A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,29
Arnold’s grave.”
Laleham delicately adjusted the lapels of his morning coat. “Don’t be vulgar, Ralph,” he said, sighing. “Be specific. What about this American has led you to believe that he is—in your words—an ignorant ass?”
Sir Ralph stood and began pacing the Oriental carpet laid in front of the couch. “Perry says ignorance is a failing all Irishmen subscribe to in the womb but, although Donovan is definitely not far removed from his Irish roots, I don’t believe the answer is that simple.” He stopped pacing and looked piercingly at the earl. “You see, I really don’t think the man is stupid. On the contrary, I believe him to be quite bright. But he’s approaching this entire business as if it is all a game, some sort of amusing lark—which shows his ignorance. Do you understand, William?”
“I understand this Donovan person has recognized what you still do not see. He has nothing to lose, Ralph. Once we have set our plan in motion, once we’ve concluded our business with him, our Irish-American conspirator will return to Philadelphia, safely away from any of the consequences if our plan is discovered. And, by the simple act of approaching Madison, we have shown that England is already facing trouble from within. The Americans can’t lose no matter how it all falls out.”
The earl slowly rose to his feet and walked over to the Sheraton mirror that hung above the sideboard, to stare at his own reflection. “I had rather hoped they wouldn’t realize our vulnerability. This will make things more difficult.”
“That,” Sir Ralph conceded in his usual flat tone, so that the earl did not know if he should interpret it as fearful or triumphant, “and the fact our wily Mr. Donovan has arrogantly declared he’s bent on seducing Marguerite Balfour before the week is out. Cheeky bastard. I have it on good authority he has all but tipped more than one of this season’s crop of debutantes over on her heels since he arrived in England, so I imagine it isn’t an idle boast. William? William—did you hear me?”
William Renfrew didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He refused to react. He only watched his reflection as, in spite of years spent learning never to betray himself, a small muscle began spasmodically contracting just below his left eye.
“Good morning, Grandfather. You’re up and about early this morning, aren’t you? And don’t you look fine as nine pence in your new waistcoat.” Marguerite dropped a kiss on Sir Gilbert Selkirk’s bald pate, then turned to the buffet and began filling her plate with a selection of the foods nestled inside various silver serving pieces. Clamping a piece of toast between her teeth after ladling out a generous mound of coddled eggs and stabbing a double rasher of bacon and placing it on her plate, she slid onto a chair across from Sir Gilbert, grinning at him around the still warm bread.
“You’re dressed for riding, I see,” Sir Gilbert said, his voice deep and rumbling, as if it arose from the very pit of his rather enormous stomach. “I’ll have Finch here”—he smiled up at the butler who had appeared silently to pour steaming coffee into Marguerite’s cup— “send round word to the stables that you’ll have need of my winch in order to set yourself in the saddle. You’ve enough food there, gel, to keep a full battalion moving for a week.”
“Very good, sir,” Finch said, backing away from the table. “I’ll see that your order is delivered at once.”
“Yes, you do that, Finch,” Marguerite warned the man genially, taking the wedge of toast from her mouth, “and then I’ll tell Maisie how you were ogling that new upstairs maid yesterday when she bent over to pick up her pail.”
“Miss Marguerite, please no. Maisie will lecture me for an hour, probably making me listen to her read from that book of sermons she’s always carrying in her pocket. You wouldn’t do such a thing.”
Sir Gilbert’s appreciative laughter boomed throughout the breakfast room, threatening to rattle the cutlery. “God’s teeth, man, don’t make it worse by daring her not to. Of course she would. The child lives for mischief.”
Marguerite’s giggle ushered the butler out of the room, and then she turned to Sir Gilbert. He was looking fit this morning. “Naughty old man,” she told him, picking up her fork and pointing it in his direction. “Anyone would think I was some devil’s spawn, to hear you tell it. Did you take your morning