A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,39
idly, drinks in their hands, were immersed in performing or observing the manly sport of boxing as it was practiced in London.
In Philadelphia the scene would have been very different. Mills took place out-of-doors, for one thing, and the rules weren’t quite so stringent. But spilled blood was still red, and a fist was still a man’s best weapon. How different could it all be?
The room, Thomas noticed, was as bright as it was big, for there were floor-to-ceiling windows lining two walls, and dust motes danced in the sunlight pouring in through those uncurtained windows.
The noise level was delightfully high, the air smelled of sawdust and sweat, and there wasn’t a lady to be seen—which was as it should be, for females did nothing but muck up what they couldn’t understand, crying and fainting at the sight of a little blood. Although he thought Marguerite might appreciate the scene.
No nuances here though, either, such as Thomas had faced in society, had just encountered with Marguerite. No saying one thing and meaning another. No foolery. Just fists and jaws—and backslaps and drinks once it was over. No hard feelings. No recriminations. This was a man’s world, a man’s kingdom, and Thomas immediately felt at home.
“There’s Sir Ralph,” Dooley said, breaking into Thomas’s thoughts as he gestured to a small knot of men standing to the right of one of the rings. “He’s over there with Mappleton and some bloke I don’t recognize. Now there’s Death, boyo—and I didn’t even have to send you for him.”
Thomas looked in the direction of Dooley’s pointed finger, immediately seeing Harewood and Mappleton, and just as quickly dismissing them. There was a third gentleman standing with them, half a head taller than the tall Harewood, and he was speaking to them earnestly while they seemed to listen as if he was saying something of immeasurable importance. The man’s jaw, remarkably square and spare, was topped by a wide, thin-lipped mouth below a long, aquiline nose, and his dark eyes were framed by black slashing brows. The silver hair at his temples added nothing to his age, but only to his air of consequence. Dressed all in black, his snowy white neck cloth climbing halfway up his throat, the man had an air of leashed energy about him.
Death? No, not Death, Thomas decided, one side of his mouth lifting in a thoughtful smile. Danger.
“Give me the time, if you’d be so kind, Paddy,” Thomas said quietly. “Are we unfashionably early?”
Dooley pulled a huge pocket watch from his waistcoat and snapped it open. “Only by about twenty minutes, Tommie. Why do you ask?”
“No reason, although I believe Sir Ralph and his friends may have thought we’d be fashionably late. Come along. Now that we’re here, we wouldn’t wish to keep our host waiting.” Thomas snatched a glass of wine from the tray of a passing servant—a bandy-legged little man who looked up at Thomas angrily then, seeing how far he had to tip back his head to do his looking, smiled nervously and blurted out, “Thank you, sir!” even before Thomas tossed him a coin.
Raising his voice about three notches, so that he would be heard over the din all around them, Thomas employed both hands to protectively clutch the knob of his cane against his chest and all but shouted, “Where do you suppose Sir Ralph to be, Paddy? Surely you misread our invitation—for whatever would civilized gentlemen do in a place like this? Good Lord, Paddy—that man’s bleeding! Terrible!”
“That’s a little too thick and rare, boyo,” Dooley whispered out of the corner of his mouth as Thomas noted with some satisfaction that the tall black-clad gentleman had already moved off, to stand looking into the ring at two combatants in the process of exchanging sloppy, ineffectual punches. “It would take the world’s worst looby to believe you were one what couldn’t handle his fives.”
“Never underestimate the thickheadedness of those who would believe you their inferiors, Paddy,” Thomas said softly, then stepped forward to extend his hand to Sir Ralph, who was approaching them from across the room, an undecipherable smile on his nondescript face. “Sir Ralph! A pleasure, I’m sure. How condescending of you to agree to meet with us.”
“As official representatives of your government, Mr. Donovan, Mr. Dooley, how could I refuse this interview?” Sir Ralph responded, his voice carrying over the din all around them. “Although I must warn you beforehand, my own government is adamant in refusing to assume any culpability in