A Masquerade in the Moonlight (47 page)

Was that someone already reading about all of Ralph’s secrets?  All of
his
secrets?

Who had a reason to bring them all down?

Marguerite?

Now why had her name popped into his head again? That was ludicrous. He had to gather his thoughts, regain his composure. Marguerite couldn’t be involved. She was his flawless vessel, his chosen consort, the replacement for Victoria that corrected an old mistake and made his plans so perfect. Besides, she was all but a child, and female at that. Females didn’t possess the brainpower to be so cunning, so devious. They didn’t have the nerve necessary to plot so behind their enemies’ backs, and still smile into their faces.

But wait! He must remember what Ralph had said about her. Could he really afford to forget anything, neglect any avenue, no matter how distasteful? Marguerite knew them all, knew them very well. Ralph had called her a slut. He said she’d been with Donovan. Believing herself in love, the chit might have answered any question he’d asked. Perhaps Donovan had decided against the deal, and was now following orders to dispose of anyone who could say Madison had been involved in nefarious dealings? Had Marguerite stupidly handed him the ammunition with which to load his pistols?

He should have remembered—Marguerite was her mother’s daughter, her father’s daughter. Gullibility was in her blood. And he’d thought her worthy?  What sort of fool did that make him?

Or was attempting to keep her cast in the role of innocent the mistake? Need he remind himself of the Cleopatra’s of this world, the Medici, the Pompadours? No man could be as devious.

He’d always believed Victoria had succumbed without ever speaking again. Had he been wrong?  Had she whispered something into her daughter’s ear, there at the last? Was The Club to be brought low by a revenge-seeking near child, and Donovan had nothing to do with it? Could their deal with the American still be salvaged?

Laleham took out his handkerchief and patted his coldly damp forehead. He was overset, thinking irrationally, even in circles. He had to get out of here, distance himself from this place. The odor from Ralph’s released bowels and bladder was making him nauseous.

But he couldn’t return home. What if he was right? What if someone was out to get them all, ruin them all? What instrument would that person believe held the power to bring him down? Him, William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham—
the Earl of Laleham, damn it!

Ralph’s confession? Of course, it was obvious. But how?
How?
Blackmail? Or would Ralph’s confession find its way to the prime minister?

He had to think... to think... to marshal his thoughts. He couldn’t return home. Not until he thought this thing out.
Someone might be waiting for him.

He would order his driver to ride through the darkened streets of London. He was not a stupid man. He would not have come so far if he was a stupid man. But what was he to do? What was he to do?

What had he forgotten to do?

Something was niggling at him, some one thing that he felt he still had to do. The suicide note? No, he had decided against that. He had his hat, his cloak, his gloves. His wineglass was on the table, but Ralph hadn’t been drinking with him. It would be assumed that the glass had been his.

But there was something else. Something else. Something important. But what?

Surely, if he took a drive, gave himself up to the soothing motion of the coach, and cleared his mind, the answer would come to him.

All the answers would come to him.

Another such victory over the Romans, and we are undone.

— Pyrrhus

T
he light from a single candle threw weird shadows on the wall as Marguerite paced her bedchamber in her dressing gown, wringing her hands, wishing the hours away, wishing for morning.

She couldn’t sleep. She had been living with her schemes and thoughts of revenge for so long she was finding it difficult to believe it was almost over. Yet if she felt no guilt for what she had done, what she had set in motion, she also felt no elation, no relief.

Only anxiety that it be over at last, that it be finished.

She was so tired, yet it was impossible to even think of resting when Marco surely now held the key to William’s destruction, her final revenge. She felt confident Ralph had followed Marco’s instructions to the letter, confessing every sin he’d committed from the time he was young until today—and every man with whom he’d committed those crimes. Ralph wouldn’t want anything to go wrong, and Marco had explained that absolute honesty was imperative, necessary for success.

He would have written down everything to do with whatever past dealings The Club had dabbled in with the French and their planned conspiracy with Donovan.

She would not include that part, any mention of this latest treasonable scheme, whatever it was, when she turned Sir Ralph’s confession over to the proper authorities. The litany of The Club’s crimes would be long enough without exposing Donovan and his president to embarrassment and censure, especially since Donovan had given up the idea of working with them. Besides, she had no intention of instigating a war—her goal was much more personal than that.

They’d go to prison, all five of them. Perhaps two or three of them would even be hanged. But they’d be hanged for their attempted treason, not for forcing her father into suicide. It wouldn’t be her vengeance that pronounced sentence on them or her guilt if they were to be executed. It would be justice, too long denied.

She could live with that. Her papa would rest easier for that. There was no need to bring her father’s name into the matter at all.

If only she could live through this night! She should have told Marco to come to her straight from Green Park and not wait until the morning. At this rate, morning would never come.

She continued to pace, wondering what Donovan would think when Ralph and William and the others were arrested and hauled to prison. Would he hate her for ruining his plans? He’d said he no longer wished to do business with The Club, but he might not have meant it. It was still sometimes difficult for her to be sure exactly what Donovan meant. He seemed so easy to read. Sometimes. But only sometimes. He had depths, parts of him she had not yet seen, or had only glimpsed for a moment. He might only have been trying to be nice to her.

She laughed quietly. Donovan? Nice to her? That was an understatement. He had been wonderful to her, wonderful for her. She felt more alive now than she had for so long. She could now look back on her life with her father, the life she’d had after her father’s death, and smile. Life hadn’t been all that dreadful. Her parents had loved her. She still had her grandfather. And now she had Donovan.

It was time to look to the future. Once Marco brought her Ralph’s confession, once she had read it and turned it over to the proper authorities, she could truly get on with her life.

Her life with Donovan. They’d be so happy in Philadelphia, and her grandfather would visit often and, of course, there would be children...

“
Pssst! Aingeal?
Give me a hand up, will you? I seem to be stuck.”

“What on earth? Donovan—you
idiot
!” Marguerite spun on her heels to see Donovan’s head peeking up above the windowsill, his handsome face split by an unholy grin that turned her stomach to water. She knew in a sudden, blinding flash of insight that she could live with this man for one hundred years and never know what he would do next. And that, she decided, was a considerable part of his charm.

She raced to the window as he levered himself onto the sill and half dragged him into the room, so that he landed in a heap at her feet. “You could have killed yourself, climbing up here,” she told him, playfully cuffing the top of his head so that his hair fell forward onto his forehead.

“Ow! I could have, but I have survived the climb, only to face being beaten to death by my beloved.”

“Well, it serves you right,” she countered, cuffing him again. Then she smiled, for she was truly glad to see him and saw no reason to waste time being coy and missish. “Did you use the drainpipe?”

He allowed her to help him to his feet. “I did, and I don’t recommend it. Why aren’t you in bed? It’s nearly two. All young ladies should be sleeping by now.”

“Ha! This is London, Donovan. Most young ladies are still out dancing. How did you know I’d be here?”

He looked at her strangely for a moment, almost as if he felt slightly sorry for her, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I didn’t. Just as I didn’t know for certain which window was yours. I only could see that this one was open. Think about that a moment. I could be having this conversation with Sir Gilbert as he chased me around his bedchamber with a pistol, if it weren’t that I have the luck of the Irish.”

Marguerite nodded, smiling as she conjured up a picture of Sir Gilbert’s bound-to-be-belligerent response to seeing Donovan crawling in his window. “That’s true enough. But why have you come? Did my decision to spend the day with my grandfather leave you so lonely you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see me?”

“Probably,” he answered, slipping an arm around her waist. “Or maybe I simply decided the time had come to make love to you properly, and not the way we’ve been going about it, hiding in dark corners. Yes, that’s probably it—the second one, and not the first. Are you interested?”

Marguerite glanced around the large room, lit only by the single candle beside her bed, and pretended to have trouble making up her mind. As she continued to hesitate she threaded her fingers into the folds of his cravat, devouring him with her eyes. “Well,” she said slowly at last, “I imagine I should allow you to make good on your bragging. You have told me you’re a wonderful lover, haven’t you? Or perhaps that was some other of my admirers. I can’t remember.”

“Little witch,” Thomas said, pulling her close, his hands splayed against her buttocks. “Are those doors locked?” he asked, tipping his head first toward the door to the hallway and then toward the one leading to the dressing room. “I wouldn’t wish to be interrupted while I’m trying to fend you off.”

Marguerite nodded, pushing against him to feel that he was already aroused. Her blood began to run hot, as it always did when he touched her. “I can’t believe this, Donovan. In my grandfather’s house, in my own bedchamber. We’re wicked, the pair of us.”

“Is that a complaint?” Thomas asked, lifting her into his arms, high against his chest, and moving determinedly toward her bed.

“No,” she answered, nearly purring, kissing his cheek, the side of his throat. She loved this man. How she loved this man! “Merely an observation.”

He settled her in the middle of the bed Maisie had turned down hours earlier, then joined her, stretching out full length beside her, still in his evening shoes. “I missed you,
aingeal
. A whole day spent without you,” he said, dropping fairy kisses on her forehead, her eyes, her nose. “An entire, endless day.” His hand went to her bodice, tugging open the satin ribbons that held her dressing gown shut. “And all of that day I’ve thought of nothing but this.”

Marguerite swallowed, feeling the now familiar yet welcome tension building deep inside her as the dressing gown fell open, revealing her sheer night rail. “Are you going to love me anytime soon, Donovan,” she asked throatily, beginning to move her legs together on the bed, enjoying the feel of skin brushing against skin beneath the silk, “or merely talk about it?”

“Stay there,” he ordered, pointing at her as he slipped from the bed and began to strip. “You just stay right there, young lady.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Donovan, sir,” she answered brightly, biting her bottom lip as she watched him shed his clothing. She had never seen him entirely naked before, not really, and she refused to hide her curiosity. He was magnificent! His shoulders, so broad! His stomach, so flat! His hips, so narrow! His—

“Donovan?” she felt suddenly shy, and couldn’t understand why.

He slid back onto the bed, beneath the covers, and looked at her inquiringly, teasingly, his hands once more busy, helping her to rise up and slip her arms from the dressing gown. “Yes? You had a question, darlin’?”

“Never mind,” she whispered as he lowered her to the pillows once more, her hair ribbon now missing as well, so that her curls spilled free past her shoulders, tickling her breasts as the night rail slid down her legs and disappeared at the bottom of the bed.

She was naked—entirely naked, even though she was partially covered by the sheet. She turned to see Donovan resting his head on one bent arm, his elbow punched into one of the pillows. He wasn’t grinning at her anymore. His expression was surprisingly solemn as he twirled a lock of her hair around his finger.

All thoughts of Marco, of reading Ralph’s confession, of what would happen in the morning fled her brain, and she concentrated on Donovan, on her love for him, on the heaven she would soon fly to again in his arms.

“The first time, Marguerite,” he said quietly, so quietly that she had to listen very carefully in order to hear him through the pounding of her heart in her ears. “The first time wasn’t the way I wanted it to be. Nor was the second. You deserve better. You deserve to know what this business of lovemaking is really about. So,” he said, sighing, “as far as I’m concerned,
aingeal
, this is our marriage bed. And this is our wedding night. Our first night. I want to love you the way I would my bride. I want to worship you with my body.”