A Masquerade in the Moonlight (35 page)

The ruling passion, be it what it will,

The ruling passion conquers reason still:

— Alexander Pope

M
arguerite entered the room with her chin held high, a thoroughly cowed Mrs. Billings three paces behind her, and refused to look left or right at the ladies and gentlemen of the ton who had yet to make up their minds as to whether or not Miss Marguerite Balfour had reduced herself to the level of an Untouchable by her outrageous flaunting of correct dress the previous evening.

As if she cared a whit what they thought! She was Marguerite Balfour and not some dieaway miss who would rather take the veil than face a roomful of frowning busybodies with nothing better to do than judge people by the clothes they wore, the depth of their pockets, or which side of the blanket their parents had been on at the time of conception.

Besides, she was here this evening on a mission. Several missions. The note she had received that afternoon from Maxwell had gone a long way toward cheering her, for both Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton were taking to the bait with delicious enthusiasm, and Lord Chorley had already begun his swift, humbling descent into public disgrace and—as soon as he realized how utter was his defeat—banishment.

But she needed to see William. She would have received him earlier in the day, if only her eyes hadn’t still been so red-rimmed and puffy. She could not let the interview go another day, much as she wished she never had to speak to him again. He was the only member of The Club who actually frightened her.

And then there was Donovan. She had sent a note to the Pulteney, informing him she would be attending Lady Southby’s musical evening, arriving at eleven, after a dinner in a private home. That last bit had been a fib, of course, but she didn’t want Donovan in the way before she had met with Laleham, for he was sure to interfere.

Thomas Joseph Donovan. The man interfered with everything she did. Her revenges, her dreams, even her confusions. And yet, if she didn’t see him again tonight, hold him again tonight, love him again tonight, she had no great desire to live to see the dawn.

And if that made her a wanton, so be it. She’d not be short of company in hell!

“Miss Balfour! You are in looks this evening. How gratifying that your indisposition of this afternoon is now a thing of the past.”

Marguerite clenched her teeth together tightly for a moment, swallowed down on an impulse to shiver, then turned to curtsy to the Earl of Laleham, who always seemed to look at her as if she was a property he was considering purchasing. “La, sir, I thank you,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him as she had seen a young woman named Araminta do to Donovan before he had joined her last night. “You must be the bravest of men, your lordship, to be willing to be seen with me. I am in disgrace, you know.”

He bowed over her extended hand, his lips cool and dry against her skin. “On the contrary, Miss Balfour,” he said, and she watched, bemused, for his lips barely moved as he uttered the words. “It is your chaperone here who has fatally blotched her copybook. Everyone knows full well you are motherless, and therefore it is your chaperone who must be held accountable if you are to inadvertently commit a minor faux pas, and so I have already informed our hostess. I believe the dear lady is even now passing along my words to everyone in attendance.”

“Oh, Lord. I’m doomed,” Mrs. Billings moaned quietly, so that Marguerite prudently took hold of the woman’s elbow, in case she swooned, and quickly suggested they adjourn to the row of chairs at the back of the crowded room where the amateur musicians would soon perform.

“Perhaps we might seek out a glass of lemonade for your chaperone, Miss Balfour?” Lord Laleham suggested a moment later, as if he could read her mind.

“Yes,” she answered, slipping her arm through his so that everyone could see she was with him, that he accepted her. She didn’t care if she were to become a pariah, but being in disgrace would limit her invitations, and she wished to be on the scene to watch each of her victims fall. “I believe that might be best. We can then give dear Billie a few moments alone in which to collect herself.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Billings said, sighing, then reached into her reticule for her vinaigrette.

Together, Marguerite and the earl made one circuit of the long room, greeting mutual acquaintances, Marguerite smiling as if she were truly enjoying herself before adjourning to one of the dozen or so tall, open windows looking out over the gardens that had been thrown wide to catch the evening breezes.

“Sir Gilbert is still shunning society, dear Marguerite?” Laleham inquired as if he truly wished an answer.

“You know my grandfather, William,” Marguerite replied, watching as a young couple strolled down one of the dimly lit paths, their heads pressed together.
Will I soon be out there with Donovan?
“He would rather visit the tooth drawer than spend an evening listening to amateur musicians sawing away on their instruments. In truth, so would I. Do you suppose Lady Southby is going to sing? She did two weeks ago, at Lord March’s, and I had to pinch the inside of my wrist to keep from jumping up and stuffing my shawl down her gullet. If anyone made such a terrible racket near the home farm at Chertsey the hens would lay square eggs for a fortnight. But enough of that! How are you, William? It has been so long since we’ve spoken. Is your injury quite healed?”

“Descriptions of my injury were quite exaggerated, my dear,” he said, taking her elbow and assisting her in stepping over the low windowsill and out onto the balcony. “I am much recovered, as my presence here tonight proves. But I have learned my lesson. Never turn your back on an American, my dear, for they are not dedicated to any notions of fair play.”

Marguerite longed to slap him. “Are you saying, William,” she asked, careful to keep her tone even, “Mr. Donovan took advantage of your good manners and attacked you unfairly? How utterly
expected
of the man. I barely know him, but I believe he hasn’t a single scruple.”

Lord Laleham smiled, stepping in front of Marguerite so that she could not advance to one of the stone benches and sit down. “I have always known you were an intelligent young lady, Marguerite, ever since you were little. Do you remember my visits to Chertsey—and your excursions to Laleham Hall? Those were wonderful days, with your parents and I such good, good friends. Why, we were almost a family.”

Marguerite felt a chill sweep across her shoulders and pulled her pale pink shawl closer around her. Why was he doing this to her? Why was he bringing up old memories, old hurts? “My family is all gone now, William, except for Grandfather.”

He took hold of her hands, bringing them to his chest. “You can begin another family, my dearest Marguerite,” he said, his voice low and faintly fevered, his dark eyes boring into her very soul. For the first time in her recollection, he seemed not quite in control of himself. “I am reluctant to embarrass you, but that man Donovan has been bruiting it about that he plans to make you his wife. Yet you have just now told me you dislike him. That’s good, Marguerite. Very good and most reassuring. Your Selkirk lineage is perfect. You are entirely too precious to throw yourself away on just anyone. Why, with the right man at your side, Marguerite, you could become the beloved matriarch of a dynasty.”

Was he suggesting a marriage between the two of them? No. That was impossible. William was twice her age—more! She must have misunderstood. But wait! He seemed overly concerned with her lineage, as if he had already considered a union with the Selkirk family. Had he been the one in the maze? The one who had proposed to her mother? It was possible.
Anything
was possible. Marguerite opened her mouth, not knowing what she could answer, and then heard herself ask, “A dynasty? Really? As you would have done with Victoria?”

She watched, unable to look away, unable to move, as his skin seemed to tighten over his cheekbones, pushing the blood from his face. “Perhaps you are still laboring under the strain of your recent indisposition, my dear, to have even considered such a possibility. I was Geoffrey’s friend. His very good friend.”

“Yes, yes you were, William,” Marguerite agreed, remembering her father’s diary, remembering her mother’s admission of a year ago that her father had taken his own life. She pushed her suspicions from her mind, but not too far, for she would consider them again later, when she was alone. After all, it could have been William that day in the maze. It had to have been one of them. Why not William? “You must have been devastated when my papa died so suddenly.”

Still Laleham held her hands in his, her knuckles brushing against the folds of his cravat. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath when he opened his mouth, to utter what she immediately knew was a lie. “I always thought he had a poet’s frail constitution—but his death was still so sudden. Your dear mama never really recovered from her loss, did she?”

Beware the man without weaknesses.
Marguerite heard her father’s words ringing in her head. He hadn’t heeded his own warning, but she would. She did. She had no plans to involve herself personally in Laleham’s destruction. Sir Ralph would do it for her, thanks to his fear of death, thanks to his new pursuit of eternal life. To gain his “Shield of Invincibility” Ralph would spill all his secrets—and all of William’s secrets—to his trusted fortune-teller, thus giving her all the ammunition she would need to destroy the man. But it was so difficult not to call Laleham on his lies, so very difficult to stand here, smiling, and listen to his assertions of friendship, his nearly declared proposal of marriage. A
dynasty
? Dear God—did William possess a weakness after all?

Marguerite blinked rapidly, tears that were close to the surface anyway now helpful to her as she said, “Dear, William. Such a good friend, and yet you don’t know. I had thought—I had always assumed... William, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Papa did not die peacefully as you were told. He—he hanged himself in the gardens. Grandfather told me everything last year, after Mama died. You see, it was she who found him there. It was she who ever after suffered from a weak heart—and with good reason.”

Laleham released her hands only to draw her against his chest, her head pressed into his shoulder. “Dear, sweet child! Of course, I knew. But you were never to be told. What good would it do? What harm could it deal you to hear such terrible truths? You’re an innocent, my dear—an innocent! Your mind shouldn’t be cluttered with terrible visions.”

An innocent?
Now Marguerite knew the man was mad. She hadn’t been innocent in the ways of man since last spring, when her mother had collapsed in Laleham’s maze, died in Laleham’s own country house. Surely he had to know that! Now, since last night, she was no longer an innocent in the ways of love. She was in the process of bringing five men to their knees for their part in her parents’ deaths. If she were any less innocent she would have already sprouted horns and a pointed tail.

She carefully disengaged herself from Laleham’s embrace —an embrace that didn’t feel the least avuncular, especially in sight of his prattlings about a “dynasty.” Averting her eyes, for she could no longer look at him without wondering yet again,
Is he the one? Is he the one who was in the maze with Mama?
she said, “I believe I should like to be returned to Mrs. Billings now, William. I suddenly feel the need to sit and reflect upon all we have said here tonight.”

“I agree,” he answered quickly, as if he too needed to think, then took her arm and led her back into the brightly lit room. “I did not mean to shock you, my dear child. But I have been watching you all these years, watching and feeling proud as you grew into a beautiful young woman. Slowly, over this past year, it dawned on me that our little Marguerite was ready for marriage. Even you must notice that you seem to seek the company of mature men. No one like that clod, Donovan! Our lands already march together, and Sir Gilbert would want for nothing all the remaining days of his life. But I would never frighten you, my dear. There is time for you to consider what I’ve said. Truly. I am nothing if not patient.”

“Thank you, William. I am grateful, truly I am.” Then another thought struck her. “You—you aren’t planning to speak to Sir Gilbert about Mr. Donovan or—or anything else, are you, William?”

“There will be no need for that,” he answered shortly, and she looked up at him, startled at his arrogance, to see him glaring at something across the room. Without turning her head she sensed that Donovan had arrived. “Come, my dear,” he commanded, “and I’ll return you to your chaperone. I would stay and listen to the program with you, enduring the pain with you, but I have just now recalled an invitation elsewhere I cannot shirk. The Season is so full of entertainments. You will forgive me, won’t you?”

Forgive him? She’d consider searching out a trumpet to send him on his way, if only he’d go now and not confront Donovan, who was looking particularly handsome this evening—and particularly angry. “Of course, William. Perhaps I will see you again at Lady Brill’s masquerade on Friday? Grandfather has given me permission—reluctantly —and it should be great fun. I have never before attended a masquerade.”

The earl halted in front of Mrs. Billings and bowed over Marguerite’s hand after she was seated in the uncomfortable, straight-back chair. “Masquerades are fast becoming frowned on, but if you are going to be there, Miss Balfour, I would not miss it for the world. I will not even ask you to disclose your costume to me, for I feel sure I would know you anywhere,” he said, then withdrew before he could see her wipe the back of her hand against her silk skirts, attempting to banish the memory of his touch.

“I fear, Miss Balfour,” Mrs. Billings announced a moment later with great formality, “that I have no choice but to tender my resignation as of the conclusion of this evening. I have failed you, as his lordship so rightly pointed out, and failed myself. I should have shown more backbone, but I have always been a timid sort. A woman with no jointure, no income, needs must be as her employer wishes her to be. You have wished me to be a mere shadow, with no voice, no opinion, and no weight. I have done so, much to my chagrin, and now I am ruined. I have no choice but to take myself off to Scotland or Wales or some other such godless place and begin again. But before I leave, Miss Balfour—Marguerite—I wish to tell you something.”