The Curse Of The Diogenes Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

Bruce Blague, from across the Atlantic.”
    Colonel Moriarty fought the
urge to scratch his bald head – prayed the wig wasn’t infested with
lice - and acknowledged the newcomer. “A pleasure to make your
acquaintance, sir, I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter at a
pre-Christmas dinner party at the General’s house in Berkeley
Square. Will Miss Blague be here this evening?”
    He knew very well she wouldn’t,
because he had listened in on the entire conversation and had tried
not to laugh out loud. Miss Moneybags was not on his dance list,
not that such a thing existed on the cusp of the twentieth century,
but if it did, no amount of money would induce him to put her name
on it. He preferred his women smart and with spark. He already had
a doormat. The uppity Countess was top of his dance list.
    “Alas, she will not be joining
us. My daughter is currently not feeling herself.”
    “I’m sorry to hear it, sir. I
hope she recovers full health soon.”
    The news that had rendered the
poor girl bereft had had the opposite effect on the colonel. It had
given him a new lease on life and spurred him to travel from
Ireland to London in time for the Prince Regent’s New Year’s Eve
Ball, imaginatively titled: Last Night Forever.
    The sudden removal of Viscount
Cazenove from London was a godsend. He had borrowed the theatrical
Musketeer costume from a fellow Irishman who did odd jobs in Covent
Garden and had connections to several theatres.
    “But you don’t have a ticket to
the ball,” his friend had warned, digging out the Musketeer outfit
from the bottom of a chest full of moth-eaten costumes and
bedraggled wigs. “You will never get away with it, Jim. You will
land yourself in a military brig – not an auspicious start to the
twentieth century.”
    “Let me worry about that,” he
had shrugged off, and so here he was about to walk through the door
with three worthies from the English-American establishment.
    “Oh, dammit!” cussed Mr Blague.
“I left my invitation in my coat pocket after we went in the first
time. It must be in the cloak room.”
    “Don’t worry about it,”
dismissed General de Merville. “I know the chap on duty at the
door. Captain Thompson will not cause a fuss.”
    “Oh, bother!” cursed Colonel
Moriarty with uncharacteristic mildness for an Irishman, after
turning out his moth-eaten pockets. “I seemed to have done the same
thing. My invitation is in the pocket of my stormcoat.”
    “Well, lucky I have my mine!”
laughed Damery. “What about you de Merville? Did you leave your
invitation inside too?”
    General de Merville scowled.
“Yes, I did - blast it! - but Captain Thompson will remember me. I
made a point of congratulating him on his recent promotion. The
chap will not make a fuss. I’ll handle it.”
    They reached the door just as
several carriages arrived in quick succession.
    “Hello, Thompson. I just
stepped out to the veranda to have a cigar with these gentlemen,
and it seems that three of us have left our invitations in the
cloak room. No need to make a fuss, there’s a good fellow. Have a
happy and prosperous New Year, Captain. Give my regards to that
good wife of yours.”
    Moriarty, still fighting the
urge to scratch an itch, scanned for potential trouble as soon as
he entered the Moorish foyer and quickly spotted it in the form of
Major - Horatio Hornblower - Nash on patrol by the main door
leading into the ballroom. Nash wasn’t head of security; he was a
paper-shuffler in the War Office. The Prince of Wales would have a
crack team of Varangian guards looking out for him, but it would be
just like Nash to ask to see his invitation. He always did things
by the book.
    The Irishman had recently
checked with a few friends about who Nash’s superior officer was in
the paper-shuffling department. Every single one gave a different
answer. One said Nash was spying for the foreign office in
Shanghai. Another said Nash had resigned his commission and was
married