A Masquerade in the Moonlight (26 page)

“And leave Laleham to rethink his scheme and perhaps begin dealings with the French, you mean. I’m not so deep in my cups that I would entertain such folly. No, Paddy, if we decide not to enter into an agreement with them—and I still haven’t ruled it out—we’ll have to do more than spike their guns. We’ll have to destroy them.”

“Destroy them?
Kill
them, you mean?”

“It’s only a minor possibility. So—how’s that old heart of yours now, Paddy?” He grinned at the gape-mouthed Dooley as he sat down and held out his foot for the Irishman to help him remove his boots. “Relax. I’m not saying we do the deed today. For now, I think we’ll amuse ourselves by sitting back and letting my darling Marguerite have at it. She may just make up my mind for me, the little dear, and do our dirty work for us as well.”

“No wonder you’re crazy mad for the girl. You’re both bloodthirsty little demons.” Dooley threw a leg over Thomas’s, turning his back and waiting for the pressure of his friend’s foot against his rump, assisting him in easing the first boot loose. “Is anything else to be going on while your ‘little darling’ is causing a dustup and you’re watching?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I believe, Paddy, my good friend, that I shall be enjoying myself by passionately wooing Miss Marguerite Balfour, and to hell with her grandfather’s title. And then, my
very
good friend, since you’ve asked, I shall do my level best to make your Bridget a happy woman.”

Dooley staggered across the room from the force of Thomas’s pushing foot, one boot in his hands and struggling to keep his balance. He turned to goggle at Thomas. “You don’t mean—”

“Why, as a matter of fact, Paddy, I do. I believe I’ll simply toss my bachelorhood away on Miss Marguerite Balfour. I have to—may God and your lovely wife forgive me—for I most certainly intend to seduce the little cat before another week passes.”

INTO THE FIRE

What is love? Ask him who lives, what is life? Ask him who adores, what is God?

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.

— Henry Fielding

T
homas sought out Marguerite late that same day, finding her walking in the park with her chaperone, Mrs. Billings, and approached her on the path when the older woman was detained, speaking to a friend.

“Good afternoon, my darling,” Thomas chirped, tipping his hat to her while admiring her trim walking dress—and the even trimmer form it covered. “I trust you passed a pleasant night. Oh, dear. Is that a trace of rice powder on your upper lip? Don’t tell me your tender skin became chafed some way. Perhaps I should consider doing the gentlemanly thing and consign my mustache to the shaving bowl. After all, I would be the last man on earth to wish you any pain—or embarrassment. A gentleman to his toes—that’s Thomas Joseph Donovan.”

Marguerite continued down the path, not looking at him, red flags of color flying in her cheeks. “Go away.”

He danced after her, his curly-brimmed beaver at a jaunty angle, his hands behind his back, his grin advertising his enjoyment. “Go away? Leave you? I’d sooner poke a sharp stick in my eye.”

“All right. That seems reasonable. Let’s find you a stick, shall we? There must be one about here somewhere.”

“Marguerite—
aingeal
—you don’t mean that.”

She kept moving. “You’re right. I don’t. I’d rather you’d drink poison—preferably one that ensures a slow, painful death. I believe I should have no trouble selling tickets to such a spectacle. William, for one, would doubtless enjoy witnessing your final agonies from a front-row seat. Please send a note round to Portman Square if you decide to accommodate me. But, in the meantime, Donovan—
go away
.”

Thomas tipped his hat and went, sensing his eventual victory.

An enormous bouquet of spring flowers arrived in Portman Square the following afternoon. The enclosed note read:
Because I could not send you a shrubbery
.

Marguerite all but threw the bouquet into Maisie’s grateful arms, then fled into the conservatory and slammed the door behind her. When, an hour later, one of the footman presented her with a package that had just been delivered from a Bond Street jeweler’s and she opened it to find an exquisitely designed jeweled hairpin nestled inside, the sound of a clay flowerpot crashing against the brick floor could be heard all the way to the kitchens.

Two hours later, when a second bouquet, this one of perfect rosebuds ranging from palest pink to deepest red, arrived at the servant’s entrance with no note attached, Cook sniffed deeply of one of the lovely blooms, shrugged, and had them placed in her own room.

Marguerite exited her grandfather’s Portman Square mansion slowly the next morning, looking both left and right and then left again before stepping off the portico and motioning for Maisie to follow.

She had traveled only a few yards before a young couple dressed in outlandish theatrical costume leapt from a hired coach and began enacting the marriage scene from
The Taming of the Shrew
in front of her.

Marguerite did the only thing left open to her. She plunked herself down unceremoniously on the bottom step of a neighboring building and laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks.

She discovered a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets and a single yellow rose sitting beside her plate when she sat down to luncheon. This time the card quoted a line from
Romeo and Juliet
: “This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.” Lifting the bloom to her nose and sniffing deeply of its perfume, Marguerite made up her mind.

She would not give up her plans for The Club, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t also follow her heart.

“You have a visitor, Miss Balfour,” Finch said, bowing as he stopped just inside the morning room door, where Marguerite had settled herself in anticipation of just such an announcement.

She lifted a hand to her head, just to be sure none of her curls had escaped the yellow velvet ribbon Maisie had used to secure her hair, then took another swallow of sweet tea before setting down her cup. “That would be the American, wouldn’t it, Finch?” she asked, congratulating herself for having correctly read Donovan’s crafty mind. He had pursued her for three days; and it was more than time she sat still, sipped her tea, and allowed him to catch her.

“No, Miss, and I don’t have to tell you that it’s cost me another fiver with Sir Gilbert,” Finch answered, causing Marguerite to look at him in surprise. “It’s Sir Peregrine Totton who is cooling his heels in the foyer. He must have pulled one of his two mincing feet from the grave long enough to take the air. Shall I throw him over my shoulder and carry him in? It’s a long journey from the foyer to this room, and I wouldn’t want a corpse on my hands if his tick-tock should give out.”

Marguerite tamped down her disappointment, belatedly realizing her mistake. Donovan wouldn’t come to Portman Square. He was biding his time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to get her alone the way he had the other night in the shrubbery. He must know, as she knew, their next meeting would not be the sort either would wish interrupted. And the only notice he’d take then of any ribbons in her hair would come when he pulled them loose and buried his fingers in her tumbling curls. She felt herself blushing and quickly covered her reaction to such a wicked, unladylike thought with a forced cough.

“You are spending entirely too much time with my grandfather, Finch,” she said as primly as she could, knowing no matter what she said Finch would do as he pleased. He had been at Chertsey since before she’d been born and had long ago become immune to any save his own authority. Besides, she truly had enjoyed the butler’s jokes. “Please, show Sir Peregrine in—and do try your utmost to keep a civil tongue in your head while you’re about it. Sir Peregrine is a dear friend.”

“I wouldn’t know why. He’s only been here a moment and already he’s told me that vase on the hallway table—the one your sainted grandmother put such stock by—is nothing but a worthless lump of crockery.”

“He did? What a—no, never mind. Just go fetch his creaking lordship in here before he starts directing the underfootmen to rearrange the furniture.”