A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,55
shirt and began to shrug an arm into it. “Thank you, Paddy,” he said brightly. “I knew you’d agree with me. Now, seeing that it’s such a fine sunny day for it, I think I’ll get dressed and go ferret out some more information about my dear, adorable, meddlesome Marguerite and our mutual friends. If we decide to add a small twist to our arrangement with our new friends—say, like finding a way to quietly turn them in to their Prime Minister—I wouldn’t want her to be in the way. I think I’ll begin with the Regent’s good friend Stinky. Are you coming, Paddy—or would you prefer to stay here and paw your rosary beads?”
“Somebody should be praying for your immortal soul, boyo,” Dooley grumbled, but he still got himself ready to go.
Marguerite sat very still as the shopkeeper held the silk flower and ribbon bedecked straw bonnet above her customer’s head, then settled it carefully, almost reverently on her coppery curls, as if she were officiating at a coronation.
The milliner stood back, her clasped hands to her breast. “Magnifique, Mademoiselle Balfour! Très chic! Monsieur, the mademoiselle, she is ravissant, non?”
Marguerite watched the mirror, seeing Sir Peregrine’s reflection as he sat behind her, tilting his head first to one side and then to the other, as if carefully weighing the milliner’s question before pronouncing judgment. “Well, Perry?” she prompted, doing her best to keep her tone light and cheerful in the face of his overweening self-assuredness. “Do I look ravishing—or would I be in danger of resembling nothing more than a living posie pot? I wouldn’t wish to confuse the bees as I make my way through the park during the Promenade.”
Totton finally shook his head. “The first one, dear Marguerite,” he pronounced at last, sighing as if he had just returned from a tiring trip down the mountain bearing clay tablets inscribed with his answer. “The yellow straw, Madame,” he then instructed the milliner, “the one with the delightful bunches of grapes. The symbolism of ripe grapes has been in use since the early Greeks. They speak of fruitfulness, you know, and endless bounty.”
Oh, really, Perry? Ancient Greeks, is it? Fruitfulness? Pompous ass! Marguerite thought meanly, removing the hat and handing it to the milliner. And would you have me traipsing around London advertising my worth as a brood mare? But then she turned on the low stool and smiled at Sir Peregrine. “Not only your unmatched eye for a pleasing bonnet, but a lesson in history as well. Ah, Perry, you are so good to me. I cannot thank you enough for making this choice, which I am now assured is the correct one. But, I vow, you spoil me. Soon I shall not be able to make a single decision without your input. Shall it be eggs for breakfast or toast with honey? Shall I walk in the park or ride?”
Sir Peregrine rose from his chair and bowed low, acknowledging her thanks as his due, so that Marguerite could accept the hatbox and pull a face at the same time without anyone save the milliner to notice.
Once they were out in the sunshine again, making their way back up Bond Street, Sir Peregrine patted Marguerite’s hand, which he had pulled through his crooked arm. “How long have I known you, dear Marguerite?”
Now what was he about? Turning to look at him—and she could look straight into his eyes, for he was as short for a man as she was tall for a woman—she said, “Forever, I suppose, Perry. With William’s estate so close by Grandfather’s, and everyone visiting back and forth, I imagine you can remember me when I was still in leading strings. You, Arthur, Ralph, Stinky, and William. You were all such good, dear, and trusted friends to my parents.”
“Exactly,” Sir Peregrine answered, nodding, as if she had said precisely what he had wished her to say. “We feel rather like honorary godparents, Marguerite—all of us. We were there for your mother when Geoffrey died”—he lifted a fist to his mouth and coughed, as if having trouble with his throat—“and then again that terrible day at William’s when your dear mother collapsed.”
“You were all quite wonderful, Perry,” Marguerite responded woodenly, longing to push the man past her and into the path of an oncoming curricle. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. To do murder would make her like them. Her revenges would be more subtle. “And so endlessly helpful.”