A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 9

She is the good man’s paradise, and the bad’s first step to heaven.

— James Shirley

Thomas caught sight of her as she stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. He smiled as he saw she had dressed dramatically for the occasion of their midnight assignation, her head and body enveloped in a voluminous black cloak. But the smile froze in place, then, slowly melted, as she turned her head and he saw her moon-washed face, her wide eyes, and her vulnerability.

Damn her for making him remember he’d once possessed a conscience!

How was it possible for anyone, especially a young woman like Marguerite Balfour, to look outrageously daring and so prodigiously frightened at the same time? Thomas felt himself caught between wanting to crush her sweet body against his and kiss her senseless and believing he should take her in his arms and comfort her, tell her everything was going to be all right, he didn’t mean her any harm and he would always be there for her, to protect her and to love her and, yes, God help him, to cherish her.

Which was a totally asinine reaction, because Marguerite Balfour didn’t even like him. He intrigued her; his stolen kisses and teasing and forward manner and even his citizenship drew her to him, but her curiosity was nothing more than that of any young English debutante wishing for a touch of illicit titillation. As he had been immediately drawn to her startling beauty, her engaging frankness, and, most especially, her open willingness to investigate the forbidden.

She was only using him, as he had planned to use her. For mutual excitement. For mutual satisfaction. A pleasurable dalliance. One stolen night. For the thrill of the chase and the triumph of the capture. They were kindred spirits, he and Marguerite Balfour—so immediately transparent to each other that they both delighted and repelled each other, clearly seeing both their mutual faults and their shared love of adventure.

And because he knew she could see through him, he had to temper his physical desire for her with a leavening of common sense. She could be dangerous to him; dangerous to his mission. Especially since she seemed to have a mission of her own that involved the men he had been sent to deal with before returning to Philadelphia.

He could have done very nicely without her innocence, without this niggling at the back of his brain that Marguerite Balfour wasn’t all she seemed, but more. And much too good for the likes of him.

He should leave without speaking, draw back from the flames that tempted him to touch, enticed him to speculate, drew him toward hurling himself headfirst into the chasm that would always divide them.

But then, who would protect her from her own folly if he did not? Sir Gilbert? Hardly. No, Marguerite had to be protected from herself, for she had no inkling of the depths of greed and the lust for power that drove the men she had set out to bedevil. He had to be her knight-errant. There was nobody else around to do the job.

Besides, and to his shame, he wanted her. He wanted her so much his gut ached with the wanting.

By the time Thomas had concluded his internal arguments and lost the battle with his better self, Marguerite had thrown back the hood of her cloak and was standing with her arms tightly crossed against her waist, one booted foot agitatedly tap-tapping against the cobblestones. Knowing her mood wouldn’t improve for allowing it to simmer any longer, he took a deep breath and walked out into the drive, forcing a bright, openly teasing smile onto his face.

“Ah, here you are, aingeal,” he said in a clear, carrying voice. “Lovely night for a stroll, isn’t it? Please don’t tell me I’ve kept such a lovely, eager young lady waiting.”

Marguerite whirled in the direction of the sound of his voice, her cloak swirling around her ankles. “Lower your voice, you mutton-witted idiot,” she gritted out, advancing toward him. “Or does the thought your bellowing could rouse the watch send you into imbecilic ecstasies? And, no, I have not been waiting for you. I just arrived, not a moment ago, and only so that I could tell you I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to talk with you. Frankly, I would be eminently pleased if I never saw you again.”

“Which explains why you’re here,” Thomas countered, taking hold of her elbow and steering her closer to the tall shrubbery lining the narrow drive.

She yanked her elbow free of his grasp. “Don’t be thick. I would have sent a note to your hotel, but you never did tell me if you can read. And I couldn’t take the chance that the notion of my not appearing would penetrate your shallow brain. For all I knew, you could have set up a caterwauling outside my grandfather’s window, like some misdirected Romeo.”

“One of my least favorite of Shakespeare’s works, aingeal. Everyone dies, and for no good reason. But you can’t cry craven and run from me now. I come bearing news.”

She peered up at him through the dim light, instantly attentive. “News of what, Donovan? Are you leaving England on the morning tide?” She clasped her hands dramatically at the level of her breasts. “I vow, I shall be devastated —utterly devastated—by such sad news. Why, I’d have to rush right out tomorrow morning and buy myself a new bonnet, just to ease my heartache.”

Thomas smiled, truly enjoying her wit. “Don’t fight it so, Marguerite. You’d pine terribly were I to leave—at least if you hadn’t been able to satisfy more of your curiosity about why you feel as you do when I’m near.”

Marguerite shook her head, so that the moonlight licked the deep copper of her hair into golden fire. “You’re very impressed with yourself, aren’t you, Donovan? It isn’t as if I haven’t been kissed before.”

“Of course you have. Dozens of times. Hundreds of times. You are a true woman of the world.”

“Oh, shut up,” Marguerite countered, her eyes, her lovely emerald eyes shifting away from his. “Tell me your news and let me get back into the mansion. It’s turning cool.”

He leaned down so that he could whisper into her ear, so that he could deliberately put himself closer to her, to smell the perfume of her hair, to allow his lips the luxury of brushing lightly against the skin of her temple. “Lord Mappleton told me something very interesting earlier this evening. He is entertaining the thought of marriage.”

Her eyes snapped to the left, toward him, quickly followed by a swift turn of her head even as a triumphant smile lit her features, betraying her utterly. He knew, because his own head was only inches from hers, and he was watching her closely. “You’re not bamming me, are you?” she asked, then sobered, her expression troubled. “Oh, dear! You can’t mean he’s betrothed to Miss Rollins, can you? Why, they just met. And she is totally unsuitable. What a terrible, fast, encroaching female. Something must be done. I—”

“Cut line, aingeal,” Thomas interrupted when he had heard enough, his heart inexplicably heavy to have his suspicions confirmed once and for all. “That outraged air might work with some, but not with me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring straight into his eyes without blinking. She was very good at lying, and would probably fool anyone else with her sincere expression and sorrowful voice. “Why, I made great pains just this morning to tell Sir Ralph I was not best pleased to find Miss Rollins had fibbed about her origins in order to broach an introduction to my grandfather and myself.”

“I’ll just wager you did.” Thomas tipped his curly brimmed beaver back on his head, wondering how much he could say without scaring her off entirely, then decided that with Marguerite, it was impossible to go too far. “Do you think that’s enough to cover your tracks? Or will you hie yourself off to Mappleton himself to beg him to reconsider marrying beneath him? If you do, make sure you have an audience, for I wouldn’t count on the money-mad fool even remembering you’d come to visit.”

Marguerite drew herself up to her full height, her chin jutting out belligerently. “That was a sinister remark. I cannot believe we’re having this conversation, any more than I can understand why I am continuing to stand here, listening to your insults. Good-bye, Mr. Donovan!”

“Is this where you meet the gamester, Marguerite? Here, in the mews? And how long are you going to let Chorley win before you strip him of his last penny so that he’s disgraced?” Thomas asked as she turned her back, then watched dispassionately as her shoulders stiffened, then slumped.

She turned around slowly, her head tipped to one side, looking at him as if he had just told her he’d rediscovered the formula for Greek fire and was willing to sell it to her, for a price. “What do you want, Donovan?”

He ignored her question. “And isn’t it strange Sir Peregrine discovered the secret to some ancient coded map just days after I heard you invite him to browse the bookstalls with you. You did take him to the bookstalls, didn’t you?”

“If I did—what of it?”

“Yes, indeed, that’s what I thought. Just a coincidence, I thought. But then I said to myself, I said: ‘Thomas, maybe it isn’t a coincidence. Maybe,’ I said to myself, ‘she’s up to something. Maybe she’s up to mischief.’”

“I see,” Marguerite replied, her smile tight. “And do you have many of these conversations with yourself?”

Thomas ignored her barb, continuing, “I thought about Sir Peregrine. He’s just eager enough to make a name for himself in the intellectual community to grab at any chance to prove his genius, isn’t he? Will he be sailing for Italy any day now, in search of some nonexistent Roman ruin? Is that what you want—to have them all banished? No, that wouldn’t explain Georgianna Rollins, would it?”

“You’re mad, do you know that? When you close your eyes at night, do you worry there are hairy monsters hiding beneath your bed? Do you see goblins in dark corners? Or perhaps you’re a devotee of Gothic novels, and believe spies and ne’er-do-wells lurk everywhere?”

Again, he ignored her. “I haven’t figured out what you’ve planned for Harewood, although I think he’s an unhappy man, and unhappy men are vulnerable to many different kinds of attack. Which leaves Lord Laleham. Are there others, or have I got the lot of them identified? No matter, five are enough to get on with, aren’t they? Better stay away from Laleham, Marguerite. He won’t involve himself personally, but only send someone else to deal with you. Although,” he said, touching a hand to his own still-tender jaw, “he does make exceptions.”

“I’m not going to stand here for another instant and listen to this nonsense,” Marguerite declared feelingly. “Obviously you’ve taken some maggot into your shallow brain, and I would find it impossible to reach you with any application of common sense. The men you’re speaking of are all my friends, my very good friends since my childhood. Why, knowing I’m an orphan, they’ve gone out of their way to ease my entry into society. I would never wish harm to any of them.”

Thomas grinned and spread his arms wide. “Your friends. Judas once said that of Jesus, or so I was taught—not that I’d compare any of the five with anything vaguely holy or deserving of respect. I’ll admit it, aingeal, you’re a riddle to me. A curious, bewitching riddle. You’re up to mischief—I’d bet Paddy’s new cane on it—but for the life of me I can’t understand just what it is. I’ve only been unlucky enough to have stumbled into the middle of it.”

Marguerite was silent for some moments before she smiled back at him, approaching him slowly until she could lay her fingers on the folds of his cravat. “What would it take, Donovan,” she asked, her voice low and sultry, “for you to stumble out again?”

His heart lurched in his chest, partly from her proximity, partly from her thinly veiled offer, but mostly from disgust, both with her and with himself for wanting to tell her just what it would take. Her lips, pressed against his. Her arms, holding him tightly. Her body, soft and willing beneath his hands.

“They hurt you somehow, didn’t they, Marguerite?” he questioned her quietly, searching her face for some sign of pain, some inkling of what drove her. “You’re too proud to do what you’re doing now, to offer your innocence for my silence, unless these men did something unforgivable. What did they do?”

Her fingers tangled deeper in the folds of his cravat. He could feel the heat of her through the fine lawn of his shirt. “I have better questions, Donovan. What are they to you? Why are you so persistently seeking them out when there are much more important lords and ministers lying thick on the ground all over London who might better assist you in your mission of peace between our two countries? Why, Stinky isn’t involved in government at all. What do you have to gain that you’re so worried for the welfare of these five men? What secrets do you wish to keep hidden?”

He slid his hands onto her waist, slowly drawing her closer against him, his passions fueled by this game of cat and mouse they were playing, the realization that, in this one young woman, he perhaps had met his match in the fine art of the double-deal. “I give up, Marguerite. You keep your secrets, and I’ll hold fast to mine. Just, please, have a care before you go too far.”

She released her hold on his cravat and slipped from his grasp before he could respond. “Agreed! And now, Donovan—if you don’t mind—I will leave you, and this time I have no intention of being distracted. You may merely bow to me in passing if we should happen to meet again, but it will not be necessary for us to converse. Do you understand?”

“You’d like me to pretend you don’t exist,” Thomas answered quietly, recovering his composure as rapidly as she. “Somehow, as we’re both moving in the same very limited circle, I believe your request impossible. Besides,” he added, winking at her, “you don’t want me to, do you? You can deny it, you can even shout from the rooftops how much you loathe me, but your heart won’t be in it. Will it, Marguerite?”

She drew the hood back up over her hair, the material throwing her face into shadow. “Again you’re wrong, Thomas Joseph Donovan. You see, I have no heart. I did once, but it was broken some time ago and proved impossible to repair. Perhaps, if we had met at some other time, some other place? Well, it might have proved interesting.”

Thomas slowly advanced toward her, one small step at a time, unwilling to let her leave him, unwilling to lose what he had not yet quite found. “Interesting? Oh, yes, my little Marguerite. And exciting. And pleasurable. Meaningful. Even lasting.”

“No more lasting than a spring snow.”

“Ah, aingeal, how you wound me. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Not in the slightest.” She backed up another pace.

“Really? Haven’t you lain awake, like I have, wondering what we would be like, you and I? Two rogues, who might tame each other.”

“Heyday. Listen to the man. He calls himself a rogue. I call him a cork-headed, delusional blockhead.”

“Two like spirits,” he continued just as if she hadn’t spoken, still advancing toward her, “delighting in the foibles of our fellowman and daring enough to defy any rule in order to get what we want.”

“I know what I want, Donovan, and it isn’t you.”

He went on, undaunted. “Two hearts, two minds, two bodies that fit together like a hand slipping into a custom-designed glove—”

She glanced behind her, measuring the space between herself and the shrubbery. “Stop this, Donovan. I swear to you, if you don’t stop I’ll do you an injury.”

“Naturally. We’d fight, Marguerite,” he pushed on, “bite and scratch at each other like cats in a sack, but our loving would make it all worthwhile. Think about it, aingeal. Think about it. God knows, I have. Think about the loving—the chance of love.”

She held her hands out in front of her, as if warding him off, warding off his words. “I have no time for this, Donovan!” she protested, shaking her head as she continued to back toward the shrubbery and the safety of her grandfather’s mansion. “I have no time for you. Don’t you understand?”

Thomas went very still, his ears attuned to a movement some twenty yards away, at the end of the drive that led to the street, his every sense—formerly directed toward Marguerite—now alerted to the threat of discovery. Without a word, he motioned for Marguerite to be silent, his eyes narrowed as he attempted to pierce the darkness for the revealing outline of a body.

“What is it?” Marguerite whispered, laying a hand on his arm. “What did you hear?”

And there it was, the human shape he had been looking for. Pressing a hand over Marguerite’s mouth, he grabbed her at the waist and all but dragged her completely into the shrubbery, out of sight, then pushed her onto her knees beside him. “Be quiet. I think it’s Harewood.”

Marguerite stilled in her struggle to be free of his embrace but obviously took umbrage with the placement of his hand over her mouth. Thomas didn’t sense this through any intuitive knowledge of the young woman, but because of the way her sharp teeth pinched his palm, forcing him to release her.

“Ralph?” she questioned him in a whisper, her head pressed close to his as he shook his stinging hand. “Are you sure? You’re not just saying that to have me clinging to you in fear, like some flea-witted female? That would be cheating, Donovan, and I’d never forgive you.”

Thomas silently congratulated himself on his assessment of Marguerite’s courage. She wasn’t going to faint or scream or do anything else vaguely resembling usual feminine reactions to being discovered in the dark with a man. “He followed me back from Richmond earlier, but I thought I’d lost him. Tenacious little bastard, isn’t he?”

“Followed you? And you led him here? My God, it’s not a charade—your brain really is to let.” She leaned past him, to peek through a gap in the shrubbery. “Do you think he’s been here long? Oh, Lord—do you think he heard us?” She sat back on her haunches, glaring at Thomas. “Damn you, Donovan, I knew you were trouble. If he heard us—”

“He didn’t, and he won’t, if you keep silent. I doubt he’ll come any closer.”

“I’m not about to start singing at the top of my lungs,” she fairly hissed, her eyes wide. She looked right and left, then behind her, as if at last realizing they were safely hidden by the trees and shrubs. “This is above everything stupid. I can’t believe I’ve allowed you to get me into such a ridiculous fix. How long do you think we’ll have to hide here before he gives up and goes away?”

Thomas shrugged, inching closer to her, as he was never one to miss an opportunity when it landed so close to his lap. “I don’t know, sweetings—an hour? No? You know the man better than I do.”

Marguerite dropped her head forward into her hands. “This wouldn’t have been his idea. Ralph likes the comfort of his own home much too much to spend the night skulking around in alleyways.” She raised her head and grinned at Thomas. “I feel silly, Donovan. I haven’t played hide-and-seek since I was a child.”

He tenderly lifted a stray spring green leaf from her curls. “I’ll wager you always found the best hiding places.”

“Not really. I always went first to the pantry, hoping Cook had baked that day, then hid myself away in a nearby cupboard with tarts piled in my lap. I was fairly roly-poly as a young child, I’m embarrassed to say. Papa said he could always find me by following the trail of crumbs. One moment I’d be sitting in the dark, delighted with my brilliance, and the next the door would open and Papa would see me, strawberry jam dribbling from my chin.”

“You had a happy childhood.” Thomas didn’t ask the question, but merely stated what he was sure was a fact, for he could see Marguerite’s eyes light with the memory of her younger days and felt a stab of jealousy that he had missed seeing her grow up.

The reminiscent glow in her eyes died. “Yes. Yes, I did. But we all must put away childish things sooner or later. Donovan—look out again. He must be gone by now.”

Thomas did as she bid and saw Sir Ralph standing in the middle of the alleyway, his hands on his hips. Damn Dooley! He had told him to hide the horse out of sight at the far end of the square before returning to the hotel. Obviously Harewood was better at finding things than Paddy was at hiding them. He pushed himself back onto his heels once more and shook his head. “Not yet,” he told her, slipping an arm around her shoulder when she shivered. “Are you cold?”

“The ground’s damp,” she said, shifting slightly, and he took advantage of her words by pulling her onto his lap. “Have you slipped your wits entirely? What are you doing?” she whispered, glaring at him even as she wrapped one arm around his shoulders to steady herself.

“I’m just trying to keep you from catching a chill,” he answered, easing her against his chest. Her closeness was intoxicating, inciting him to recklessness. Even the thought of possible exposure only served to heighten his passions. “Although I’m open to suggestions if you have a better idea. After all, we have to do something to pass the time.”

“You are insane,” she whispered in a fierce undertone. “You’ve done nothing but make untoward advances to me since the moment I first had the misfortune to meet you. You prate on and on about love and kisses and being alike as two peas in a pod, when all the world could see that we have nothing, absolutely nothing in comm—”

He shut off her protests with his mouth, swooping down to capture her lips in a kiss even as both his arms found their way around her body, pressing her softness against him as he toppled back onto the dewy grass.

In a heartbeat they were melded together from chest to knee, their hands reaching, squeezing, molding, stroking, their mouths feeding hungrily, greedily, as if they might devour each other in the sudden burst of passion that could not be denied.

Marguerite was right. He was insane. They were both insane. Harewood could stumble over them at any moment. And he didn’t care. He just didn’t care.

Marguerite’s lips opened beneath his assault and he slipped his tongue inside, where it met and immediately engaged in a duel with hers that shot white-hot lightning bolts throughout his body. God! She was everything he had imagined, everything he’d been looking for all these years, for an eternity of making his way through an endless string of meaningless, forgettable women.

And she was unattainable. A lady, with the heart and soul of a wanton. From a class far above his own. From a country soon to be at war with his. From a life he would never understand, even if he had found wealth and position in Philadelphia. They were separated by more than an ocean, but by a world of differences that would be impossible to breach.

But he wanted her. God, how he wanted her. How he needed her.

He slid his hands down her spine and low over her buttocks, pressing his fingers into the curve between her legs, his movements hampered by the folds of her cloak, his frustrations mounting as she moved against him, the weight of her body against his arousal driving him past thought and totally into the world of physical sensation.

And then, through a haze of passion, he felt Marguerite’s body begin to shake and realized she was no longer kissing him, but had lifted her head and was gazing down at him, her grin more devilish than any leprechaun about to steal off with his pot of gold. She wasn’t just grinning. She was giggling; like a child savoring a delicious joke.

“What?” he questioned her, lifting his head to nip at her chin with his teeth.

“Nothing, Donovan,” she said, bracing her hands on either side of his head, her gorgeous dark copper hair falling down on either side of her face like a living curtain, sealing him away from anything but the sight of her lovely face. “I was just thinking how Ralph would most probably suffer an apoplexy if he decided to go hunting in the shrubbery. That would complicate your plans while suiting mine to a cow’s thumb. Ah, Donovan—what a sad pair we are.”

“Minx,” Thomas growled, unceremoniously pushing her over onto her back and making his way back to the break in the shrubbery on his hands and knees to see if Harewood had finally given up and headed for home. The alleyway was empty.

He turned around, to tell Marguerite, and cursed under his breath.

She too was gone, leaving him alone to regain his equilibrium and to wonder what in the name of all that Paddy Dooley called holy to do next.