A Masquerade in the Moonlight (32 page)

“Please, forgive me, and thank you again for your most kind offer, but Geoffrey will always be my husband.”

Marguerite heard her mother and smiled, loving her for her loyalty. But perhaps her petitioner would pursue her again at a later date and eventually change her mind. It didn’t pay to go too fast with her mother, who hadn’t had to make any real decisions for herself since Marguerite had taken over the day-to-day running of Chertsey.

She strained to listen, to hear all that was being said, but it was impossible to hear more than another round of male muttering until her mother raised her voice. “What are you saying? You say you love me, but you’re looking at me as if you hate me. What? I don’t understand. Why am I foolish? That is unkind of you. Is it so foolish to love only once?”

Couldn’t the man take no for his answer? Marguerite, feeling very protective of her mother, rose from the bench she had been resting on and began walking toward the sound of Victoria’s voice, wishing she had paid more attention to the construction of the high, thickly hedged maze, for the first turn she took found her moving farther from the voices, not nearer.

She quickly retraced her steps, then skidded to a halt when she heard the sound of a slap ringing in the air, followed quickly by her mother’s anguished scream. It was one thing to be tenacious, but quite another to go beyond the boundaries of polite behavior. The boor must be trying to kiss her.

Holding her skirts high as she ran, Marguerite tore down the twisting paths to the rescue, loudly calling for her mother as a way to warn the woman’s admirer away, her heart pounding in fear liberally mixed with righteous anger as the lovely day descended into a living nightmare.

Moments later, years later, whole centuries after that single scream, Marguerite discovered her mother’s slim form lying like a wilted flower in the center of one of the paths and raced to her side, lifting her mother’s head against her knees.

Victoria looked up at her, her eyes clouded and rather unfocused, and pleaded, “He said... he
told
me... but it was suicide, wasn’t it? He hanged himself. Dear God, he hanged himself! I
saw
him! It was suicide! Everyone knows. How can I stand it? How can I live?”

Those were the last words Victoria Balfour ever uttered, for she had fainted then, and died two days later, Sir Gilbert, Marguerite, and Lord Laleham at her bedside, all of them grieving over their sad loss.

“But I lost twice, didn’t I, Papa?” Marguerite said now, looking up at her father’s portrait, seeing him smile down at her, the perpetual mischief in his eyes captured forever by the artist’s brush even though the man himself lay in the mausoleum at Chertsey, beside her mother. “I lost my mother, and I lost my innocence.
Suicide
. I understand why they never told me, for I was only a child. But how could you have done such a thing? You didn’t even say good-bye. I lost you once years ago, and yet again last year, along with Mama. And never did I hear a good-bye.”

Her eyes strayed to Geoffrey Balfour’s diary and she remembered the final, undated entry, the one in which he had mentioned The Club and his fears for his meeting with those members. The same men whose initials he had listed in another part of the diary along with short descriptions that had helped her to identify them—the same men who had been in attendance that fatal day at Laleham.

She walked across the room to stand directly beneath the life-size painting. “You taught me so many things, Papa, about the stars and the moon and the foibles of our fellowman. But you never taught me how to lose. Maybe you never learned yourself. Perhaps that explains why you couldn’t face those people who invested with you—why you couldn’t go along with whatever treason The Club asked of you and still face me, your
kitten
.”

She shivered, remembering the way Donovan’s voice had sounded as he had used that endearment just last night,
afterwards
. Why had she reacted so badly, so violently? It was a word, just another word. Words. Like
kitten
. Like
good-bye
.

“Yes, Papa,” she continued, forcing herself to push her memories of the night before into the farthest recesses of her tortured brain. “Your kitten, your adoring, all-believing daughter. So you left me. You left me here by myself, to take care of Mama, to grow up alone and all unknowing. But now Mama’s gone too, and one of those damnable men of The Club had killed her as surely as if he’d put a knife through her heart. You took the coward’s way out, leaving those men here to hurt her with their unkind words about your suicide, and me here to deal with it all.
Love!
It doesn’t exist, not when put to the test.”

She turned away from the painting, the heavy white silk of her gown whispering as, after taking only three steps, she sank to her knees on the carpet, wrapped her arms about her waist, and began to rock, reluctantly reliving the hours she had spent with Donovan.

Donovan said he loved her. Donovan would say anything to get what he wanted. He was an Irishman, for all his talk of America, and he could spin silken webs around her mind, her heart, her will, with his glib words and easy smiles. And she had given him what he’d wanted.

No! Like her papa, in the end she had to stop deluding herself. She ceased her rocking, her self-pitying indulgence, and faced the truth. She had given Donovan what she wanted, and they both had taken their fill—greedily, selfishly, without thought of tomorrow. Isn’t that how she had wanted it to be? Isn’t that what she had counted on?

It was over now, an error of judgment now past all hope of correction, but over and done. Besides, if she had it to do over again, she would not change any of it. Because for a moment—if only for a moment—she had felt loved again. Felt secure again. Felt safe and inspired and curious and delighted and excited for the future and, yes, cherished.

But it was all a charade, a myth, an impossible dream. Donovan had his own plans for The Club, for her. Now that she thought about it, he’d probably launched this entire seduction in order to keep her occupied, out of his way while he went about his country’s business, aiding The Club in their latest attack of treasonable conjecture.

Her eyes narrowed, her pupils twin slivers of emerald ice. It had to be treason. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks.

She pressed her hands to her temples. Her head ached. Her entire body ached. She hadn’t slept all night, hadn’t even undressed, part of her wanting to hide her shame; another part of her wishing to cling to Donovan’s scent, Donovan’s remembered touch, the memory of his loving.

His loving?
No, never call it loving. His desire. His lust.

Her desire. Her lust. Her grand stupidity.

Dear God, please don’t let it be love! I can’t lose again. I can’t trust again. I can’t love.

Oh, how her head was pounding, the pain so loud the sound seemed to come from outside her.

“Marguerite? Marguerite Balfour, you horrible, mulish child, open this door before I have Finch fetch some footmen to break it down!”

“Maisie?” Marguerite raised her head and stared dumbly at the door to the hallway. Wouldn’t she even be allowed to wither and die in peace? Soon her grandfather would be outside the door as well, and worrying could not be good for him at his age.

Rubbing at her wet cheeks once more, Marguerite sighed, then rose slowly, like a very old woman, and dragged her weary body across the room to unlock the door, standing back as the maid barreled through it, her round, peasant’s face a thundercloud, and talking so quickly the words tumbled over one another.

“Well, heyday! There she is, the little girl who brushed past Finch last night wearing some man’s cloak, then hid herself in here like a criminal doing his best to outrun the Watch, while that widgeon Billings comes dragging herself home close onto three, giggling like she’s had the grandest time. What have you gone and done now, Miss Marguerite? Has it anything to do with those old men you’ve been haunting, looking for trouble best left lying dead? Answer me, girl—for I’ve been in charge of you since the day you was born, and I’ll not be taking any sauce from you. Oh, no. Not no more. This has gone on far enough! My stars—you’re still wearing the same gown I put you in last night. Look at you! Crying, your eyes weepy red, your mouth all swollen, and—oh, my dear God!” Maisie’s face crumpled, losing its angry expression. “
Bastards!
They’re all bastards —every last randy one of them! Marguerite!
Baby!
”

Marguerite felt herself being enveloped in Maisie’s ample embrace and gave herself up to tears once more, still not quite precisely sure why she was crying.

 William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, entered the gaming hell quietly, knowing his intimidating presence would not go unnoticed for long, but also confident no one would dare to approach him and ask his business. He stood just inside the doorway, a scented handkerchief raised to his well-sculpted nostrils, and surveyed the room from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, almost immediately sighting his quarry.

Damn the man. Wasn’t it enough to be a part of the most exciting, profitable venture since Cromwell had ridden to power on the beheaded shoulders of Charles I? Did the man have no sense, no discernment?

“Good afternoon, Stinky,” he said from between carefully compressed jaws once he had made his way through the crowd of green-as-grass youths and down-at-the-heels sharpers to the table where Lord Chorley sat losing yet another hand to a weasel-like man whose most outstanding feature was one dark eyebrow that stretched across his forehead.

“Willie—I mean, William! Good to see you without the bandage. What on earth are you doing here?”

“I imagine I could ask you much the same question,” Laleham answered, still looking at Lord Chorley’s partner, who had quickly donned a leather visor that all but obscured his eyes and the eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d lost enough last night at Lady Jersey’s. If you believe you can tear yourself away from what I am convinced is an inspiring interlude, I would like a word with you.”

Lord Chorley looked from the earl, to his cards and back again.” Couldn’t it wait just a moment?”

Laleham peered over his lordship’s shoulder, then at the size of the pot sitting in the middle of the table. “Why? You’re hoarding kings again, Stinky.” He inclined his head to the visored gambler. “If you would do me the favor of showing his lordship your aces, my good man, I would much appreciate it.”

The gamester obligingly fanned his cards face up on the table and Lord Chorley groaned. “Only one ace, William, but four trumps! I could have sworn there were only two left out.” He threw down his cards and scraped back his chair, giving one last, longing look to the marker the gamester was pocketing. “That’s another hundred I owe him—curse the man and his unbelievable run of luck,” he complained, following Laleham to an unoccupied table in a far corner.

Laleham looked distastefully at the rough chair before he sat on it, his coattails carefully spread, then nodded his head, indicating that Lord Chorley might seat himself as well. “Luck, Stinky, has little to do with success. I imagine the fellow has been cheating you hollow. That, combined with your stunning inability to recognize the fact you’re hopeless at gaming, accounts for your losses. How deeply are you in to him?”

Lord Chorley evaded his eyes, picking at a hardened bit of food stuck to the tabletop. “No more than I can handle,” he said, then raised his eyes and added defiantly, “and no one will dun me as long as Prinny and I are such great chums. Brummell lives on nothing but tick, and no one bothers him.”

“Such confidence, Stinky. I commend you. However, if you were to fall afoul of moneylenders or unscrupulous gaming partners, the rest of London would be on you in a heartbeat, demanding to be paid what you owe them. Butchers. Chandlers. Vintners. Greengrocers. You do know that, don’t you?”

“So?” Lord Chorley summoned one of the servants with a wave of his hand and ordered a bottle. “It doesn’t matter to you, does it, William?”

Laleham wove his fingers together beneath the table, longing to reach across the scarred wood and choke the life out of the simpleton who dared to ask such an asinine question. But he wouldn’t lose his temper. He never lost his temper. It was unprofitable. “You’d have to rusticate, Stinky, out of the way of your creditors. You cannot have much influence on Prinny—stay close to him—if you’re in Surrey.”

The bottle and a single glass arrived, and Lord Chorley poured himself a liberal amount, then drank it down in one swallow. “I thought we were ready to move,” he said leaning forward and speaking quietly, conspiratorially, as if any one of the drink-befuddled loobies in the place was listening to him. “I don’t have to drop any more hints in Prinny’s ears about keeping our people in the ministries.”

Laleham shifted in his chair, feeling his buckskins sticking to something on the seat, then crooked a finger in Lord Chorley’s direction, urging him to come closer. “You can’t stick a knife in the man’s ribs from Surrey, Stinky, now can you? After all, we don’t want to wait until the people finally take it into their heads to do it for us. We’re none of us young men anymore, are we?”