A Masquerade in the Moonlight (24 page)

He turned around, to tell Marguerite, and cursed under his breath.

She too was gone, leaving him alone to regain his equilibrium and to wonder what in the name of all that Paddy Dooley called holy to do next.

As the saying is, I have got a wolf by the ears.

— Terence

I
t never ceases to amaze me, the lengths to which a man who publicly purports his intelligence might travel to establish his inborn stupidity. I agreed to the scheme, for the money it would bring my dearest Victoria and Marguerite. No—strike that. At least let this pitiful fool be honest one last time, if only with himself.

I did it for the solace it would bring my accursed vanity to be able, at last, to care for my wife and child as I would like rather than be the indigent husband living on his wife’s father. W.R. swore the investment was sound, and I needed only to find five more, each to match the funds I had borrowed from W.R. And I listened! Fool that I am, I fought down my intuitions—and believed!

It was good, so very good, in the beginning. But the bubble burst yesterday, before time, before I could warn my friends to sell out. Before I could reap the fortune I was so sure to have won.

Now we are all under the hatches, and it is entirely upon my shoulders that the blame must rest. How do I face these poor men who invested upon my advice, bringing their own families to the edge of ruin? How do I find the funds to save them? How do I face Sir Gilbert?

My dearest wife? My darling kitten—my Marguerite? Myself?

W.R. could afford the loss. Yet I owe him ten thousand. Funds I don’t have. Never will have. I meet with him tonight—with him and the others. The Club. God! That I should be reduced to contemplating a deeper association with those rascals!

But I will go. I will listen, even as I fear that this time it will not be an investment, but a deeper intrigue they wish me to perform.

Stupid! Stupid! My hand trembles as I scribble. I always knew there were deep dealings there. They speak of Amiens. They speak of a sickly Pitt. Fifteen million English standing against forty million French. I hear their sentiments. I understand their meaning. If Pitt were to die sooner than later? They would make of me a murderer, a paid assassin! Sixty thousand pounds for a well-placed bullet. I know what they will ask, what they will offer. Always knew they were not to be trusted. Dare I write the word? Yes, a dead man dares anything.

Treason!

Do my fear and my shame give me the strength to listen to it all and then say no? Will I be able to turn away, report them? Can I risk it? And yet, can I risk doing what they ask in order to save myself, my friends, and then ever again look into my little kitten’s trusting eyes without flinching? Does sweet Marguerite’s man in the moon truly possess a heart? A soul?

The sun drops, and the moon rises. I must go. There is no other way. I must tell them no. I must! Oh, God, my most benevolent God, you allow me to walk upright. Surely, then, I must possess a spine
?

Marguerite closed the diary on her father’s final entry, his last before his death just a day later, and wiped at her wet cheeks with trembling fingers. The hall clock had chimed out the hour of three, and still she could not sleep. Thomas had revealed too much to her tonight, and guessed too much in return. How could she possibly sleep?

Treason
. She knew from her lessons, from her readings of recent history, that Pitt had been the only man England trusted with her future during those ominous days when the island awaited the French invasion. Pitt had represented national union and resolve when fear and panic reigned supreme.

Thank God he had lived, to ally Russia, Austria, and Sweden, to rally the people, to see Nelson’s triumph at Trafalgar and thwart Bonaparte’s ambition.
Let us be masters of the Channel for six hours, and we are masters of the world.
That is what Bonaparte had boasted—until Trafalgar. But what of her father’s question? What if Pitt had died early in 1803? What if those opposed to Pitt had been in power? How would their world have been changed?

Treason
. If the members of The Club had considered it once, would they hesitate to attempt it again now, with war still raging between England and France?

And precisely where did Thomas Joseph Donovan fit into any of this? There had to be deep doings going on between The Club and the American emissary. She could not blame Thomas, not really, for he was only acting for his government. But these were dangerous times, and he was dealing with dangerous men. They had, in a way, already killed once. They had brought about the death of her father, who could not bring himself to choose between treason and financial ruin. Who could not risk losing the adoration of his loving daughter.

Marguerite cradled her forehead in her hands as she bent over the desk, her temples pounding with a headache she could not ignore, no matter how her brains ached to seek a solution to her problems.

Chorley was already happily riding along the road to financial ruin, obligingly following the path she had plotted for him—with the able guidance of her card-sharping hireling, Maxwell, of course.

Mappleton was proving even easier than she’d hoped, the fortune-mad simpleton. As Perry’s reaction to news of Miss Rollins had proved consistent with her father’s diary entry concerning Mappleton, Arthur had been on the look out for a rich wife for so long, he now could be led to his doom with a halter of snow.

Totton’s fall from the lofty pinnacle of his own consequence, again, already in progress, thanks to his overweening air of superior intellect, would be a delight to watch.

Those three were the minor ones, the easy ones, and she wanted them out of the way quickly, so that she could concentrate on Harewood and Laleham, for whom she prayed there would be prison cells waiting at the end of her path to revenge. After all, attempted treason, even one contemplated years in the past, had to be punishable, didn’t it?

According to her man, Maxwell, Harewood was nearly in their grasp. Maxwell had been having great success in bending the superstitious, ambitious man’s will by way of employing hypnotic, soporific tones and the simple words “my friend” each time they met, slowly undermining Harewood’s inhibitions. Soon they would learn his greatest fear and use it to their advantage, as they had planned. She needed Harewood under her control so that she could use Sir Ralph to destroy Laleham. Unlike her father, who must have forgotten his own warnings, she respected the earl’s strengths and had long ago decided not to take him on personally.

She was well on her way to revenging herself on the members of The Club. For her father’s murder, as she could find no other word to describe what had happened to Geoffrey Balfour. For her mother’s years of suffering and final agony. For her own pain. Her revenge, more than a year in the making, was playing out now just as she had hoped.

She did not wish to kill any of them, for that would make her no better than they. But she had suffered for long years. Now they would suffer, each in his own, separate hell. For long years. That was the best revenge.

Except she hadn’t planned on Thomas Joseph Donovan.

She also had not considered she would be dealing with anyone save five aging men who had settled into comfortable lives far removed from intrigues such as those they had indulged in so many years ago. Yet this new development could work to her advantage. If William and the rest of them were busy concentrating on their own scheme they would not have much time to question the small diversions she was offering, diversions that would soon bring them crashing down one by one.

Their defeat would also be Donovan’s defeat, if she had deduced correctly that he was representing his government in some intrigue with The Club. If he had already guessed she was up to mischief, would his loyalty to his country also move him to try to thwart her? Would her loyalty to her own country be enough to console her if she did thwart some possible treason and Donovan turned away from her?

Yes, what of the two of them? What of this insane passion that had sprung up between them, this wild attraction that could no more be denied than it could ever be fulfilled? This certain knowledge that what they shared between them could very easily destroy them both?

She had run from him tonight, not in fear of being compromised there in the shrubbery, but in sudden terror of her own desires. A single look from his laughing blue eyes, a single touch of his hand on her arm, a single smile curving that absurd mustache—any one gesture was enough to send her melting at his feet, eager and open to his every caress, his every intimacy, his every sweet, believable lie. She couldn’t trust him, but she could love him.

Perhaps she already loved him? How would she know? Would she recognize love when she saw it, felt it?

She raised her head to look at the portrait of her father through her tears. “Ah, Papa, I need you so much. I’ve planned for so long, but now I don’t know. Does your kitten follow her head—or her heart?”

The heavy velvet draperies were closed across the windows, shutting out the morning sun from the small room Sir Ralph Harewood used as his private study.

Sir Ralph twitched the edge of one drapery into place, then lit two small candles on the table that was almost the only piece of furniture in the room, before seating himself behind it, facing the door. A moment later there was a single knock and he called out “Come!” before touching the deck of tarot cards that lay between the candlesticks. Just as quickly as he had touched the cards he drew his hand away.

It wouldn’t do to look anxious.

A tall, thin man with frayed collar and cuffs entered the room and took up the chair on the opposite side of the table, his long, bony fingers nimbly picking up the deck as he smiled at Sir Ralph. “Not today,
my friend
,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, pocketing the cards. “Do you hear me,
my friend
? Today the stars guide me to the ancient art of chiromancy. If you would be so good as to give me your two hands.”

“Palmistry, Maxwell?” Sir Ralph asked, frowning even as he laid his hands, palms down, on the tabletop, as if he could not help himself, which was ridiculous, because he was his own man and not a puppet.

Still, he shied away from palmistry, and had done so for a dozen years, ever since that old crone he’d met in Italy had pointed to his life line and warned him against cigars and heavy drinking. He had learned to moderate his life, his emotions, his desires. He lived evenly, almost austerely, seeking neither the highs nor the lows, for too much emotion could tire his heart and shorten his life.

“You do not trust me, my friend?”

Sir Ralph looked up to see Maxwell’s coal dark eyes staring at him, looking straight through him. The fortuneteller gave him the shivers, but he had been right more than he had been wrong these past two weeks, ever since the man had walked up to him on the street and told him he had been “sent by the stars to search out an honorable but troubled gentleman and then guide him through rough waters and into a safe harbor.”

It was ridiculous to believe such a man, but Sir Ralph had believed in omens all of his life, and he could not turn the man away with a coin or a curse and still rest easy at night. He had met with Maxwell that same afternoon and every day since, still not sure Maxwell was really the man’s name, but increasingly confident the fellow knew his business.

Harewood returned Maxwell’s stare, unable to look away.

Maxwell knew things about him only someone who had known him for years and years could know, even to his dislike for red meat and his affection for his deceased mother.

And so much more.

Hadn’t Maxwell warned him that someone close to him would soon fall under Cupid’s dart—and an unsuitable alliance at that?

Hadn’t he seen William’s injury, albeit after the fact, and hinted of “foreign” intervention in his life?

Hadn’t he foretold Perry’s discovery of some ridiculous coded manuscript, describing Perry as an ambitious man with delusions of his own importance?