A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,15
this meeting will progress much more congenially if I can only quiet my rumbling stomach.”
Sir Peregrine looked to Thomas, who returned that look deliberately, unwaveringly—daring the Englishman to contradict him—then subsided into his chair once more. “Oh, very well,” Sir Peregrine agreed at last. “Grouse, go into my private chamber and see what you can find. I’m sure there’s something we can serve these people.”
“This people wouldn’t be sorry to get a bite or two of meat, boyo,” Dooley called after the clerk, causing Thomas to look down at him and sigh. “And what may I ask, would you be gawking at now, Tommie? There was no sense in asking for ale, now was there?” Dooley countered, shrugging, so that Thomas had to cover his mouth with his fist, and pretend to cough in order to hide an appreciative smile.
Once the door closed behind the clerk, Thomas advanced to the front of the desk and deliberately sat his long frame on the left corner, first shifting a bust of Socrates out of his way. He wanted to be closer to Sir Peregrine, smell the man’s cologne, the man’s fear. He knew he was twice the man physically as his reluctant host, and he wanted Sir Peregrine to be unable to forget it. This might be a game they were all playing, but it was a deadly serious game, and it had deadly serious rules. “Did you think I’d countenance a witness, Totton?” he asked now, conversationally.
“Grouse is completely loyal, if none too bright,” Sir Peregrine countered, snatching up the bust and placing it beside one of Homer. “And what do you think you’re going to accomplish coming here in the first place? I knew nothing about meeting with you here. Can’t you follow the simplest instructions? We are all supposed to gather Saturday, at Richmond.”
“Oh, we are, Totton, and we will,” Thomas told him, reaching into his jacket and extracting a cheroot, placing it, unlit, between his straight white teeth. “I’m here today, suffering the insult of being kept waiting in your antechamber, in order to maintain the outward reason for my presence on this damp island. And I must say, old fellow, you’ve been most cooperative. Four whole hours. Was it difficult, hiding in here, wondering how I’d react to being kept waiting? But then, it wouldn’t do if I were seen to be treated better than you’ve treated the rest of my countrymen who have come begging for audiences.”
“Then this is all for show? We have nothing to discuss privately?”
Thomas took up the small tinderbox that sat on the desktop and struck it, holding the flame to the end of the cheroot until the tip glowed red. He inhaled deeply, then blew a blue-gray stream of smoke directly in Sir Peregrine’s pinched face. “Only one small item, Totton, and then I’ll be off and you can soothe your jangled nerves by beating on Grouse with one of these ancient philosophers. One small question that begs an answer. Tell me—are you and your treasonous cohorts negotiating with the French as well? Hedging your bets, as some might call it?”
Sir Peregrine waved the smoke away from his face, coughing as he looked from Thomas to Dooley and back again. Thomas watched him closely, searching for any outward sign of alarm, and saw nothing but confusion. “Deal with the French? Are you mad? Why would any of us even entertain such a thought? Perhaps you need to be reminded of something, sir. We English are at war with the French.”
“Don’t be an ass, Totton,” Thomas bit out, pushing himself away from the desk, beginning to relax but not about to allow Sir Peregrine to see anything but his anger. It had only been a thought, a vague niggling notion, and hardly worth the four-hour wait it had taken to prove himself wrong. But that didn’t mean the afternoon should be a total loss. As long as he was here, he might as well have some sport with the nervously belligerent Sir Peregrine.
“At war with France, you say? What a curious notion of honor you have. Your countrymen are at war with France. You, however, are at war with England,” Thomas pointed out quietly. “Why else would you want to help America, if not that a strong America will help to foment disenchantment among the masses and pull down your own monarchy? Tell me, which of you is to step forward and take the reins of government? Harewood? Chorley? No? Not Mappleton,