A Masquerade in the Moonlight (9 page)

Luckily, once the deed was done, all three of them would be superfluous. Only he, Sir Ralph Harewood, a peer who worked diligently at the Admiralty, and William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, one of the most eloquent, universally beloved peers in the House of Lords, deserved to reap the bounty that would come when they harvested the result of the seeds of revolution all five of them were so busily planting.

Only he would survive—he who had always been what he was now, an average man of average size, of forgettable features, of impeccable lineage and adequate fortune, but possessing a hidden agenda of treason no one could suspect. And William, of course—William, the ultimate gentleman, the smooth night-dark devil who had all the handsomeness and wealth and ancestry handed to him as rights of birth, but who longed for dominance over mankind more than the devil himself.

Neither of them had changed over the years, succumbed to the debilitating diseases of laziness, age, and easy living as the other three had. No, he and William had only become more so than they had been before—himself more covetous of wealth and William more eager for power... and each of them growing daily more desperate to attain both.

Sir Ralph knew once their plan succeeded he would be content to count his money, while William, who had no need of money, was probably already planning the details of his coronation. And God knew the man had already chosen his consort.

Sir Ralph felt a moment’s pity for his old friends gone to seed, but no more than a single moment. It was so difficult to remember how all five of them had once worked as a cohesive unit—daring, unafraid, brilliant. When had it all begun to go downhill, so that the three were all sorry enough, and desperate enough, that they had agreed to come together one last time, that they had agreed to play integral parts in his and William’s grandiose scheme?

No. No, he wouldn’t think about that. If he thought about that, he’d have to think about the beginning of the end, of the years that had taken their toll, until they had been so foolish, so overconfident, thanks to their past successes, that they had made a near fatal mistake with Geoffrey Balfour. It did no good to think about Geoffrey Balfour, or the deed that held the five of them bound together almost seven long years after they wanted, needed, to go their separate ways.

If he were to look too hard, to examine Arthur’s pathetic flirtations, Stinky’s dedicated gaming, Perry’s insistence upon demonstrating his brilliance, he would be able to put out a finger and touch the moment they had all begun to fall apart. Even the moment he had come face to face with his own personal weakness, witnessed the certainty, the inevitability of his most secret, lifelong fear. That moment. That horror. That “business” of Geoffrey Balfour.

So, no, he would not think of that now, not now they were so close to achieving the most brilliant coup of the century, now that he and William were at last to reap the reward of a lifetime of scheming by carrying off the most daring, inventive plan ever devised.

“Hullo there! What are you gentlemen doing stuck in this dim corner—holding a silent vigil for past or
future
glories? Or were you sitting here, statue-like, waiting for me? I sincerely pray that is not the case, much as I’d be flattered. And you’re right not to offer me a chair. Someone might think you actually pleased I stopped by to chat. But I shan’t linger. You see, I intend amusing myself by toppling ears over tail in love this evening, so we shall not meet again until Saturday, at the earliest. Love rarely outlives two sunsets, does it, gentlemen? Tell me—except for Sir Peregrine and Lord Mappleton, of course, who need not answer —are you at all familiar with the beauteous Miss Marguerite Balfour?”

Sir Ralph looked up at Thomas Donovan, taking in the man’s impeccable clothing, his relaxed posture, and the amusement in his clear blue eyes—merriment Sir Ralph was sure was at their expense, although he didn’t for the life of him know why. “So you plan a courtship of Miss Balfour, Mr. Donovan? How enterprising of you—and how brave. Miss Balfour eats young pups like yourself for breakfast. You see, dear man, the lady much prefers the company of mature gentlemen.”

“Yes,” Thomas said, smiling at each of the men in turn, his full, healthy mustache an abomination to Sir Ralph’s sensibilities, “just such a depressing rumor did reach my ears—by way of a fellow named Quist, as I remember it. Do you think that could be because Miss Balfour believes she can outrun doddering old men—or just out
live
them? Oh—forgive me, Sir Peregrine, Lord Mappleton. It’s no more than my impetuous American tongue. Well, I must be going. I’m escorting the little darling down to supper, you know—does she eat young men for supper as well? What an intriguing, nay,
titillating
thought! See you Saturday?”

“Saturday,” Sir Ralph repeated from between clenched teeth. Once the tall American had taken himself off—his step too long for fashion, his sure, lord-of-the-hill gait setting Sir Ralph’s nerves on edge—he sat back in his chair, absentmindedly stroking his own clean upper lip.

“I cannot believe the success of our plan resides with that impertinent, skirt-chasing Irishman,” he said, his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Donovan is either eminently clever or criminally ignorant. Perry, for once I agree with you, much as it pains me to admit it. It’s time our good friend
Willie
came out into the open. Why should we be the ones taking all the chances?”

“Do I have a smut on my nose, Mr. Donovan? You’ve been staring at me for a full minute. It’s most disconcerting, you know.”

Thomas, who had been lounging against the back of the uncomfortable chair, leaned forward, placing his elbows on the tabletop and his chin in his hands. “For an entire minute, Miss Balfour? I had thought it no more than a second. Indeed, I could spend an eternity gazing into your magnificent emerald eyes. They remind me of my beloved, native Ireland.”

“Really, Mr. Donovan?” Marguerite responded, lifting her fork and inserting the last bit of cream pie between her full, deeply pink lips. “I should think,” she continued after dabbing her serviette against those same enticing lips, “your beloved, native Ireland lies only a short journey away, so that you should not have to attempt to comfort yourself with reminders rather than to see the place itself. Do you have plans to visit your homeland while you are on this side of the ocean?”

“Ah, dear treasure of my heart, but I did visit the Auld Sod, me and Paddy both, before sailing on to London. Beautiful County Clare. Alas,” he ended, sighing soulfully, doing his best to look pitiful, “there is nothing there for either of us now save memories.”

She laid down her serviette and looked into his eyes, her own limpid with sympathy. Was it real, or was she only reacting as she must know she should? It was plaguey difficult deciding what was true and what was false when dealing with Miss Marguerite Balfour. “How very sad. Please, if you promise to refrain from giving voice to any more foolish endearments, will you tell me about your life in Ireland?”

Thomas decided to believe the possible lie that she was sincere in her interest—not that
he
was. He closed his eyes. “No, no. I wouldn’t wish to distress you with my tale of woe.” He opened his eyes again, waiting for her to discreetly push him into confession. She didn’t disappoint him.

“Are you an orphan, Mr. Donovan?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, so that the light of the chandelier just above them turned her hair to dark, liquid fire. “If so, I can understand your sorrow for I, too, am without parents, although I do have my dear grandfather to comfort me. As you and Mr. Dooley must have each other to turn to in times of remembered grief.”

Dooley? Dooley, who had his quarrelsome wife, an older-than-the-flood mother-in-law whose eyesight might be failing but whose razor-sharp tongue could still strip the hide off a man at twenty paces, and a half dozen runny-nosed children waiting for him in Philadelphia? “Yes, dear lady, Paddy and I do at least have each other. He is such a comfort to me—after the trouble.”

She leaned slightly closer, so that he could smell her provocative perfume, see her modestly displayed expanse of flawless, creamy bosom rise and fall with her every breath. Saint Peter and all the apostles, but she was a tempting morsel! And she knew it, blast her! “The trouble? You cannot stop now, Mr. Donovan, for I vow I’m near to bursting with curiosity. Please—tell me what happened.”

Lean a little closer, aingeal, and that lovely gown hiding your glory from me will burst, for which I shall be eternally grateful
. “Oh, very well,” he answered, sighing, employing every bit of willpower he could marshal not to reach across the small table and run his middle finger from the underside of her chin, to the base of her throat, to the cunning cleft between her breasts—and beyond. “But not here, Miss Balfour. I fear I sometimes allow my emotions to get the better of me when I think of my childhood in County Clare. Perhaps if we were to stroll outside, onto the balcony, where it’s less public?”

Her smile was triumphant as she held out her hand for him to help her to rise, which confused him, for he had thought this to be
his
victory. “Of course, Mr. Donovan. I shouldn’t wish for you to become a watering pot here, among so many people who would be sure to gawk and point fingers. Let us adjourn to yon balcony, where you might weep to your heart’s content with only me there to mock you.”

She allowed him to slip her arm through the crook of his elbow as they threaded their way through the crowded tables and out onto the balcony, although she did stop several times to introduce him to people who, every last man at least, looked down their noses at him (a mighty feat, he acknowledged with some admiration, for people who remained seated while he was left standing, like some lackey at their service).

To a man they had wasted no courtesy on the companion Marguerite introduced as “an emissary of President Madison.”

To a woman, however, Thomas noticed, his presence had seemed more than welcome. Either English women were sadly ignorant politically or they were more impressed with his appearance than his official presence. It was really too bad he hadn’t been sent to negotiate with the ladies of London. Not only would there be no war looming on the horizon, but he would probably sail home with papers deeding him half the British Empire!

“Lovely people, your countrymen,” Thomas commented as he assisted Marguerite to a stone bench at one side of the balcony—the dark side of the balcony, away from the lights and noise in the supper room. “I felt most welcome as you introduced me.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Marguerite answered, opening her fan and beginning to wave it slowly just beneath her chin. “Half of them would be more than pleased if they could invite you to an execution—yours, I believe—while the ladies wouldn’t shriek if you were to climb the drainpipes to their boudoirs, with intent to ravish them. Tell me, Mr. Donovan, do you always meet with such extreme reactions?”

“It’s a cross I bear, Miss Balfour,” Thomas told her, propping one foot on the bench just beside Marguerite’s skirt and leaning toward her. “So, my dear lady—on which side of your grandfather’s mansion will I find the drainpipe leading to your boudoir?”

The fan snapped closed and she tapped it more sharply than coquettishly against his knee. “Your reach exceeds your grasp, Mr. Donovan, just as your mouth outstrips your minuscule comprehension of civilization outside the rough-and-ready atmosphere you must live with in Philadelphia.”

“Did I tell you I live in Philadelphia?” Thomas asked, pleased to see she was not quite the woman of the world she would like him to suppose. Innocent, but not
too
innocent—and definitely interested in him. Ripe for the plucking, Miss Balfour was, but not likely to fall into his hands without some effort. That was also good, for he disliked winning too easily.

“I don’t remember,” she answered quickly, folding her hands in her lap, avoiding his eyes. “Perhaps Perry told me—not that it matters, for I know less than nothing about America, nor care to. Oh—I believe I hear the musicians tuning up once more.” She stood before he could react. “Much as I would enjoy hearing your tale of woe—the one you promised me earlier—I fear I must ask you to escort me back upstairs. I am promised for the next set, you understand.”

Thomas took hold of her arm, of the soft skin of her upper arm that rose above her over-the-elbow kid gloves. “I can remedy that lapse tomorrow, if you’ll drive out with me.”

She looked pointedly at his hand and then at him, and he could see the thrill of the hunt was once more in her eyes. “I’d much rather ride in the park, Mr. Donovan. I’ve brought my mare, Trickster, with me from the country, but she has had little exercise since our arrival. I will promise to bring an extra handkerchief with me, for I’m sure the story of your boyhood will quite reduce me to sympathetic tears. Unless, of course, you don’t ride.”

Thomas smiled, inching closer to her so-tempting mouth. They were isolated, alone together in the darkness, so close they could sense each other’s every breath, so near to kissing they might as well have been kissing. “Oh, I ride, Miss Balfour,” he drawled softly, staring into her eyes to see if she understood what he was saying, what he was sure they both were thinking, no matter how innocent she might be. “There’s nothing I like better than a good ride. A hard ride,” he said, lowering his head even closer. “Hard, and fast, and—”