A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,62
should be jolly good fun.”
“Would you kindly lower your voice?” Sir Peregrine Totton whispered through clenched teeth from his chair at Donovan’s left hand. “This is serious business, young man, with serious consequences for failure.”
Donovan winked at Totton. “Not for me, Sir Peregrine. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
Lord Chorley, who had been admiring the new gold watch and fob he had bought and not yet paid for, looked across the table to Sir Peregrine. “He’s got you there, Perry. We’re not officially at war. All they’ll do to him if we’re discovered is toss him out of the country. We’re the ones who’ll hang.”
“What? What? Hang, you say?” Lord Mappleton sat forward with a lurch, his chair creaking as his weight shifted. “Stinky—we’d hang? Oh, no. Can’t do that. Not when I’m finally within Ames Ace of getting myself bracketed to a most healthy fortune. Miss Georgianna Rollins. Lovely diamonds. You remember, Donovan. You met them —er, I mean her. No, I can’t hang. Not now.”
“Married?” Donovan stood, holding his glass high. “Gentlemen, a toast to our good and most industrious friend, Lord Mappleton. You move quickly, your lordship. Sir Peregrine, you’re not drinking. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing a lowborn creature such as yourself would comprehend, Donovan,” Totton shot back, looking to Sir Ralph even as Lord Chorley drank deep to his friend Arthur’s good fortune, showing he saw nothing wrong with marrying for money. “Can we get on with this? I don’t have all night to sit here listening to foolishness. I have just today experienced a major breakthrough with an ancient coded manuscript I was fortunate enough to stumble over the other day while perusing the bookstalls. It’s a rare find, possibly detailing the location of some early Roman works that could prove invaluable for their artistic and educational contributions to society.”
Lord Chorley rolled his eyes. “Still looking to be named head of the Royal Society of Insufferably Pretentious Twits, are you, Perry? What’s it this time—statues? Rare coins? An ages-dead, stuffed Roman? They’ll never take you in, for all your knocking at the door. I have about as much chance of breaking the faro bank at Boodle’s. But I suppose you won’t give it up any more than I will, heh, Perry? Old dogs, you know, and all that sort of rot.”
Sir Ralph turned to stare down Patrick Dooley, who was sitting in a corner, chuckling at what he must have seen to be a huge joke. “That will be enough, gentlemen,” Sir Ralph cut in when it appeared that Sir Peregrine was about to reply to Lord Chorley’s remarks. “I could ring for supper, but I don’t believe any of us is prepared to break bread like bosom chums. Especially Mr. Donovan here, who has told me he’s in a great rush to return to London, to frolic with a willing female.”
“Now, Sir Ralph, don’t go putting words in my mouth,” Donovan cut in, reaching into his frock coat pocket. “I never said she was willing. After all, I’m not there yet, am I, to convince her? But I agree—let’s get on with it. Lord Mappleton, I understand you are to direct payments for services and goods rendered—goods and services that, as you know, will never be rendered to anyone—to an office and warehouse I am to set up for business. I have dutifully rented just such a building near the wharfs—the company named Phillips and Delphia Stores and Armaments—and even now a clerk is waiting there to receive checks and forward cash by ship to another Phillips, etc., etc., office in the West Indies, which shall then forward that same money to Washington. Both the new company’s name and location are listed on this paper.”
Sir Peregrine snatched the paper before it could be passed to Lord Mappleton. “Phillips and Delphia Stores and Armaments?” He looked to Sir Ralph. “What sort of name is that?”
Sir Ralph kept his silence, hating Thomas Donovan more with every passing moment.
“As good as any other, I should imagine, Sir Peregrine, if a trifle sentimental. There is no rule that says we can’t enjoy ourselves, as far as Mr. Dooley and I see the thing,” Donovan answered, taking another drink of his wine. “Now, Sir Peregrine—you’re next. As I understand it, you will be diverting shipments of the real armaments from the royal warehouses to this same Phillips and Delphia Stores and Armaments, so that they can follow much the identical route by private carriers you shall engage, also ending their