laleham? You remember the earl, Paddy—you said he was Death.”

Paddy toppled backward, into the chair. “The devil you say! Laleham? I thought you said he took up against you because you’ve been sniffing around that Balfour woman. What does that Satan’s spawn have to do with any of this?”

Thomas took the cheroot from his mouth and looked at its cool tip. “That’s simple enough, Paddy. For reasons too crazy to repeat out loud, I’ve decided the Earl of Laleham—wealthy, powerful, eloquent, respected, and momentarily sidelined with his injury—is the true leader of our little group of adventurers. Now, if I could only figure out what they’ve done to have Marguerite chasing after them as well, I’d be a happy man. Because she’s up to something, my little aingeal is—I’m convinced of it. Nothing else could explain why such a beautiful young woman is spending all her time hanging around five old men.”

Dooley shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Thomas Joseph Donovan, do you know that?” he asked, suddenly looking as tired as Thomas felt. “We were sent here to do a bit of business. That’s all. Nothing more. But could you let it go at that? No, not Thomas Joseph Donovan. No, no. Serving his country isn’t enough. Not for our Thomas. He has to go looking for intrigues, for puzzles to solve and—because he is Thomas Joseph Donovan—there has to be a woman involved. Of course. There must be a woman. He wouldn’t have it any other way. God’s footstool, Tommie,” he ended, his voice rising even as he stood up, grabbed at one of Thomas’s clean shirts, and threw it at him, “but you’re a real piece of work!”

Thomas deftly caught the shirt and began to shrug an arm into it. “Thank you, Paddy,” he said brightly. “I knew you’d agree with me. Now, seeing that it’s such a fine sunny day for it, I think I’ll get dressed and go ferret out some more information about my dear, adorable, meddlesome Marguerite and our mutual friends. If we decide to add a small twist to our arrangement with our new friends—say, like finding a way to quietly turn them in to their Prime Minister—I wouldn’t want her to be in the way. I think I’ll begin with the Regent’s good friend Stinky. Are you coming, Paddy—or would you prefer to stay here and paw your rosary beads?”

“Somebody should be praying for your immortal soul, boyo,” Dooley grumbled, but he still got himself ready to go.



Marguerite sat very still as the shopkeeper held the silk flower and ribbon bedecked straw bonnet above her customer’s head, then settled it carefully, almost reverently on her coppery curls, as if she were officiating at a coronation.

The milliner stood back, her clasped hands to her breast. “Magnifique, Mademoiselle Balfour! Très chic! Monsieur, the mademoiselle, she is ravissant, non?”

Marguerite watched the mirror, seeing Sir Peregrine’s reflection as he sat behind her, tilting his head first to one side and then to the other, as if carefully weighing the milliner’s question before pronouncing judgment. “Well, Perry?” she prompted, doing her best to keep her tone light and cheerful in the face of his overweening self-assuredness. “Do I look ravishing—or would I be in danger of resembling nothing more than a living posie pot? I wouldn’t wish to confuse the bees as I make my way through the park during the Promenade.”

Totton finally shook his head. “The first one, dear Marguerite,” he pronounced at last, sighing as if he had just returned from a tiring trip down the mountain bearing clay tablets inscribed with his answer. “The yellow straw, Madame,” he then instructed the milliner, “the one with the delightful bunches of grapes. The symbolism of ripe grapes has been in use since the early Greeks. They speak of fruitfulness, you know, and endless bounty.”

Oh, really, Perry? Ancient Greeks, is it? Fruitfulness? Pompous ass! Marguerite thought meanly, removing the hat and handing it to the milliner. And would you have me traipsing around London advertising my worth as a brood mare? But then she turned on the low stool and smiled at Sir Peregrine. “Not only your unmatched eye for a pleasing bonnet, but a lesson in history as well. Ah, Perry, you are so good to me. I cannot thank you enough for making this choice, which I am now assured is the correct one. But, I vow, you spoil me. Soon I shall not be able to make a single decision without your input. Shall it be eggs for breakfast or toast with honey? Shall I walk in the park or ride?”

Sir Peregrine rose from his chair and bowed low, acknowledging her thanks as his due, so that Marguerite could accept the hatbox and pull a face at the same time without anyone save the milliner to notice.

Once they were out in the sunshine again, making their way back up Bond Street, Sir Peregrine patted Marguerite’s hand, which he had pulled through his crooked arm. “How long have I known you, dear Marguerite?”

Now what was he about? Turning to look at him—and she could look straight into his eyes, for he was as short for a man as she was tall for a woman—she said, “Forever, I suppose, Perry. With William’s estate so close by Grandfather’s, and everyone visiting back and forth, I imagine you can remember me when I was still in leading strings. You, Arthur, Ralph, Stinky, and William. You were all such good, dear, and trusted friends to my parents.”

“Exactly,” Sir Peregrine answered, nodding, as if she had said precisely what he had wished her to say. “We feel rather like honorary godparents, Marguerite—all of us. We were there for your mother when Geoffrey died”—he lifted a fist to his mouth and coughed, as if having trouble with his throat—“and then again that terrible day at William’s when your dear mother collapsed.”

“You were all quite wonderful, Perry,” Marguerite responded woodenly, longing to push the man past her and into the path of an oncoming curricle. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. To do murder would make her like them. Her revenges would be more subtle. “And so endlessly helpful.”

“Yes, yes, of course. We were all good friends. Which is why, dear Marguerite, we have all taken such pains to be sure your entry into society is a smooth one, using our combined consequence to make up for your sad lack of a mother to introduce you.”

“And my sad lack of a substantial dowry, Perry,” she added, wondering just where this conversation was heading. Surely the man wasn’t so ridiculous as to be about to propose a marriage between them? “We wouldn’t want to forget that, now would we? Papa died greatly in debt, and my grandfather is not all that plump in the pocket that I would allow him to throw his money away on anything so silly as a dowry.”

“The matter of a dowry is insignificant. Your grandfather’s consequence is enough to overlook such a lapse. But—and my dear child, I am only saying this because of the love I bear both you and your deceased parents—you cannot allow your good name to be muddied by associating with undesirables.”

Marguerite grinned. “Oh? And which one of you is undesirable, Perry? Stinky? Ralph? Surely not William. It is early days yet for the Season, and I have not had sufficient time to cultivate any undesirable associations.”

He helped her into the open carriage that waited at the corner, then sat down across from her, carefully splitting his coattails as he settled himself against the squabs. “Don’t tease me, child,” he said sternly. “This is no time for frivolous speech. I’m speaking of the American, this Donovan fellow. He’s totally unacceptable.”

Marguerite felt her smile freeze in place. So, she had been right to worry. The members of The Club disliked Donovan. She forced herself to giggle like a brainless chit fresh out of the schoolroom—which was, after all, what she was supposed to be. “You cannot be serious, Perry. I have no involvement with the American. None of any importance, that is. He merely saved me from a slight embarrassment a few nights ago and I thanked him by riding in the park with him the other morning. He did stop by our box last night, but that was only to see my grandfather, who is fond of his absurd stories about the wilds of Philadelphia.”

She allowed her smile to fade and leaned forward worriedly. “Although I did hear a rumor about Mr. Donovan and William. Is it true the American cracked William’s jaw at Gentleman Jackson’s? It seemed unbelievable when first I heard of it, but I haven’t seen William, so I cannot be sure. I had wanted to ask you, but knowing how proud William is, I felt it wiser to pretend I was ignorant of the rumors.”

Perry’s beady brown eyes shifted warily, as if he were in fear of being overheard. “William’s physician has assured him it is only a minor split in the bone, although it is monstrously inconvenient, and exceedingly painful and swollen.” Then he, too, leaned forward, his normally stern features curled upward in glee, like an eager child about to impart a deep, dark secret. “The surgeon has him rigged out in a wide bandage tied on top of his head, keeping his mouth all but shut. He looks like an old lady about to go out into her garden who has bound up her chin so that if her Maker should call her to his bosom while she is outside, she won’t be found with her jaws agape.”

Now Marguerite did laugh in earnest, immediately conjuring up a picture of the sartorially splendid Earl of Laleham with his chin in a sling. “Oh, Perry! We shouldn’t be seeing any humor in this. Poor, poor William!”

Sir Peregrine sobered immediately. “He’s not happy, that much is certain. But you can see why he—none of us—wishes your name to be bandied about in the same breath as that upstart American’s. Besides, Donovan has been telling all who will listen that he is going to marry you. Did you ever hear of such cheek! No, no—you must listen to the people who have your best interests at heart. You must not see the American again.”

“Why do you see him, Perry?” Marguerite asked, her hands drawing into fists in her lap as she longed to hop out of the carriage, seek out Donovan, and crack his jaw. Marry her indeed. She knew he had plans for her, but they had nothing to do with marriage! “What is he doing in England in the first place? He certainly is no diplomat, even though that’s what he proclaims himself to be. Does it have anything to do with this talk of war between us and America I’ve heard whispered about these past weeks since coming to London?”

Sir Peregrine sat back once more, his eyes hooded. “He’s only one of President Madison’s many whining, impertinent diplomats, Marguerite, and a very minor one. But protocol dictates people like Arthur and Ralph and I meet with him.”

“And William?” Marguerite pursued doggedly, feeling she had stumbled into an area it might pay her to explore. “What has he to do with diplomacy?”

Sir Peregrine smiled at her indulgently, so she immediately knew they were back to their usual roles of tutor and willing pupil. “William? Why, nothing, my dear. He was at Gentleman Jackson’s with Ralph and Arthur, and the American bullied him into sparring, then milled him down with an illegal blow. Another man would call Donovan out, but William is too much the gentleman to do any such thing.”

“At least until his jaw is whole once more and he can speak,” Marguerite slipped in quietly, bristling to hear Donovan’s actions condemned as unfair, although she couldn’t understand why it bothered her. “But enough of Thomas Donovan, Perry. Mere mention of the man’s name fatigues me. I will not be seeing him again, I promise you. I would much rather speak with you about something that happened last night at the theater. Something rather disturbing, as a matter of fact. Can I rely upon you to be discreet?”

Totton lifted a hand to his throat, to adjust his highly starched cravat. “Need you ask, my dear? I am always flattered to be of service. Now, what is the problem?”

Marguerite had been holding her breath since she asked her question, forcing color into her cheeks. “I blush to mention it,” she said after a moment, nervously pulling at the satin strings holding her reticule shut. “I feel like such a silly goose, to have been taken in—but I believe my dear grandfather and I may have become the unwitting victims of an adventuress.”

“An adventuress?” Sir Peregrine’s long, thin nose began to quiver like a hound that has picked up a scent. “How so?”

“Well,” Marguerite began, searching in her reticule for a lace-edged handkerchief she used to dab at her dry eyes, “there is this young woman—a Miss Georgianna Rollins—who sent a note round to Portman Square the other day telling of her deceased mother’s deportment school friendship with my mother and begging that we meet.” She blew her nose delicately and replaced the handkerchief. “I vow Perry, she all but wrote that Mama had promised to bring her out if something should happen to her own mother. Of course, with Mama marrying so young, and confining herself almost entirely to Chertsey, it is possible the two women never even saw each other again.”

“I see,” Totton said, tapping one index finger against the tip of his pointed nose. “You should have applied to me at once, my dear. There’s no limit importuning chits will not surpass in their desire for entry into a world to which they can never belong. What did Sir Gilbert say? What did you do?”

Marguerite fluttered her hands helplessly. “Oh, Perry. You know Grandfather. The name Rollins was not familiar to him, but he didn’t give me so much as a single hint as to how to go on. He doesn’t wish to be bothered with such silliness, and I love him too dearly to badger him. So, thinking I was being quite brilliant, I invited Miss Rollins to join us last night at the theater. If she were an unexceptionable young woman, I would be free to encourage her further acquaintance, and if she was unacceptable, I would not have to see her again.”

“A prudent course of action,” Sir Peregrine agreed consideringly. “And this Miss Rollins proved to be unacceptable? I imagine so, else you wouldn’t be telling me any of this, now would you?”

“Once again, dear Perry, you are so wise.” And so easily led, just like the others. Marguerite looked forward to the box, as if to show she wished to be certain the driver could not hear what she was to say next. Sir Peregrine leaned forward so that she would not have to speak loudly. “It’s Arthur, Perry,” she said, her tone low and urgent. “I had forgotten that I had asked him to join me last night. He and Miss Rollins—well, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company exceedingly and—Oh, how can I say this without you thinking I trust my own silly judgment more than I do Arthur’s?”

Totton frowned, then slowly his features cleared. “She has well-lined pockets, I imagine?” he inquired, shaking his head.

“Why, yes, I believe so. She mentioned a wealthy guardian in the country, and her diamonds were most impressive. Really lovely.”

Totton spread his hands, palms up, as if to indicate that he had uncovered the source of any confusion. “There you have it, my dear. Arthur would fall top over tails in love with any woman of fortune who so much as vaguely encouraged his suit—which, might I insert, no woman has done in more than a score of years. She is doubtless a rich tradesman’s offshoot in search of marrying a title. Will that overblown fool never grow up? Say no more, my dear. I shall handle things from here.”

Marguerite held out her hand, laying it on Totton’s forearm. “Such a good friend you are, to all of us. You won’t press him too hard, will you, Perry? I mean, Arthur is—as you yourself have just said—still a child in many ways. If you tell him not to see this Georgianna creature again he might persist in his acquaintance simply because you warned him off.”

“You have a point, my dear,” Totton responded, patting her hand. “And you’re a good friend. I’ll keep a close eye on our overage Lothario and step in only if things look serious. Money or not, we cannot have Arthur wedding anyone who smells even remotely of the shop! Ah,” he said, looking to his left to see they were once more entering Portman Square. “Here you are, my dear, home again, safe and dry. I should come in and speak with Sir Gilbert for a moment, save that I have an important appointment later today in Richmond. Government business,” he whispered confidentially. “Vastly important government business.”

Marguerite kissed Totton’s cheek after he had helped her to the flagstones. “I cannot tell you how much safer I feel, how much safer all of England feels, with you and Arthur and Perry holding the reins on the King’s business.”

And then she left him there on the flagway and hurried inside to rinse her mouth.



Thomas stood off in the corner of the large room, an untouched drink in his hand, watching Lord Chorley win hand after hand against his opponent, a crafty-looking gentleman of indeterminate age whose streak of bad luck would have long ago reduced a lesser man to tears.

Thomas had been surprised at first Lord Chorley would not be suspicious of his good luck, but then he remembered the old Irish saying that fit his lordship like a fool’s cap: The pig does not look up to see where the acorns are falling from.

Not that the stakes were so very high, for they were not. It was just the sheer number of hands the seemingly down-at-the-heels gambler Lord Chorley faced lost over the course of two hours. No one could be that unlucky.

Thomas and Dooley had followed Lord Chorley from his mansion in Grosvenor Square to the ramshackle gaming hell on the fringes of Piccadilly, amazed his lordship would lower himself to gambling with such an obviously common creature in such an equally common establishment. This was a place, Thomas was sure, greenheads flocked to from the country, eager to be stripped of their quarterly allowance. It wasn’t the sort of venue a peer of the realm would seek out—especially not a friend of the Prince Regent’s.

But then, Thomas also imagined, a man with dreams of winning and little money to lose might choose to play where no one he knew could see him.

“We’ve been here for close on to three hours, Tommie, skulking in corners so as not to be seen. Are we going to stand here all the afternoon, our feet stuck to this filthy floor? My Bridget would have taken a mop to the place long since.” Dooley said, stifling a yawn. “And the place reeks of gin.”

“Quiet, Paddy,” Thomas warned, stepping even deeper into the shadows and pulling the Irishman along with him. “Chorley and his friend are leaving now. Just stay here a minute, and then we’ll follow.”

“Why? We already know where he lives. Followed him here from there, didn’t we? There’s a precious lot of sense outside your head, Tommie, do you know that?”

“Not Chorley, Paddy,” Thomas said, starting toward the door once it had closed behind his lordship’s back. “I want to follow the other one. There’s something not quite right about the man.”

“If you’re talking about the sad state of his coat, then I agree with you,” Dooley said, threading his way through the tables behind Thomas. “I think he’s turned the collar and cuffs three times, which is twice more than Bridget turns the kiddies’ when they start to fray.”

Once out in the street, Thomas saw the hapless gambler hail a hackney cab and quickly flagged down another for Dooley and himself. “Paddy,” he said, once they were squashed together on the greasy leather seat, “why do you suppose a man who can fuzz a card as well as our friend of the ugly coat would deliberately lose hand after hand to a far inferior opponent?”

“You’re bamming me!” Dooley swiveled around on the seat to stare at Thomas. “He was losing money back there like a leaky bucket loses water—but on purpose? Why?”

“That’s a first-rate question, Paddy,” Thomas responded, leaning out the side of the hackney to make sure his driver was following the correct cab as it made its way toward Mayfair. “Almost as good a question as to wonder why Lord Chorley, an intimate of the Prince Regent’s, is gambling for such low stakes when he could be losing his blunt at White’s or Boodle’s or in any other more pleasant surroundings. Anyone would think he’s at the edge of ruin and desperately trying to recoup his fortune out of sight of his cronies. You did notice his nondescript clothing, didn’t you, Paddy, and the fact he arrived at the gaming hall in a hired coach? I only wish that I could have seen his partner’s eyes, but he kept them well hidden beneath that leather visor, and then that brimmed hat he slapped on his head the moment he quit the table. Eyes tell you a lot, you know.”

Dooley shook his head. “I don’t understand, boyo, and I’m not about to lie and say I do. The devil fly away with the man’s eyes. And so what if Lord Chorley is pockets to let? What does that have to do with us?”

“Precious little, I suppose, except to show why he might be interested in a spot of treason meant to bring down his own government,” Thomas admitted, knowing he was still operating through instinct and not out of any real knowledge of what he was seeking. “But he’s also one of the four—five, if, we include Lord Death—I’ve counted among Marguerite’s aged beaus. We’ve already deduced she’s trying to put a spoke in Lord Mappleton’s wheels—and don’t start arguing with me again on that head, Paddy, because I know I’m right—so it’s possible there might be something in the air for Lord Stinky as well. Ah—just as I thought.”

Dooley peered out to see the hackney turning into one of the squares. “Just as you thought? What did you just think? It’s a bleeding pity, but I don’t fathom you anymore, Tommie, I swear I don’t.”

“Neither do I, Paddy,” Thomas admitted, frowning. “Neither do I. But this is Portman Square, and if that hackney doesn’t pull up outside Sir Gilbert’s mansion, I’ll buy you that walking stick you were drooling over in Bond Street yesterday.”

The hackney didn’t stop directly in front of the mansion. It halted a short way away, and the gambler of the frayed collar and cuffs alighted, then disappeared down an alleyway, in the direction of Sir Gilbert’s servant’s entrance.

“Well, I’ll be damned for a tinker!” Dooley exclaimed. “Tommie, I think you’re onto something here. I don’t pretend to know what—but you’re sure as check onto something.”

“Thank you, Paddy,” Thomas said, motioning for the driver to move away. “And now I’d like a change of clothes before we ride off to Richmond to break bread with our small group of traitors.”

“Good enough, boyo,” Dooley said, settling himself comfortably. “And I’ll take the cane with the gold knob, just as you promised. It’s a lovely thing, don’t you know, and Bridget’s ma will be that impressed.”