A Masquerade in the Moonlight (49 page)

This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past.

— Agathon

H
ow is she this morning, Maisie?” Thomas asked as the maid closed the door behind her and started down the hallway. “Will she see me?”

The maid shook her head. “No, sir, and you’re wasting your time camping out here. She won’t see anybody, not even Sir Gilbert. And can any of us blame her? It’s like she’s lost them all over again, you understand, her mama and papa both, now she knows what those evil men done to him and has thought back on what seeing him hanging there did to her mama. It’s when she’s done grieving that I’m worried about, sir.”

“Yes, so am I,” Thomas admitted, remembering Marguerite’s wild tears after reading Harewood’s mercifully abridged confession, her refusals to be held or comforted, her gradual descent into stony silence as they rode toward Chertsey.

“I know that girl, and she’s not going to settle for any of the king’s justice, no matter how you told her you wanted to send that there letter to His Royal Highness. No, not my baby. She burnt the thing, you know, late last night after you’d raced us all back here to Chertsey. I couldn’t stop her. And there’ll be no holding her at all once she makes up her mind to go after the earl. She’s already thinking on it, I can tell you that, too. You sure, sir, he ain’t come home to Laleham Hall?”

“Quite sure. Marco and Giorgio are watching for him, but he’s nowhere to be found. Not in London, and not here.”

Maisie lifted a corner of her large white apron to her eyes, sniffling. “I told her it was wrong, from the beginning it was wrong. Headstrong, that’s what she is. Always was. Never could tell her nothing. ‘No one will know it’s me, Maisie.’ That’s what she told me. ‘I just want them to suffer a little, the way I’ve suffered since Papa died.’ That’s what she said.
She promised!
Well, Mr. Donovan, look who’s suffering now. My baby’s the one, that’s who!”

Thomas put his arm around the maid’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “It’s going to be all right, Maisie. I hated letting her see Harewood’s confession, but she had to know her father didn’t kill himself. I think, in a way, she’s always blamed herself that he died, believing she’d failed him in some way, that he wouldn’t have committed suicide if she hadn’t placed him on such a high pedestal—that he would have been allowed to fail and still be first in her eyes.”

Maisie nodded, taking a deep breath as if to help compose herself. “Could be. Never saw a love like that, sir. Never. Even shut Miss Victoria out some, the way those two fair doted on each other. Did Sir Gilbert tell you the rest, sir? Did he tell you how we all lied to Miss Marguerite, telling her how her papa died in his sleep? Do you know how my baby found out about Master Geoffrey? How her mother slipped and told her the truth, that day at Laleham Hall just a year or so ago—the day some one of those five men tried to kiss Miss Victoria or something, and the poor lady fell to the ground, screaming? Died a couple of days later, she did, her broken heart just giving out. And m’baby turned hard. All the sunshine left her, and she kept going to those Gypsies, and plotting, and—oh, sir, excuse me for running on like this, but you’ve got to do something!”

Thomas stopped at the head of the stairs. “I will, Maisie. It will all be over soon—and then we’ll watch the sunlight come back.”

“
Oh, sir!
” the maid exclaimed, then lifted her apron to her face and turned away.

Thomas descended the stairs and entered the drawing room, to see Sir Gilbert sitting there, a blunderbuss by his side, and Finch, similarly armed, standing behind him.

“That murdering bastard will be in for a mighty greeting if he dares to show his face here like you seem to think he might. Though I have to confess, I still don’t quite see why you’re believing he will,” Sir Gilbert declared gruffly. “Here now, lad, stop that frowning. She’ll be all right. She’s had a shock. We all have, come to think of it. More than one, with having to hear how that little girl was running rigs in London without me so much as guessing what she was up to! Margy’s diamonds hanging around the neck of some Gypsy boy? Why, the cheek of it! Ah, but that’s my Marguerite. Just like my dearest Margy. Pluck to the backbone, and up to any rig. I know, because I raised her up to be that way. Strong. Independent!” His lined faced crumpled and he sniffled. “Ain’t that right, Finch? Pluck to the backbone!”

“Right you are Sir Gilbert,” Finch answered heartily, while shaking his head dolefully at Thomas.

Thomas rubbed at the back of his neck. He was so tired, for he hadn’t slept in nearly two days except for a short nap in the coach on their way from London. He was so weary he had begun to forget just how much he’d divulged to Sir Gilbert, and how much he had kept from him. From Marguerite.

“We may be overreacting, Sir Gilbert,” he said, hoping to reassure the two old men. “Murdering Sir Ralph when he learned of the man’s confession—and I’m convinced he learned of it—put Laleham beyond the pale. Why, right now he might be boarding ship the way Totton did, knowing it would be foolhardy for him to remain in England with that confession hanging over his head. He probably hasn’t connected Marguerite to any of it.” He forced a smile. “In fact, I believe I’m willing to make a wager on it. Five pounds. No—ten! Any takers?”

Both Sir Gilbert and Finch remained silent, and Thomas left them, going to the morning room to seek out Dooley, who had been assigned the job of watching out over the gardens from that excellent vantage point. Thomas wanted Dooley to feel a part of things but, as with Sir Gilbert and the indomitable Finch, he didn’t want the older man too close to trouble. He already had enough to be sorry for without having to return to Philadelphia and face Bridget with the news that her Paddy had met a nasty end.

“Heyday, Tommie!” Dooley said jovially, laying down the brace of dueling pistols he’d been aiming out the open doors and in the general direction of the garden. “I haven’t been this excited since Bridget’s aged ma was being courted by that draper fella last spring. It came to nothing, of course, and she’s still sticking her skinny shanks under my table—but you never know. Do you really think his slimy lordship will show up here?”

Thomas sat down on one of the green and yellow flowered couches and crossed one leg over the other, his fingers digging in to scratch his skin above his highly polished Hessians. “Everyone’s asking that same question. I don’t know if I’m giving the bastard too much credit or not enough. If he thinks Marguerite and I got together and used her knowledge of them to come up with all those schemes to divide and conquer him and the rest of The Club? Then, yes, I do believe he’ll show up here. Remember, Paddy, how much he wants that letter from Madison. If he thought I have the confession from Harewood to hold over his head, getting myself the goods and ships without having to turn over the letter—”

“And the money, boyo. Don’t forget all that lovely money. You’re the one what let them think you weren’t above getting something for yourself, and the devil with Madison or any of the rest of it. You took Marguerite, used her knowledge of the five of them to bring them down—all of it. Yes, then I do imagine Laleham thinks you’re a very nasty man and would like nothing better than to see you dead.”

“And Marguerite as well, Paddy, now that he knows she won’t be the innocent consort Harewood was raving about in that confession of his. So, whether it be for the one of us or the both of us, he’ll be here. He can’t feel safe as long as we’re alive. You know what, Paddy? After listening to something Maisie said just now, something about Marguerite’s mother—I think Laleham is quite mad, as well as clever.”

“Mad? Well, that’s no great leap, Tommie. I think you’re all mad. Mad as hatters.”

“Don’t worry I’ll try to argue the point.” Thomas crossed his hands behind his head and leaned against the back of the couch. He was tired, so very tired. “Ah, Paddy, I wish he’d make a move. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to travel back to London to search him out, and I don’t want to leave Marguerite.”

“We’ll keep her safe for you, boyo.”

Marguerite stirred sometime after midnight, having at last fallen into a deep sleep after crying until she’d finally run out of tears. She turned onto her back in the bed she had slept in since her early childhood, pressing a hand to her eyes as she tried to remember why she was at Chertsey Abbey rather than in London.

And then it all came rushing back—the news of Ralph’s death, the memory of reading his confession naming William Renfrew as the man who had struck down her father, then hung up his body for his wife to find. She had read all of it while Donovan and Marco and Giorgio and her grandfather and even Paddy and Finch had stood by, silent, waiting for her to react.

And she had not disappointed them, she thought now ruefully, remembering the way she had fallen apart, then gathered herself together and flown into a rage, cursing William and trying to rush from the drawing room to seek the man out and beat him to death with her own two hands.

Donovan had stopped her, of course. The man could stop a charging bull, he was that strong. He’d lifted her over his shoulder, holding her flailing legs as he carried her upstairs, while she beat at him and screamed at him like some Bedlamite. He’d then locked her in her grandmother’s empty dressing room until the coaches were loaded. She’d fought him just as hard when he lugged her back down the stairs and forced her into the traveling coach, and she was sure he must be wearing more than a few bruises.

Poor Donovan.
Marguerite spared the man she loved some slight sympathy as she dragged herself from the bed and began quietly going about the business of locating the breeches and shirt she had always donned when she visited the Gypsy camp and rode bareback ponies with Marco and Giorgio and the others.

How long ago that all seemed now, those carefree days of her youth. But she was no longer young, and hadn’t been since her mother died.

Laleham had to have been the persistent suitor in the maze. Marguerite was sure of that now. Her papa had taught her how to think, how to reason, how to take that next logical step. Knowing what she knew now, Laleham was that next logical step. It just made sense.

Laleham had been the man in the maze.

Laleham, the heartbroken but oh-so-true friend who had taken part in the long vigil at her mother’s bedside.

Laleham, their rock, their helpful, sympathetic friend, who had comforted her grandfather and herself when the end had come.

Laleham, the unconscionable bastard who had brought about that premature end.

Laleham, the coldhearted schemer who had murdered Geoffrey Balfour and taken that sweet, wonderful, loving man away from his wife and child.

The Earl of Laleham was the monster behind everything terrible that had ever happened to the Balfours!

And Donovan wanted her to sit here like some helpless miss, safely tucked up in the country, while he, because he loved her, traveled back to London to finish the revenge she had started? He had as much chance of that as he did of hoping for the sky to crack open so it could rain rubies. Not that he’d tell her he was going. It was just the next logical step.

She left her rumpled night rail on the floor and quickly stepped into the breeches, then slipped on the full-sleeved white shirt that had been her father’s, covering it with a long leather vest with large pockets. She found her boots in the back of one of the cupboards and wasted little time tying her hair away from her face before jamming one of her father’s favorite wide-brimmed fishing hats down low on her head.

Now all she needed was a weapon. William would return to Laleham Hall now that his plans for treason most surely had faded away with Stinky, and Arthur, and Perry, and Ralph. She was convinced of that fact for that, too, was the next logical step. Laleham Hall had always been William’s place of safety, his refuge—a haven where he would most naturally retire to regroup after murdering Ralph. Murdering Ralph! God, was there no limit to the man’s evil?

Yes. Yes, there was. She’d put an end to it. She’d started this, and she would be the one to finish it. Only then could she forget the past and find some measure of peace. Peace that would not come if William were only to be hauled off to prison, but only when he was dead.