A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,38
up like a hound out of a pond, shaking his head to rid himself of the excess water. He soaped his face, hands, and chest in advance of subjecting himself to the cold water again before blindly reaching out a hand for the towel Dooley was sure to place in it. Dear Dooley. He was better than a valet, if underpaid for the job. But a hired servant might hear something not meant for his ears.
“Ah, that’s better. Thanks, Paddy,” Thomas said, dropping the towel and accepting the shirt his friend was holding out to him. “You’re going to enjoy this,” he told him as he searched in the cabinet for a fresh neck cloth. He tied it without looking into the mirror over the washstand, so that it hung loosely around his neck, giving him the air of a man who knew his linen should be clean, but had better things to do with his life than spend his time primping. And, he also knew, he was young enough and handsome enough to carry off such sartorial nonchalance. He ran his brushes through his hair, then smoothed his mustache with his thumb and index finger.
Less than ten minutes had passed since Dooley had greeted him at the door.
“Gentleman Jackson’s is a boxing saloon, Paddy. I’ve heard all about the place. For a fee, any gentleman of ability can step into the ring with the retired English champion for the honor of having his nose broken by the great man. They also square off with each other, which I admit must be a treat to watch. Do you suppose Harewood will challenge me to a bout?”
“Not if he has half a brain in his head, but I doubt even a full brain would stop an Englishman from believing he could wipe your Irish mug all over the floor,” Dooley said, grinning as he held out a bottle-green frock coat once Thomas had succeeded in pulling on hose and a freshly pressed pair of buff-colored breeches, his shirttails neatly tucked inside before he closed the buttons against his flat belly. “Wear the pumps. You’ll not be wanting your boots, boyo, if you’re going to have to step into the ring, for I’m not going to act the valet in the middle of Bond Street.”
“Who says I’m going to mill anybody down, not that the thought doesn’t serve to brighten my day? And you’re getting fairly full of yourself, aren’t you, Paddy?” Thomas teased, searching through a pile of clothes and papers lying on the desk in hopes of locating his hat. “Anyone would think I’d asked for your assistance. I’m fully grown and capable of looking after myself, thank you.”
“Your hat is in the other room, hanging from a candelabra, your cane propped on the floor beside it,” Dooley told him, heading out of the bedroom they had been sharing since coming to London three weeks earlier. “Now, come on, boyo—we’ve got our country’s business to attend to and, if we’re lucky, an Englishman or two to bash.”
It took almost a full half hour for the rented hack to take them through the early afternoon traffic from Piccadilly to Bond Street, and Thomas passed the time munching on a meat pie he had purchased from a hawker just outside the hotel, so that he was refreshed, if thirsty, when he and Dooley walked into Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and asked for Sir Ralph Harewood.
“The gentlemen’s party is awaiting them upstairs,” the liveried servant said, bowing, and then ushered them toward the staircase with a wave of his hand.
Dooley looked back at the liveried servant before he and Thomas climbed the stairs two at a time, and remarked, “Bunch of nonsense, Tommie. Bowing servants, great hulking chandeliers, Chinese wallpapers. It’s embarrassing, that’s what it is. Ah—this is more like it! A place like this—full of fists aching for a hit—I’ve died and the sweet angels have lifted me up to heaven’s gate.”
Thomas stopped at the head of the stairs and grinned in agreement. They were faced with a most enormous room filled with roped-off rings and painted squares marking areas on the sawdust-strewn wood floor. Sawdust was good. It meant the gentlemen were expected not only to hit each other, but to bleed as well. He felt his palms itch, aching for the friendly opportunity to beat one of his fellowman’s two ears into one.
Everywhere Thomas looked gentlemen, some stripped to their waists, some still dressed for the street and standing by