A Masquerade in the Moonlight (22 page)

But not for long.

“You said too much, Ralph,” Sir Peregrine began.

“You’re too suspicious,” Lord Chorley interrupted. “He seems pleasant enough—”

“What? What? Can we go now? Georgie, dear girl. Promised to wait for me. I have to strike while the iron is hot, if you take my meaning, before some fortune-hunting snip cuts me out.”

“Oh, go on, the lot of you!” Sir Ralph exploded, waving his hands in dismissal. “We’ll meet again on Monday. Just get out of my sight. I have more important things to do than listen to a roomful of old women!”

They were gone within a minute, leaving Sir. Ralph alone in the dining room, his wine untouched, his supper still in the inn’s kitchens, uncalled for. He looked toward the curtain, waiting for the Earl of Laleham to show himself.

He appeared a moment later, dressed in his impeccable black, his head tied up with a black silk handkerchief, a square of white linen pressed to the corner of his mouth to catch the drool that persisted in slipping from between his lips.

“Well? Happy now, William? I told him everything you said for me to, and still he acts as if this is all some lark. I say we abandon the entire scheme. We could just as easily pocket the money and sell the goods and ships to the French.”

“Who would end by ruling England,” the earl whispered from between handkerchief compressed teeth. “The Americans consider themselves to be honorable. They’ll take what we offer and then believe themselves our allies once we come to power. It’s Donovan who’s out for himself, don’t you see that? He’s no fool, no matter how much he delights in playing the buffoon. He could be dangerous, unless—”

Sir Ralph sat forward, leaning his elbows, on the table. “Unless?”

“Offer him something.”

“What?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, Ralph. Ask him. Must I do the thinking for all of us? As you and I both know—and as those doltish idiots Stinky and Perry and Arthur proved tonight—
everyone wants something
.”

Sir Ralph slid his hands beneath the table, where he could ball them into fists unobserved. He was becoming very weary of taking orders. “I told you, William. He wants Marguerite.”

The earl’s cheeks went very white against the black silk handkerchief. “Then it is up to you, Ralph, to convince him otherwise. If you fail, he’ll have to die, and he’s of no use to us dead. Follow after him tonight, Ralph. Learn all about him. See where he ‘frolics.’”

“And then?”

Sir Ralph looked away as William smiled, the constricting black silk turning that smile into an unappealing grimace. “And then you will report back to me, Ralph. I am in charge, you know, and not you. Don’t take your role too seriously, for it is just that—a role.”

Sir Ralph’s fingernails bit into his palms. But he said nothing. Like it or not, he had to follow where William led. They all had to, for they all shared a secret that could destroy them. They needed each other, could not trust each other, and were bound to any insanity in order to believe they were still all powerful, invulnerable—the omnipotent members of their own secret society. It was the way it had been for almost twenty years.

These last seven long years.

Too many years.

Sir Ralph stood, his nondescript features impassive, took up his greatcoat and hat, and quit the room, knowing he’d have to hurry if he was to catch up with Donovan. He would follow orders.

For now.

She is the good man’s paradise, and the bad’s first step to heaven.

— James Shirley

T
homas caught sight of her as she stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. He smiled as he saw she had dressed dramatically for the occasion of their midnight assignation, her head and body enveloped in a voluminous black cloak. But the smile froze in place, then, slowly melted, as she turned her head and he saw her moon-washed face, her wide eyes, and her vulnerability.

Damn her for making him remember he’d once possessed a conscience!

How was it possible for anyone, especially a young woman like Marguerite Balfour, to look outrageously daring and so prodigiously frightened at the same time? Thomas felt himself caught between wanting to crush her sweet body against his and kiss her senseless and believing he should take her in his arms and comfort her, tell her everything was going to be all right, he didn’t mean her any harm and he would always be there for her, to protect her and to love her and, yes, God help him, to cherish her.

Which was a totally asinine reaction, because Marguerite Balfour didn’t even
like
him. He intrigued her; his stolen kisses and teasing and forward manner and even his citizenship drew her to him, but her curiosity was nothing more than that of any young English debutante wishing for a touch of illicit titillation. As he had been immediately drawn to her startling beauty, her engaging frankness, and, most especially, her open willingness to investigate the forbidden.

She was only using him, as he had planned to use her. For mutual excitement. For mutual satisfaction. A pleasurable dalliance. One stolen night. For the thrill of the chase and the triumph of the capture. They were kindred spirits, he and Marguerite Balfour—so immediately transparent to each other that they both delighted and repelled each other, clearly seeing both their mutual faults and their shared love of adventure.

And because he knew she could see through him, he had to temper his physical desire for her with a leavening of common sense. She could be dangerous to him; dangerous to his mission. Especially since she seemed to have a mission of her own that involved the men he had been sent to deal with before returning to Philadelphia.

He could have done very nicely without her innocence, without this niggling at the back of his brain that Marguerite Balfour wasn’t all she seemed, but more. And much too good for the likes of him.

He should leave without speaking, draw back from the flames that tempted him to touch, enticed him to speculate, drew him toward hurling himself headfirst into the chasm that would always divide them.

But then, who would protect her from her own folly if he did not? Sir Gilbert? Hardly. No, Marguerite had to be protected from herself, for she had no inkling of the depths of greed and the lust for power that drove the men she had set out to bedevil. He had to be her knight-errant. There was nobody else around to do the job.

Besides, and to his shame, he wanted her. He wanted her so much his gut ached with the wanting.

By the time Thomas had concluded his internal arguments and lost the battle with his better self, Marguerite had thrown back the hood of her cloak and was standing with her arms tightly crossed against her waist, one booted foot agitatedly tap-tapping against the cobblestones. Knowing her mood wouldn’t improve for allowing it to simmer any longer, he took a deep breath and walked out into the drive, forcing a bright, openly teasing smile onto his face.

“Ah, here you are,
aingeal
,” he said in a clear, carrying voice. “Lovely night for a stroll, isn’t it? Please don’t tell me I’ve kept such a lovely,
eager
young lady waiting.”

Marguerite whirled in the direction of the sound of his voice, her cloak swirling around her ankles. “Lower your voice, you mutton-witted idiot,” she gritted out, advancing toward him. “Or does the thought your bellowing could rouse the watch send you into imbecilic ecstasies? And, no, I have not been waiting for you. I just arrived, not a moment ago, and only so that I could tell you I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to talk with you. Frankly, I would be eminently pleased if I never saw you again.”

“Which explains why you’re here,” Thomas countered, taking hold of her elbow and steering her closer to the tall shrubbery lining the narrow drive.

She yanked her elbow free of his grasp. “Don’t be thick. I would have sent a note to your hotel, but you never did tell me if you can read. And I couldn’t take the chance that the notion of my not appearing would penetrate your shallow brain. For all I knew, you could have set up a caterwauling outside my grandfather’s window, like some misdirected Romeo.”

“One of my least favorite of Shakespeare’s works,
aingeal
. Everyone dies, and for no good reason. But you can’t cry craven and run from me now. I come bearing news.”

She peered up at him through the dim light, instantly attentive. “News of what, Donovan? Are you leaving England on the morning tide?” She clasped her hands dramatically at the level of her breasts. “I vow, I shall be devastated —utterly
devastated
—by such sad news. Why, I’d have to rush right out tomorrow morning and buy myself a new bonnet, just to ease my heartache.”

Thomas smiled, truly enjoying her wit. “Don’t fight it so, Marguerite. You’d pine terribly were I to leave—at least if you hadn’t been able to satisfy more of your curiosity about why you feel as you do when I’m near.”

Marguerite shook her head, so that the moonlight licked the deep copper of her hair into golden fire. “You’re very impressed with yourself, aren’t you, Donovan? It isn’t as if I haven’t been kissed before.”

“Of course you have. Dozens of times. Hundreds of times. You are a true woman of the world.”

“Oh, shut up,” Marguerite countered, her eyes, her lovely emerald eyes shifting away from his. “Tell me your news and let me get back into the mansion. It’s turning cool.”

He leaned down so that he could whisper into her ear, so that he could deliberately put himself closer to her, to smell the perfume of her hair, to allow his lips the luxury of brushing lightly against the skin of her temple. “Lord Mappleton told me something very interesting earlier this evening. He is entertaining the thought of marriage.”

Her eyes snapped to the left, toward him, quickly followed by a swift turn of her head even as a triumphant smile lit her features, betraying her utterly. He knew, because his own head was only inches from hers, and he was watching her closely. “You’re not bamming me, are you?” she asked, then sobered, her expression troubled. “Oh, dear! You can’t mean he’s betrothed to Miss Rollins, can you? Why, they just met. And she is totally unsuitable. What a terrible, fast, encroaching female. Something must be done. I—”

“Cut line,
aingeal
,” Thomas interrupted when he had heard enough, his heart inexplicably heavy to have his suspicions confirmed once and for all. “That outraged air might work with some, but not with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring straight into his eyes without blinking. She was very good at lying, and would probably fool anyone else with her sincere expression and sorrowful voice. “Why, I made great pains just this morning to tell Sir Ralph I was not best pleased to find Miss Rollins had fibbed about her origins in order to broach an introduction to my grandfather and myself.”

“I’ll just wager you did.” Thomas tipped his curly brimmed beaver back on his head, wondering how much he could say without scaring her off entirely, then decided that with Marguerite, it was impossible to go too far. “Do you think that’s enough to cover your tracks? Or will you hie yourself off to Mappleton himself to beg him to reconsider marrying beneath him? If you do, make sure you have an audience, for I wouldn’t count on the money-mad fool even remembering you’d come to visit.”

Marguerite drew herself up to her full height, her chin jutting out belligerently. “That was a sinister remark. I cannot believe we’re having this conversation, any more than I can understand why I am continuing to stand here, listening to your insults.
Good-bye
, Mr. Donovan!”

“Is this where you meet the gamester, Marguerite? Here, in the mews? And how long are you going to let Chorley win before you strip him of his last penny so that he’s disgraced?” Thomas asked as she turned her back, then watched dispassionately as her shoulders stiffened, then slumped.

She turned around slowly, her head tipped to one side, looking at him as if he had just told her he’d rediscovered the formula for Greek fire and was willing to sell it to her, for a price. “What do you want, Donovan?”

He ignored her question. “And isn’t it strange Sir Peregrine discovered the secret to some ancient coded map just days after I heard you invite him to browse the bookstalls with you. You did take him to the bookstalls, didn’t you?”

“If I did—what of it?”

“Yes, indeed, that’s what I thought. Just a coincidence, I thought. But then I said to myself, I said: ‘Thomas, maybe it isn’t a coincidence. Maybe,’ I said to myself, ‘she’s up to something. Maybe she’s up to mischief.’”

“I see,” Marguerite replied, her smile tight. “And do you have many of these conversations with yourself?”

Thomas ignored her barb, continuing, “I thought about Sir Peregrine. He’s just eager enough to make a name for himself in the intellectual community to grab at any chance to prove his genius, isn’t he? Will he be sailing for Italy any day now, in search of some nonexistent Roman ruin? Is that what you want—to have them all banished? No, that wouldn’t explain Georgianna Rollins, would it?”

“You’re mad, do you know that? When you close your eyes at night, do you worry there are hairy monsters hiding beneath your bed? Do you see goblins in dark corners? Or perhaps you’re a devotee of Gothic novels, and believe spies and ne’er-do-wells lurk everywhere?”