A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,112
again as wide as Thomas remembered them, his shirt points dangerously high—strutted into the middle of the circle formed by his observers and swept an elaborate leg in the direction of the prince.
“There’s a whacking mass of sense outside that man’s head, Tommie, I’m thinking,” Paddy said as a group of about a dozen poorly dressed men carrying spades and picks on their shoulders gathered around Sir Peregrine. “He hasn’t turned a shovelful of dirt, and he’s primping and preening like he’s just discovered diamonds in his morning porridge. Heading for a fall, he is—I can feel it in m’bones.”
Thomas didn’t answer, for he was busy watching Marguerite, who was dressed this morning in a lovely pale blue gown, the shadow cast by the wall and the brim of her fetching straw hat decorated with bluish purple grapes hiding her expression from him. She was clutching her unfurled parasol with both hands, though, and he could almost feel her tension. “Little she-devil,” he whispered under his breath. Oh, yes, this wasn’t Sir Peregrine’s party, he concluded, this was Marguerite’s, and he had a feeling he was going to enjoy it very much.
“Your royal highness, ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Peregrine announced in a carrying voice just as the sun (Ominously? Portentously? Predictably? Thomas wondered) disappeared behind the clouds once more, bowing in each direction of the compass, “thank you so much for your kind attendance at this, the most momentous moment in our nation’s history.”
“That’s putting it on a little too thick and rare, isn’t it Totton? Surely, dear man, there have been other moments? The birth of our beloved Prince of Wales, for instance? Or mayhap that day is yet to dawn, that day being the one in which you discover a tailor who does not list his address in Piccadilly?”
A ripple of laughter ran through the crowd as Sir Peregrine bowed to Brummell, who, after issuing his statement, was in the process of elegantly taking snuff.
“I should like to take a moment to explain to those who did not have the pleasure of thoroughly perusing the articles so graciously carried by all of our newspapers this morning some little background on the history of the Roman occupation of our grand island.”
“God’s teeth!” the prince exclaimed, his deep voice carrying over the moans and groans of Sir Peregrine’s audience. “If I had wanted a history lesson, Totton, I would have traveled up to Cambridge. Get on with it man—before the skies open and lay ruin to all our fair ladies’ fine clothes!”
“Very well,” Sir Peregrine said, sighing audibly. “From my studies I have deduced that the household property and, hopefully, much of the fortune of one Roman citizen named Balbus was buried just here, where the walls of the Tower of London were to rise several centuries later. I have in my possession”—he paused for a moment, to pull the parchment from his waistcoat—“a copy of the gentleman’s map, pinpointing the place where the treasure lies buried.
“The message was coded, and in Latin, so that it took me many hours of concentrated effort to unlock its secrets, but as I am a Latin scholar I am convinced that I have been successful in my intellectual pursuit. For I am not concerned with any personal gain and have already promised His Royal Highness that the Crown shall be the sole proprietor of Balbus’s treasure. Remember the name, ladies and gentlemen—Balbus, the Roman.”
“If the little banty keeps puffing out his chest like that, Tommie, and the sun chances to creep out again, he’ll scratch and crow like the cock of the walk,” Dooley whispered rather loudly, causing the three ladies in front of them to titter behind their hands.
Sir Peregrine looked to the small group, frowned, and then continued: “I have done all but the final pacing, leaving that historic moment until now, after which the men behind me will commence digging. Your Royal Highness,” he said questioningly, “with your kind permission?”
“You’ve had his permission forever, Totton,” Brummell called out. “It’s His Royal Highness’s patience you’re in danger of losing.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” Sir Peregrine said hastily, turning to the laborers, one of whom was yawning widely, while another was scratching an itch close by his crotch. “Stand back, you fools, and let me get my bearings.”
“Go on the hunt for your wits while you’re about it! You’ll have plaguey little luck finding either, I’ll wager,” somebody called from the crowd.
“I’ll take that bet!” someone else called out. “Ten pounds says he