A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,113
can’t locate either of them.”
A dozen voices joined the debate, wagers flying faster than Sir Peregrine could pace from a point he must have plotted earlier, taking twelve carefully spaced steps before ending with his highly polished Hessians sinking in the middle of a circle of freshly planted spring flowers that had to be the glory of the Tower gardeners.
“Oh, surely, Totton, not the posies!” Brummell exclaimed dramatically, lifting a snowy white handkerchief to his eyes, as if to wipe away a tear at the sad fate of the flowers.
Sir Peregrine’s angry glare was not enough to stop the laughter of the crowd of more than one hundred easily amused onlookers, and he motioned jerkily to the laborers to begin digging just left of the center of the circle.
The men dug, as more ladies unfurled their parasols against the hint of a damp mist, as the gentlemen’s taunts and jeers increased in boldness, as tradesmen plied their wares throughout the crowd... as Thomas watched Marguerite watching Totton, her normally smiling mouth pinched, her ramrod straight posture betraying her excitement.
Lord Mappleton and Miss Rollins soon tired of the scene, and Thomas saw them leaving, Lord Mappleton solicitously holding her elbow as she picked her way across the grass to one of the stone paths. There was something strange about the rich Miss Rollins, as Thomas had believed from the very beginning, something about her that just did not seem quite real, but still he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what bothered him. Perhaps the flaw was too obvious, like a forest, so that he could not see the most important tree. But he couldn’t be bothered with such thoughts now.
Sir Ralph, Thomas noticed, remained stationed beside Marguerite, shaking his head, although otherwise looking as noncommittal as always. It was impossible to determine whether he was angry or amused or simply bored by the spectacle of his friend’s “scientific investigation.”
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