A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,76
my match, Paddy,” he said, not without sorrow. “All these years of playing about, setting my wits against men twice my age and winning time and time again—and a female brings me low. It’s embarrassing.”
Paddy nodded his agreement, “How the mighty have fallen,” he said, then grinned. “And what a thrill it is to watch as you go tumbling down into love.”
“Love?” Thomas jackknifed to a sitting position, holding on to his bottle so not a drop of the liquid spilled. “Love is one thing, Paddy. I’ve fallen in love twice in the same week.”
“But this time it’s different, isn’t it, boyo? Ah, but it’s my Bridget who’d be delighted to see you now. She’s been wishing this comedown on you for years.”
“Don’t gloat, Paddy, it doesn’t become you. Yet I suppose it had to happen. All right, I’m truly in love. All men fall sooner or later—although in my case I thought it would be later. Much later. I never even bought her that bauble I was planning to use to dazzle her soft heart.”
He ran a hand through his hair, which, Dooley observed silently, already looked as if it had been combed with a rake. “And to fall so hard, Paddy? So quickly? I hadn’t counted on that. But to have her running rings around me with her keen eyes and quick mind? To love a woman who is capable of setting up rigs like a prime flimflam man, and who dares to tease me with hints that she knows that I’m up to no good? That little girl could teach the devil himself a trick or three! Ah, Paddy, it’s a terrible blow to my consequence, I tell you.” He fell back against the cushions once more. “I don’t know if I’ll survive the shock of the thing.”
“Glory be to God—what a miserable caterwauling.” Dooley pushed himself up from the chair and crossed the room, to take the bottle out of Thomas’s hand. “It’s eight of the clock in the morning. Mark the time, boyo, for you’re back on the water wagon as of now. And, speaking of water, I’ve ordered up a tub. I don’t think I want to look at you again until you’ve had a bath and a long nap. You’re as great a rogue as ever stood in shoe leather, or so you’ve always told me. I’ll ask you to remember that. Are you really going to let one little colleen bring you so low? And what about Madison? What about our mission? Or do rogues in love have no time for anything more important than weeping into their liquor?”
Thomas arched one eyebrow as he glared up at Dooley. “Feeling pretty full of yourself, aren’t you, Paddy?”
The Irishman smiled so widely the gap on the top left side of his mouth—where he had long ago lost a tooth to an angry Scotsman with fists like hams—was visible. “Fair to brimming, boyo,” he admitted. “It clean takes the cockles off this old heart of mine to see the cock of the walk fitting himself out for hen stubbles.” His grin faded. “But, happy as I am, I have to remind you that if this Marguerite of yours is fixing to do terrible things to our group of traitors it could put paid to all our plans.”
Thomas stood and began stripping off the rumpled shirt that had been a marvel of pristine perfection when he had donned it to meet with Harewood and the others the night before in Richmond. “That’s what I like most about you, Paddy—your unflagging determination in pointing out the obvious. However, if Marguerite fails in whatever it is she’s about, she could be in danger. These men are desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable. Remember, President Madison left it up to me to decide whether or not to go along with their plans. I’m not so sure we’d be serving our country to deal with them.”
Dooley shrugged, accepting the discarded shirt rather than see it hit the floor. “So what are we doin’ cooling our heels here then, boyo? We can settle the whole business easily enough. Just toss the girl over your shoulder and we can all three of us escape to Philadelphia on the next tide. We could take Sir Gilbert up with us while we’re at it. He’s a friendly enough fellow, for an Englisher, and he wants to meet a wild Indian or two before he cocks up his toes. Told me so the other night