A Masquerade in the Moonlight (50 page)

Marguerite tucked the boots under her arm, slowly depressed the latch leading to her dressing room, then tiptoed toward the door in the back hallway that led directly to the servants’ stairs. She’d take up pistols in Sir Gilbert’s study and be on her way across the fields to Laleham Hall, traveling a well-worn path she could follow in the moonlight. She’d be there, waiting, when William returned to his country home, when he came back to the scene of all his crimes against the Balfours—and she’d stand there laughing as he fell dead, a gaping hole blown in his chest.

She made her way down the hall and crept into the study, standing impatiently while her eyes adjusted to the darkness, then crossed to the glass-fronted cabinet that held Sir Gilbert’s pistols. She had just opened the lock—having known since childhood where her grandfather hid the key to the cabinet—when she heard a slight scraping sound behind her and the yellow glow of a single lit candle brightened the room.

A thick Irish brogue split the silence from somewhere behind her. “Top o’ the evenin’ to ye,
aingeal
. Quite a fetching sight ye are in those breeches, don’t ye know? And would ye be planning to take yerself off somewheres?”

“
Donovan
,” she breathed quietly, stiffening.

“None other,” he said brightly. She could hear him rising from the leather chair her grandfather refused to part with no matter how ancient and cracked it had become over the years. “You know, I could dearly use a bit of sleep. Loving me as you do, I’d hoped you’d give a thought to me and behave yourself. But, loving you as I do, and learning more about you every day, I didn’t think you’d see things that way.”

She whirled about to glare at him in righteous anger, refusing to see him as anything but a barrier to what she wanted, needed, to do. “Nobody told you to put yourself in charge of me, Thomas Joseph Donovan. Nobody asked. Not me, anyway. So go to bed—go to blazes. Go anywhere—but leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that, sweetheart,” he said, lighting several more candles, so that she could clearly see the twin bruises of fatigue beneath his eyes. “Especially now, since Maisie gave me your father’s diary to read, then told me a few things I should have known long ago. Your father was a good man, Marguerite, a kind and gentle man who loved nature and history—and
you
, Marguerite. He loved you very, very much, you were the light of his life. Do you really think he would want you to do this? That he’d want his daughter made into a murderer, even to avenge him?”

She turned back to the cabinet and removed two pistols and the small box containing everything necessary to load them. Blast the man for trying to defeat her by appealing to reason! She was in no mood to listen to reason except in relation to how it might apply to removing Laleham from the face of the earth. Then unexpected tears stung her eyes and she lowered her chin, shaking her head slowly. “No, Donovan,” she admitted quietly, reluctantly, her hands shaking slightly as she turned back to him, laid everything on the desk, and began to load the first pistol. “He wouldn’t have wanted me to do this.”

“That’s my
aingeal
. Now you’re being sensible—or you will be, once you put down that pistol. You look a mite too comfortable with the thing to please me overmuch.”

She raised her head once more, looking at him from between narrowed lids even as she laid the first pistol down, only to reach for the second. “Yes, I do, don’t I?” she bit out in renewed anger. No one, not memories of her papa, not even Thomas Joseph Donovan and his silken tongue and his tired eyes and his loving ways could keep her from her mission. “Would you like to know why? It’s because I’ve been firing these things since I was old enough to lift them. I’m quite proficient with them.”

Thomas approached the desk, standing on the other side, no more than three feet away from her. “I’ll take your word for that, darlin’,” he said, his grin making her long to punch him.

“And for your information,” she added, closing the box before slipping the two pistols into the deep pockets of her vest, “I
am
being sensible. I’m the only one of the two of us who
is
being sensible! William murdered Papa, Donovan. You’ve told me he killed Ralph. Frightened, superstitious,
invincible
Ralph. Yes, I wanted the man disgraced, even sent to prison if possible. I admit it. I wanted all five of them punished, even before I knew all of the horrible truth. But Ralph is dead because of what I started. William got away with murdering Papa. He can’t be allowed to escape justice again. William has already made me a victim—and now he’s made me an unwitting accomplice to Ralph’s murder. I have to do something, Thomas. I have to!”

She watched as Thomas ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. “No, Marguerite,
I
have to. And I will. I promise. But that was a wonderful speech, truly it was, if a bit long-winded. First rate. However, for all your fine deductions and elevating sentiments, hasn’t it occurred to you that you might be in danger right now?”

“Me?” She gave a toss of her head, nearly dislodging her hat. “Don’t be ridiculous, Donovan. I’m nothing to William except a green girl only recently out of the schoolroom. Only a friend, if anything. He can’t know I’m the one who—”

“He knows, Marguerite,” Thomas said, cutting her off just as she remembered William’s strange half proposal of marriage. William did see her as more than a “friend.” First the mother, and then the daughter? Was that possible? But Donovan didn’t know about that, and she wasn’t likely to present him with any more ammunition to use against her in trying to keep her locked up at Chertsey. Besides, what could William’s seeming penchant for Balfour women have to do with her father’s murder, with Ralph’s murder?

“Just what does he know, Donovan?” she asked, still careful to keep the desk between them. She would have brandished one of the pistols and ordered him to stand back while she left the study—only he’d just laugh at her, and then she’d
really
want to shoot him.

“He knows about us, Marguerite,” Donovan told her as he perched himself on the edge of the desk. “Ralph told him.”

“He did? How? When?” Marguerite rubbed at her forehead, trying to understand, then shrugged, determined not to let Thomas know his news had upset her. “Oh, never mind. I don’t care. What does it matter if Ralph knew about us, if he really did see us together that night behind the mansion? What does it matter if William knows about us? I doubt his heart will be broken.”

“Not his heart, Marguerite,” Thomas said, looking at her intently. “However, I believe his pride might have taken a direct hit. I told you I’ve spoken with Maisie. She told me all about your mother’s death. I think it was Laleham who accosted her in the maze. And remembering some things Mappleton and Perry let slip, I think he’s now transferred his affections, such as they are, to you. I think that’s why the other members of the club stayed so near to you in London—on orders from Laleham, just to make sure you weren’t courted too earnestly by any other men.”

“How above everything insulting you are! You’re implying they weren’t really smitten with me?” Marguerite immediately knew her attempt at sarcasm had failed and quickly avoided Thomas’s eyes. All right, so she wasn’t the only one in this room who was capable of reasoning things out. “If you insist, Donovan. I—I suppose that’s possible. But that wouldn’t mean William would ever believe I had anything to do with what happened to Stinky, or Perry, or—”

“Look, Marguerite, it’s late, and I’m damned tired. I don’t want to go into all of this now, but I think—I have reason to believe—Laleham might have connected us, then assumed you’ve helped me bring all of them down, to put his lordship into a position where he would have to go along with anything I demanded or else I’d turn Harewood’s confession over to his government. In other words, I think the earl is, at the moment, one very angry, frightened man—and a man who would like nothing better than to see the two of us dead.”

“Excuse me for arriving late, Mr. Donovan, so that I seem to have come in on the very end of your conversation, but what little I did hear was almost correct. I am rather angry, and the two of you will very soon be
very
dead. However, I’m not in the least frightened. Such an emotion is unproductive, as that fool Ralph so recently proved.”

“William.” Marguerite felt her stomach turn over as she and Thomas looked to the doorway leading to the hall, to see the Earl of Laleham standing there, a cocked pistol in each hand. He was dressed in midnight blue evening clothes and looked calm, secure in his superiority.

“None other, you ungrateful little whore,” he said, nodding his head slightly in her direction. “I did my best not to believe Ralph—until I espied Donovan here climbing down your drainpipe. I was shocked, quite shocked I tell you.”

“Damn,” Thomas bit out, clearly angry with himself. “Missed seeing the crest on your coach, did I?”

“You will oblige me by shutting your flapping American mouth, thank you. Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes. Such a shock, although I have moved beyond it. But such a pity. I was going to give you everything, Marguerite, share everything I had. But you’re stupid, like your mother before you. You Balfour women only seem to enjoy crawling between the covers with inferiors. And Victoria was weak into the bargain. Geoffrey had made her weak. I’d hoped, with the passage of time, she could still be made to see reason. Alas, that wasn’t to be. She had been totally ruined. A word of truth in her ear and she swooned dead away. When I come to power all the weak, the inferior, will be dispatched, and I’ll have no need to worry about them again. Tonight, children, with the two of you, I will make a start of it.”

Marguerite ignored the threat, too angry to be really frightened. “You—you
told
her you murdered my father? She had a weak heart. You must have known such a statement could kill her. Why did you do it? For the love of God—
why?
”

“Why not, Marguerite? Once she rejected my proposal I had no further use for her. But enough chatter. I have to get back to Laleham Hall and dispose of the body I left lying in my garden. It’s such a bother, you know, sweeping up Gypsy trash. One of your inferior friends, I suppose, my dear. Now, if you would kindly remove those pistols from your person and lay them on the desk, knowing my pistol will be cocked and trained on your lover as you do? There, that’s a good girl. So willing to please me, now that we all at last understand each other.”

“Ah, your lordship, but are you sure of that?” Thomas asked, standing at his ease, just as if he weren’t staring down the barrel of one of William’s pistols. “My thanks to you for eliminating the Gypsy. He was useful to us in bringing down Harewood and the others, but I had done with the fellow. I sent him to Laleham Hall, secure in the knowledge you would dispatch him for me.”

“Donovan! What are you saying? You sent Marco to be killed?” Marguerite stared at him, wide-eyed and disbelieving. The man lied with such ease, it was nearly impossible to know when he was telling the truth. “How can you say that? How can you hint that you still want to deal with William? You love me—you swore you loved me!”

“You see, my lord?” Thomas asked, spreading his hands, palms up, as if to ask his consideration for all he had suffered in having to deal with her. “Do you really think the willing baggage knows I’ve been tumbling her just to get her to help me gain the upper hand over you and your little group of incompetents? And they were incompetent, my lord. But you and I—well, I believe
we
two at least understand each other now. I have the letter from my president ready to hand over to you, and you have the power to begin again, building on a more solid foundation based on our mutual mistrust of each other as we move forward with our plans. You get the letter, and I keep Ralph’s confession. We’re both protected. Isn’t that right—
partner
?”

Partner?
Marguerite’s head was beginning to whirl. She looked to the earl, to see how he’d react to this last bit of blarney.
Oh, Lord, please let it be blarney!

Laleham was quiet for some moments, obviously considering all Thomas had said, and Marguerite looked down at the desk, measuring the distance between herself and the closest pistol. “How droll. Ralph and Perry said you were ambitious, Mr. Donovan, didn’t they? You still expect the arrangement to go forward?” he asked at last, eyeing the American intently, assessingly. Clearly the earl wasn’t above a slight alteration in his plans—which certainly had to appeal more than abandoning his scheme completely. “But what about her?” he asked, using one of the pistols to indicate Marguerite.

Thomas shrugged. “What about her? She wasn’t worth a damn in bed, if that’s what you mean. Your English women are cold, my lord. Damn near froze off my lips to kiss her, let alone face the chill of crawling on top of her. I say we get rid of the bloodless chit.”

Laleham looked to Marguerite and smiled. A rather nasty smile. “Well, well, my dear, there you have it. It would seem you have lost, doesn’t it, while I have won yet again? What a waste. Do you have anything to say to the American before you die? Some last, loving farewell?”

Marguerite took a deep breath, a plan forming in her mind. “Yes, William. Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “
You miserable bastard!
” she then screamed as loudly as she could as she turned to Donovan, at the same time leaping forward to grab up one of the pistols. But Donovan was also moving, throwing his body against the earl’s, so that she could not fire at Laleham without taking the chance of hitting the wrong man.

One pistol fell to the floor as the two men struggled, locked together tightly as she kept her pistol trained on them, praying for a clean shot at Laleham.

A heartbeat later an explosion rang out and Marguerite stood frozen as the sound echoed in the room and the acrid odor of gunpowder drifted toward her. She closed her eyes for a second, praying, then opened them.

Why were they both still standing?

Who had taken the bullet?

Then, slowly, as Donovan stood with his back to her, William Renfrew’s hands, his right clutching the smoking pistol, came up to grasp the American’s shoulders. He looked into Donovan’s eyes and then turned to stare at Marguerite, his mouth moving without saying anything, as slowly, oh, so slowly, his body slid down Donovan’s to the floor.