A Masquerade in the Moonlight (18 page)

“Liar,” he said, his voice husky as he lowered his head toward hers. “We’re alike, you and I, so I know when you’re not telling the truth. From that first night, Marguerite, we’ve known each other, been drawn to each other. Why don’t you simply admit it? I have. You couldn’t wait until tomorrow night to see me again, any more than I could wait to see you. And now that we’re together you can’t wait for me to hold you, to kiss you, to—”

“Of all the conceited, insufferable—” Marguerite dislodged his finger with a defiant toss of her head. She looked both right and left, assuring herself no one else was in the hallway, and they were not in danger of being discovered. And what if they were drawn to each other? He was right. She had lied to him earlier, lied to herself, believing that she hadn’t been longing to see him, to have him near her, mouthing blatant lies telling of his “love” for her, even allowing him to glimpse her as she went about her business—and glorying in the risk of discovery.

Was that so terrible?

No.

It was exciting.

He
was exciting, and she may as well admit to it.

“Well?” she questioned him in exasperation when he continued to stand there, grinning down at her as if he knew just what she was thinking. “I don’t have all night for this nonsense, Donovan. Are you going to kiss me—or are you merely going to talk about it?”

“Patience,
aingeal
.” She watched, entranced, as Thomas’s smile disappeared, leaving his expression solemn, his eyes heavy-lidded and intense. “‘Though I am always in haste...’” She heard him through the rush of blood in her ears as he quoted John Wesley in, to her, a most deliciously blasphemous way, “‘... I am never in a hurry.’ You’ll learn that when I first make love to you. And trust me, dearest Marguerite, I will make love to you. Long and slow and
delicious
love to you.”

And then, before she could think of anything clever to say to deflate his arrogance, he pushed himself away from the wall and offered her his arm, leaving her to realize she had been maneuvered into all but begging for his kiss, just to be rejected.

“Now, come along, Miss Balfour,” she heard him add as she fought down her rapidly flaring anger. She had shown him too much as it was; she could not afford to hand him yet another weapon by revealing her terrible, debilitating temper. “I’ve promised your grandfather some lemonade,” he continued. “Besides, I’m looking forward to the second act of the amusing little romance being played out between Lord Mappleton and the so accommodating Miss Eyebrows. You have an odd way of amusing yourself. Tell me, what sorts of meddling mischief do you have planned for Sir Peregrine and your other aged admirers—or are you going to make me guess?”

So much for good intentions and notions of self-preservation! Marguerite’s wrath caused her tongue to ignore the warnings of her brain. “I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about—and I hope William lops off your head and has it
pickled
!” she declared in all sincerity. Then, ignoring his proffered arm, she stomped past him, back the way they had come, vowing never, ever to speak to the man again!

“Optimism,” said Candide, “is a mania for maintaining that all is well when things are going badly.”

— Voltaire

T
homas nudged a mound of clothing from the chair to the floor and then deposited his long frame in the space he had cleared, his legs flung out in front of him, his head leaning back as he stared up at the ceiling. Lord, he was tired. He’d barely slept all night, thinking about the disappointment on Marguerite’s beautiful face when she’d realized he had led her on, only to refuse to kiss her.

He had been thinking about it, but had not enjoyed the memory of his small victory. But then, cutting off one’s own nose to spite one’s face never was a pleasant experience. She’d punish him tonight—he was sure of it. Punish him, and then give in, just as he would give in, both of them losing a little, both of them winning. Their battles only added fuel to the fire that smoldered between them.

Today, however, still had to be gotten through, and he and Dooley had important matters to discuss. He mentally shoved his plans for Marguerite to the back of his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the real object of his mission to England. “All right, now that the breakfast dishes are gone—let’s go over it again, Paddy. Start with Mappleton.”

“I don’t know why, boyo. We’ve been around and around this a million times already this morning.” But Thomas just met his inquiring gaze with a determined stare. “Oh, all right. You won’t give over until we’ve done it a million and one times.” Dooley sighed and bent to pick up the clothing Thomas had tossed aside, none of it his, and began to return it to the places it belonged. “Lord Mappleton is associated with the Royal Treasury. That’s where the money is kept, boyo, in case you’re wondering. The way we’ve figured it so far, he’ll be the one who funnels us the funds that are supposed to be going to the war against Napoleon. From the little I’ve seen of his lumbering lordship, and from what you’ve told me of the creature, I’m surprised they let him anywhere near anything so important.”

“Birth, Paddy,” Thomas responded, still staring at the ceiling, refusing to dwell on the knowledge that Marguerite’s birth and position and his were as dissimilar as that of a queen and a chimney sweep. “Birth and breeding—or, in Mappleton’s case, maybe it’s inbreeding. Stick a ‘your lordship’ or a ‘your grace’ in front of a man’s name and these English think they know everything. Mappleton doesn’t know his way out of a room, but no one will admit it, which should serve us well. Stupid, vain, and with a pronounced weakness for a well-turned ankle or, as was the case last night, an impressive pair of eyebrows—as long as there’s a fortune involved, that is. Dear Arthur does seem rather impressed by the idea of making an advantageous marriage. That’s Mappleton. He must have been better—once. But that also must have been a few years ago. Go on—tell me about Sir Peregrine.”

Dooley snorted. “That one!” he exclaimed, dusting off Thomas’s bottle-green frock coat and settling it into the wardrobe. “All his hens are layers, Tommie, or didn’t you notice? Thinks he knows everything, and isn’t shy about his great opinion of his own intelligence—acting as if he were lord high mayor of all the world or something.” He gave an elaborate shudder. “I haven’t met a bloke so cocksure of himself and his brilliance since Bridget’s ma moved in with us.”

“Again we agree. And Totton is also invaluable to us, thanks to his situation in the War Ministry. But we’ve already been all over that.” Thomas rose from the chair and poured himself a glass of wine. “All right, Paddy, now let’s talk some more about Sir Ralph Harewood, our friend at the Admiralty. Interesting fellow, don’t you think?”

Dooley shook his head. “Not to me, boyo. I kept peeping at him during your sparring match yesterday, just to see if he was wishing your eyes blackened. You would have thought he was watching grass grow, for all the interest he showed. Mappleton was nearly in tears when that fella Laleham went down—but not Harewood. He just kept on about his business, trying to rouse the earl, but that was all. No, Tommie, Harewood is nothing but a cipher, following orders, doing what he’s told to do. He couldn’t care less—like a dog at his father’s wake. Totton has to be the one of the four that’s in command. I don’t see what you’re getting at, truly I don’t.”

Thomas tossed off the last of the wine and turned to smile at Dooley. “And
that
, dear Paddy, is why I’m in charge of this little expedition. Totton is
not
the leader of our lovely group of wishful traitors. But then, neither is Harewood, although I believe that’s the impression I’m supposed to have. Not that Harewood’s harmless. I don’t trust a man who tries so hard to appear colorless. He has to be hiding something.”

“Maybe he drinks,” Dooley suggested, seating himself in Thomas’s chair. “My Uncle Finney, Lord rest his soul, sopped up gin like a sponge, but you wouldn’t have known it. Stood straight and sober as a judge, never cracking a smile or losing his temper. Couldn’t. He was too busy trying not to fall flat on his face.” He shifted on the chair when Thomas looked at him owlishly. “Well—it’s possible! Besides, if it ain’t Harewood, and it ain’t Totton—and not even you could make me believe that it’s Mappleton—who is in charge, Tommie? Lord Chorley? There’s only the four of them.”

Thomas swept the newspapers from the striped satin couch and laid himself down on it, his stockinged feet dangling off one end, his arms crossed behind him to pillow his head. Maybe he’d think better on his back. “Chorley is interesting, Paddy. He isn’t involved with any of the ministries, like the other three. But he is a bosom chum to the Prince of Wales—or so I’ve heard. I understand the prince even calls him Stinky, which has to be a measure of his affection for the man. Friends can be very influential, Paddy, dropping hints as to who might best serve the Crown—or Chorley’s private treason. But, no. It can’t be him. Chorley is just another cog in the wheel.”

Dooley clapped his hands together once, then hauled his short, squat frame to his feet and began to pace. “Well, now, Tommie—you’ve gone and done it this time. I can see why you say you’re the one in charge. Congratulations, boyo—you’ve just eliminated every last one of them. According to you—and I’d be the
last
man to think you’ve muddled your brains with this Balfour creature—there is no leader. All we’ve got are four men trying their best to ruin their country. Four none-too-young men, left with nothing to do one night but gaze at their own shoetops, who decided to commit treason. Makes sense to me. And now that I think on it—so what? We’re only here to help ourselves to whatever they’re stupid enough to offer us. What does it matter if we don’t understand
why
they’re doing it?”

Thomas pulled his hands from behind his head and pushed them out behind him, arching and stretching his long frame like a cat waking from a nap, making Dooley wait for his answer while he gathered his own thoughts.

“All right,” he said at last, jackknifing to a sitting position as he came to the decision that had first occurred to him at three that morning. “Consider this, Paddy. These men—Totton, Harewood, and the other two—they succeed in diverting arms and money to us. England is weakened and our country shows enough strength to keep itself from attack, especially since the British will most probably still be too busy with Napoleon to bother about us. France wins the war against England without America ever having to fire a shot or—as I see it—England and her allies sue for peace, leaving everyone bruised and battered, but the countries all still pretty much the way they were before the war ever started. The war is finally ended—but not quite honorably. Dotty King George and his government fall under the weight of the sure censure of the citizenry—helped along by Harewood and the rest of them pointing out the flaws of the current government. I got that idea from seeing Totton the other day, remember? The man, like Caesar’s Cassius, is ambitious. Then what, Paddy? What is America left with—worrying about an eventual new attack from Totton and Harewood and their dreams of power and glory? I don’t think Madison had any such thing in mind when he sent us over here to listen to what they had to say.”

Dooley frowned, rubbing at his forehead as if he had a headache. “Better the devil you know—is that what you’re getting at, Tommie? We might fare worse with a new England with Totton and Harewood in charge than we would going on as we are, even if that means war?” He raised his hands, squeezing his fingers into his palms, as if trying to grasp at something too nebulous to feel. “But, Tommie—we’re on the brink of open hostilities
now
. Could it really be worse to take what they’re offering us than to wait and see which way the wind blows? Either way, to hear you tell it, America is facing a war.”

Thomas took a cheroot from the table and stuck it, unlit, into his mouth. Dooley wasn’t going to believe him, but it had to be said. “I’m afraid so, Paddy. There’s no way to avoid a battle. It’s inevitable—only a matter of time. Madison has to be made to believe that or it’ll be a fine mess. But do we want to wage war now with an England that will be simultaneously fighting on two fronts—American and French—or do we want to wait another five years and then have to defend against a new England, an England ruled by someone as
ambitious
for conquest as the Earl of Laleham? You remember the earl, Paddy—you said he was Death.”

Paddy toppled backward, into the chair. “The devil you say!
Laleham?
I thought you said he took up against you because you’ve been sniffing around that Balfour woman. What does that Satan’s spawn have to do with any of this?”

Thomas took the cheroot from his mouth and looked at its cool tip. “That’s simple enough, Paddy. For reasons too crazy to repeat out loud, I’ve decided the Earl of Laleham—wealthy, powerful, eloquent, respected, and momentarily sidelined with his injury—is the true leader of our little group of adventurers. Now, if I could only figure out what they’ve done to have Marguerite chasing after them as well, I’d be a happy man. Because she’s up to something, my little
aingeal
is—I’m convinced of it. Nothing else could explain why such a beautiful young woman is spending all her time hanging around five old men.”