A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 17

He that will keep a monkey should pay for the glasses he breaks.

— John Belden

Thomas sidled up behind the magnificently gowned creature wearing the high powdered wig and whispered, “Would you care to share the dark with me, mademoiselle?”

“Donovan!” Marguerite whirled around to face him, showing him the black, heart-shaped beauty patch that sat just to the left of her full, pouting mouth. Her mischievous emerald eyes nearly outshone the Harlequin design decorating the golden eye mask that matched the shimmering liquid gold-on-gold of her striped silken gown. The scent of roses perfumed his nostrils. She snapped open her fan and began coquettishly fluttering it beneath her chin. “La, good sir, and how did you know me?”

“That was easy, aingeal,” he said, taking her hand and quickly leading her down the walkway he’d discovered earlier, a dark, narrow path that well suited his plans for Marguerite Balfour. “I merely searched for the most beautiful woman here. Besides,” he added, grinning down at her, “I am intimately acquainted with that small, delightful mole just at the base of your throat, remember?”

”We can’t disappear for long, Donovan,” Marguerite said, just as if he hadn’t made her blush behind her eye mask. “Billie has been marvelous to me, and I’m doing penance for past indiscretions by being on my most excruciatingly best behavior this evening. After all, it isn’t Billie’s fault she’s such a hopeless twit. However, I’m not heartless. You may kiss me, monsieur, if you so desire. Such things are allowed at masquerades, or so I’ve been told, especially as this is the Dark Walk and a favorite haunt of lovers.”

Thomas shook his head, enticed by her teasing air, but unfortunately aware of their surroundings. “I’d rather not begin anything I couldn’t finish, and, by the looks of that gown, we’d both only end up weeping in frustration. May I offer you my compliments?”

“On my excruciatingly lovely gown? Why, thank you, kind monsieur. I’ve had a fascination with these outlandish styles since my childhood. Once, when I was very young, I was sitting in church and—”

“Not on your costume, darlin’, although it is rather fetching, in a forbidding sort of way. I doubt the ladies who wore them ever dallied successfully in a garden.” He threw back the hood of his black domino and pushed the matching eye mask up onto the top of his head. “I was complimenting you on your Balbus. However did you manage it?”

She turned her head, avoiding his eyes. “I have a friend who ingeniously found employ for some days this spring as one of the Tower gardeners.”

“Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? He would be the same friend who played the Balbus hawker this afternoon and, I do believe, is also so handy with a fuzzed card. I finally got a good peek at the eyebrow, you understand. It’s a most betraying feature, and I can understand why he takes such pains to hide it. A familiar feature as well. Rather reminiscent of Miss Rollins’s most unique feature, as a matter of fact.”

Marguerite turned back to him, smiling widely. “Oh, you’re good, Donovan. Very good. And so busy! May I gather you saw him with Stinky?”

He lifted her gloved hand and began pressing kisses on the soft skin at the inside of her elbow. “Hmm, and you taste good, aingeal. Like fresh, sweet cream. Yes, I saw him. That’s two, isn’t it? Tell me—who topples tonight? Mappleton? Harewood? Not Laleham. Not yet, at least.”

“Allow me to correct my last statement, Donovan. You’re not just good. You’re very good. And tonight it’s Arthur who will fall. You will stay out of my way, won’t you? Not that it matters, for it’s too late now to stop my plan from coming to fruition.”

Thomas couldn’t help himself. He allowed her to lower her hand, holding it tightly in his, then asked the questions that had been burning in his brain. He had to, for he knew that somehow, some way, these men stood between him and complete happiness with the woman he loved. “What did they do to you, Marguerite? What hurt did they deal you that they should be punished? Do they even know? They couldn’t, and still be your friends.”

Marguerite looked at him for long moments, and he could see she was balancing her need for secrecy with her love for him. At last, when he was about to beg her forgiveness for having broken his promise not to question her, she said quietly, “I believe that guilt, like Shakespeare’s misery, ‘acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.’ I can only assume they are—at least four of them—trying to make amends in their own twisted fashion, and ease this orphan’s entry into society. You see, Donovan, those men, those five pathetic men, forced my father to commit suicide. My mother was never the same after that, hardly a mother at all, and she died last year—of a broken heart.”

The night, and the mood, suddenly turned cold, and perhaps dangerous.

“Your father,” Thomas repeated, remembering Marguerite’s vehemence when he had dared to call her by her father’s pet name for her. He racked his brain for an explanation. Clearly, she had adored the man. Also clearly, she’d woven a fantasy to remove blame from her father for his self-destruction and placed it on the heads of others. A reasonable if misguided conception. “Marguerite, sweetheart—no man can force another to commit suicide.” He held up his hands to stop her from interrupting him. “All right, all right, I know. Socrates. Hemlock. But he was an ancient Greek—those people went in for all kinds of melodrama. That sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore, not in this enlightened age.”

“You don’t understand,” Marguerite bit out angrily. “For years I didn’t understand, didn’t know. Maisie still doesn’t understand. Nobody understands. Those five men, those terrible, greedy, godless men, lured my father into an unwise business investment—a bubble—and convinced him to bring several of our neighbors in with him. They lost their money, Donovan. All of it. Papa was so ashamed, and wretchedly despondent to have failed once more—for he’d always chafed at the fact he and Mama and I had to live off my grandfather’s largess, the knowledge that so many people believed my mother had married beneath her. He didn’t know how he could face Mama or me with what he’d done. That was bad enough, but then The Club, teasing him with the chance to make a fortune and repay his friends, attempted to involve him in treason—”

She broke off, looking up at him apprehensively, as if she had said too much.

“All right, aingeal,” Thomas said quietly, suddenly understanding why she had been so quick to pick up on his own association with the members of The Club. And no wonder, although she loved him, he still felt sure she didn’t quite trust him. “I’ll admit I can believe they’re devious sorts, more than capable of plotting treason.

“But, Marguerite,” he continued earnestly, taking hold of her upper arms and looking down at her intently, “they are also dangerous men. So far, you’ve been playing with them, taking out the weakest ones with what I’d have to call remarkable ease. But Harewood? Laleham?” He shook his head. “Oh, no. Not them. You’re in over your head with those two.”

“Am I, Donovan?” she shot back angrily, her eyes glittering like green ice behind her mask. “Or is it just that you don’t wish for me to cause any more havoc with your plans? They’re out to do it again, aren’t they? They’re out to betray their country again, this time with American assistance. Poor Donovan. I’ve been making things difficult for you, haven’t I? You even went so far as to plan to seduce me, to keep me occupied and out of mischief—and don’t bother to deny it, for Stinky told me all about how you bragged about seducing me the night of Lady Sefton’s ball. Oh, the terrible sacrifices you’ve made for your country! You deserve a medal for your diligence and dedication.”

Thomas felt his Irish blood beginning to boil, matching Marguerite in her own anger. “I think, aingeal, I’m hearing the pot call the kettle black. Do you by chance recall our charming interlude in the mews behind Sir Gilbert’s mansion? Talk about seduction! ‘What would it take, Donovan, for you to stumble out again?’ That’s what you asked while you were rubbing that glorious body of yours against mine. Why were you so cooperative, if it wasn’t to make sure that I would look the other way while you went about your childish schemes?”

Marguerite shrugged, giving without really giving in. “All right. We’ll declare that part of the argument a draw, even though you’re a beast to turn my own words against me. But I won’t give up on my vengeance. These men deserve everything I’m doing to them!”

“Do they? They may be bastards, the lot of them, but they weren’t the ones who put a pistol to your father’s head. He did that on his own! He’s the one who took the coward’s way out instead of standing up to face the piper—to face you and your disillusionment in your most wonderful, perfect father. Hell—even I am paying for your father’s suicide, Marguerite, because now you refuse to really trust any man.”

She slapped him, hard, across his cheek, so that his head snapped to the right, then stood back, her trembling hands pressed to her own cheeks. “Oh, Donovan, you stupid fool—look what you made me do. What you made us both say.”

He pulled her against him, his anger dissipated, holding her tightly, afraid he was losing her, knowing he couldn’t live without her. “You’re right. It’s my fault, aingeal, all my fault. I admit it. I was a cloddish fool, and I did set out to seduce you, to discover what sort of mischief you were up to with the men I’d been sent to contact. But that was only in the beginning—the very beginning. I love you, Marguerite. I love you so much—with all my heart and soul. I’d die if I lost you. Please, forgive me. I had no right to say anything about your father. I never knew him.”

“I wish you had,” she whispered against his chest a few moments later, her tone wistful and, thankfully, devoid of anger. “He was a wonderful man, Donovan. Wonderful. He taught me so much. I still can’t understand how he could have left me that way, without saying good-bye.” She pushed herself back against his arms and looked up at him searchingly. “You’ll say good-bye, Donovan, won’t you?”

“Never,” Thomas told her, swallowing down hard on the rarely felt need to cry. He hadn’t cried since he buried his mother before striking out for a new life in America, kneeling in the cold winter rain and scratching out a hollow in the soft ground with his own two hands. So many years, and he could still remember the pain as if it was yesterday. He knew how Marguerite felt. He, too, had been left behind to fend for himself. “For I’ll never leave you, aingeal.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, blinking back tears and smiling wanly as she wiped at the residue of hair powder that clung to his black domino. “We’re a fine pair of idiots, aren’t we, Donovan? Did I hurt you?” she asked, stroking his cheek. “I almost used my fist, the way Papa taught me, but at the last moment I realized that I’m a woman grown now. A woman in love, even if there are times I could cheerfully choke you.”

“If that’s an, apology, Marguerite, I accept. And I’m grateful to my Maker that I’m not your enemy. However, my cheek does sting a bit. You refused me once, but perhaps if you were to kiss it now—”

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Donovan,” she responded, standing up on tiptoe and pressing her cool lips on his still-smarting skin. “There,” she said, stepping back once more, “is that better?”

Donovan grinned. “My cheek is, darlin’, but now there are other parts of me throbbing almost painfully with envy. You don’t suppose we could retire farther down this conveniently dark walk and investigate whatever fastenings there are that are holding that gown so cleverly low on your delightful breasts?”

Marguerite’s eyes were smiling now, all the shadows of hurt and, hopefully, any lingering distrust lost behind their dazzling green fire. “No, Donovan, I don’t suppose we can. But you may partner me as we stroll the grounds, waiting for midnight. I wish to be very nearby dear Miss Rollins when the time comes to unmask.”

Marguerite’s words reminded Thomas of his mission at Vauxhall, and he sighed in real regret. They’d have to get this business of revenges and treasonable maneuverings out of the way, and quickly, or he was soon going to explode from frustration, both physical and mental. “Come on, I’ll take you back to Mrs. Billings before your good intentions about not upsetting her fly to the four winds.”

“Sir Ralph is here, along with Arthur,” Marguerite said conversationally as they made their way back to the Grand Cross Walk, at the very heart of the gardens. “As neither of them usually frequent masquerades, I can only think you’ve just remembered an appointment with Sir Ralph. Arthur is here at the request of his dearest Georgianna, you see—which is the same as to say he’s in attendance at my request.” She sighed, squeezing his hand. “We’re still working at cross-purposes, Donovan.”

He stopped, then stepped in front of her. “Actually, aingeal, we aren’t—not anymore,” he admitted, sensing the time had come for absolute honesty between them—or at least as much honesty as he could give her without frightening her. “I’ve always had my doubts about your members of The Club. I stood back, watching you go about your revenges, just to see how well you succeeded. Think about it, Marguerite. Do I really wish to involve the honor of my country with men who are so inept that they fall like ninepins before the schemes of one small, if delightfully brilliant, young woman? I think not.”

So you’re retiring from the field?” Marguerite asked, her tone hopeful.

“Absolutely. I want nothing to do with their schemes and neither, I’m certain, will my president once I report to him. Although I doubt I’ll inform Harewood and the others of my imminent defection. I do so hate seeing grown men weep.”

“And you won’t interfere with my plans?”

Thomas smiled, shaking his head, impressed by her determination. He decided to be honest with her on that hand as well. “Ah, aingeal, I can’t promise you that. Chorley may be on his way to debtor’s prison, and Totton has probably already boarded ship for the West Indies or some other place where he’s unknown, while I am confident Mappleton is in for some sort of rude surprise later this evening. But, as I said before, Harewood and Laleham are dangerous. Especially Laleham. I’ll watch, as you want me to, but if your plans begin to unravel, I’ll be there to step in. I mean to protect you, whether you want me around or not. Besides—if Harewood and Laleham figure out I’ve decided to drop out of their little game, they might just take umbrage and decide to punish me. I don’t intend to come to a messy end at their hands just when I’ve found my life’s true love. That, and I really can’t leave them lying about at loose ends to think up yet another treasonous scheme, this time with Napoleon, now can I?”

“Don’t worry, Donovan. They won’t be in any position to harm you, scheme at treason, or do much of anything, in fact, once I am finished with them.”

“Really? Of all your attributes, dearest Marguerite, I do believe I admire your modesty most.”

She glared up at him. “You think I can’t do it by myself? That I am incapable of destroying them? That’s what you’re saying, Donovan, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you something. I’ve handled them so far, and I can—”

She was growing angry again, and Thomas decided he’d been slapped enough for one evening. He pulled her up against his chest with enough force to silence her, then lowered his head and slanted his mouth against hers, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as she immediately slipped her arms around his waist, allowing him to win this one argument.

Or so he hoped. But, just in case he hadn’t, he promised himself either he or Dooley would stay as close as sticking plaster to Harewood and Laleham until it was over. Then, he thought fatalistically as he led Marguerite back down the path and toward her waiting chaperone, he and Dooley would be forced into action.

It was one thing for Marguerite to embarrass the men, to force them into at least temporary retirement from society. Her revenges would soothe some of her pain, her loss, and free her to get on with her life.

How long, he wondered, would it take for his beautiful, intelligent Marguerite to see what he saw, what he had hinted without saying? Would she realize, as he already knew, that his country’s release from Harewood’s and Laleham’s treasonous schemes required a much more permanent resolution than mere banishment from society?

“Donovan,” he heard Marguerite say just as Mrs. Billings waved to them from the rented box where she sat sipping ratafia, “a word of advice. When you meet with Ralph, address him as ‘my friend.’ Say it several times, softly, as you look deeply into his eyes. And when you’re leaving him, please make certain to say good-bye.”

He looked down at her, puzzled by both her words and her smile. “Why?”

She shrugged. “As Oliver Goldsmith once wrote, ‘Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs.’ Strange—that line appears in She Stoops to Conquer. How fitting.” She squeezed Thomas’s forearm. “Just do it, Donovan. It will ease any tensions in your meeting with Sir Ralph considerably, I promise.”



Sir Ralph chafed at the notion he, a man of importance and social standing, had been reduced to skulking through the darkness in a mask and domino, hunting for an elusive American. He didn’t have time for such foolishness.

He’d been working on his confession all that afternoon, reluctant to leave it until he had finished at least two rough drafts. Writing it all down, seeing his life flow from his pen, condemning him, condemning William and the others, had freed him in some ways, but had reminded him yet again of Geoffrey Balfour’s terrifying final agonies.

Tomorrow evening couldn’t come soon enough. He had to expunge the guilt, the memories, and be, as Maxwell had so enticingly put it, reborn. The rest of it would be easy. He would most certainly shun his comrades in intrigue and crime. Perry and Stinky would be easily ignored, as they were now beyond the pale, disgraced and most probably banished. Arthur, the fool, would not even notice that he no longer sought him out, for the man was completely engrossed in making a mockery of himself with that Rollins chit in order to gain her fortune.

Leaving William. Sir Ralph put his fist to his mouth, wondering not for the first time how he would deal with William. He didn’t need him—that was certain. William had never soiled his hands by working in any lowly government office. No, he had stood back, kept to the shadows, pulling the strings but never exposing himself. His only power had been personal—his eloquence in Parliament, his persuasive manner, his quick brain, his penchant for money-making schemes.

But not anymore. Not after tonight! Sir Ralph was going to make his own deal with the American, circumventing William. He had to, for he was going to be reborn to a new and eternal life, and living forever took money. Lots of money. And power. The crown would sit his head just as well as it would sit William’s. Maybe better. What a king he would make, he and his Shield of Invincibility!

Sir Ralph was pulled from his musings as he saw the American approach, his arrogant, lengthy strides separating him from the Englishmen who leisurely strolled the pathways, always careful to be seen and admired.

“There you are, Harewood,” Donovan greeted him, grinning, Sir Ralph thought, like the cat with canary feathers sticking from the corners of his mouth. “So glad you suggested we meet here. The scenery is wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Country bumpkins with manure still sticking to their boots seem to believe so,” Sir Ralph answered coldly, steering Donovan into the shadows and out of the way of the endless stream of party-goers bent on shamelessly debauching themselves without worrying about being recognized. “Have you brought the letter from your president?”

“Such haste, Harewood. Do you have an appointment in the shrubberies yourself? I’ve been tripping over amorous couples all evening long. Ah, but I have a better question. Two, actually. Have you begun shipping goods to my warehouse? Are the agreed-upon number of ships—fifteen, I believe the number was—already loaded to the bulkheads with goods and on their way west?”

Sir Ralph’s hands balled into fists. “No, damn you. You know none of that can happen until I have the letter. I have to protect myself.”

“Such animation, Harewood! This is not like you, although I consider it an improvement. But, if I may, might I remind you that you also have to find a replacement for Totton in the War Ministry, unless I’m missing something. After all, this is but the first of the shipments. We need that show of good faith before we enter into any long-term relationship with you fine fellows. Or am I missing something, Harewood? Yes. Yes, I am. I’m missing a third question. The money, Harewood. Is the money on its way as well, or is Mappleton so besotted with his Miss Rollins that he’s been shirking his duties at the Treasury? Dear me, it’s all unraveling, isn’t it? I suppose we’ll have to leave it to Madison’s other emissaries to attempt to avert a war, hmm?”

Sir Ralph pushed up his eye mask, as he was beginning to perspire profusely and the itchy thing was slipping down his nose. “Show me the letter,” he bargained, needing something, some sort of proof that the American was not toying with him. “Just show it to me.”

“That’s twice in as many minutes you’ve taken me for a fool, my friend,” Donovan said in low tones, staring at him, and Sir Ralph blinked quickly several times, suddenly feeling strange—almost the way he felt when gazing into Maxwell’s black eyes. “Once, by calling me names, and now again, believing I’d be so silly as to keep the letter on my person. A man could be robbed, my friend, on such dark pathways as these.”

“But you do have it?” Harewood asked, then heard himself adding, “Please, Donovan?”

“Dear me, yes. It is rather a long swim to return to Washington to fetch it, don’t you think? Tell you what, my friend—we’ll meet again tomorrow night. You bring proof you can deliver all you’ve promised—even now, with Totton gone—and I will bring the letter. Agreed?”

“Tomorrow night?” Sir Ralph slapped his right fist into his left palm, trying to think, desperately wishing to please. “I can’t. Not tomorrow night. I’m so sorry. I—I have another engagement.”

“Truly? It must be an extremely important appointment, my friend, to have you refusing to conclude our bargain before your former ally, the Earl of Laleham, can deduce what you’re about.”

“William?” Sir Ralph’s head shot up, dislodging the hood of his gray domino. Clearly he hadn’t been giving the American enough credit. He should have, for the man really wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought him. He was rather nice, actually. “What do you know about William? You never saw him—”

“Except at Gentleman Jackson’s charming establishment. Yes, I know. But we Irish, Harewood, we’ve the second sight, don’t you know. If you wish to cut the fellow out it’s fine with me. Cut them all out, as you’ve already hinted. Just get me my goods, and my ships—and my money. Never forget the money, my friend. In return, you’ll get your letter, promising we’ll stand back and let you have your own Tea Party, as we did so many years ago. Why, when this is all over, we’ll be allies, won’t we? How cozy. I know our American sailors will be extremely pleased to know they can go back to plying their trade without fear of being boarded and impressed into serving your king.”

“Yes, the money. You’ll be skimming some of the money for yourself before passing the rest along, won’t you, Donovan?” Sir Ralph asked, feeling more relaxed and confident every minute. At last he understood the American! “Perry thought you wanted power, but it’s money you’re after. You don’t care a fig about those sailors, or any embargos, or any thoughts of war or anything! You don’t care if I cut William out, him and the rest of them. Loyalty means nothing to you. Why didn’t I see it before? We’re alike, you and I. No wonder I felt I could deal with you!”

“The meeting, my friend,” Donovan prompted shortly, ignoring Sir Ralph’s revelations, which, to Sir Ralph, was as good as agreeing with them.

He could feel victory pulsing through his blood. He just needed a little time—time to allow Maxwell to perform his magic, making him invulnerable, immortal. Time to eliminate William. Some people might term him crazy, Sir Ralph surmised, but he knew differently. He trusted Maxwell. He trusted his own instincts, his own needs and desires. He trusted Donovan. It would work. It would all work. It had to work!

“Sunday, Donovan,” he hissed, suddenly eager to be on his way, back to his house and to his confession, to give it one more reading before penning a final copy. To pen a note to William, instructing his nemesis, his victim, to come to him at two on Saturday night, after he returned from Green Park with his Shield of Invincibility. It was all coming together so wonderfully, now that he had Maxwell. “Sunday morning. Early. You can come to my house at nine—no, eight. Come to the front door. There will be no more need for hiding by then and, er, I may have a small favor to ask of you—some, er, rather large package you might help me dispose of discreetly. I’ll have all the papers ready—proof that I am a man of my word. Are we agreed?”

“Anything you say, my friend,” Donovan replied smoothly—too smoothly? No, Sir Ralph knew he was looking for bogeymen now, and that was ridiculous. He was so near to his goal. And Donovan called him his friend. My friend. Such comforting music to his ears. “Paddy will be vexed, as he’ll be forced to miss Mass, but when duty calls, heh? However, for now I have agreed to meet with Miss Balfour for the unmasking, and it is very nearly midnight. Would you care to join us?”

“I prefer to leave before midnight,” Sir Ralph answered, already walking away, for he had seen William skulking about and wished to be gone before William saw him. “Until Sunday morning?”

“Yes, indeed,” the American answered, bowing, his assured manner setting off another niggling jangle of warning bells in Sir Ralph’s brain, a warning he once more refused to heed. “Until Sunday morning. It should prove to be a most interesting day. Oh, and Harewood,” he ended, smiling, “good-bye.”

Sir Ralph blinked, nodded, and went on his way.



Couples were streaming toward the center of the gardens as midnight neared, giggling debutantes with their elaborate gowns mussed from Dark Walk assignations, gentlemen strutting like satisfied peacocks, their grins advertising their amorous successes of the evening.

Marguerite could barely contain her impatience for the unmasking. Everything was falling into place. One by one by one her enemies were toppling, just as she had planned for so long, and she was anxious to see Mappleton take his fall.

She looked around her, frowning, wondering if Donovan had forgotten to meet her, then waved to him gaily as she saw him approaching from one of the walkways. He was alone, so Sir Ralph must already be gone, sneaking away into the darkness. That was a pity. She would have liked to see his face when Mappleton was brought low. It might make him understand, at last, that he, too, was about to suffer a major tumble from grace. After all, it might do him good to worry. He couldn’t change anything. The die was already cast.

“Here you are, Miss Balfour,” Thomas said by way of greeting before bowing to Mrs. Billings, who was dressed as a lady-in-waiting to the queen, and looking woefully uncomfortable in the role. “Thank you for the hint. I have no idea why, but Sir Ralph was a most agreeable companion this evening. But now—I have appeared, as ordered, for the unmasking. Where’s his lordship?”

“Be quiet, will you?” Marguerite whispered fiercely. Honestly, the man had simply no finesse, much as she loved him. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to overhear him saying anything that would draw attention to her. “He’s over there, behind you, dressed as His Royal Highness Henry VIII at his most corpulent. Miss Rollins is costumed as the ghost of Anne Boleyn—right down to the necklace bearing the initial B that she always wore. She lost her head, you know. Miss Rollins can’t quite duplicate that feat, but it should be interesting to see her make the attempt, don’t you agree?”

Thomas swiveled sharply on his heels to look at the pair of them, then turned back, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Well, at least he didn’t need much padding around his middle, now did he?”

Mrs. Billings tittered behind her hand and Marguerite smiled, surprised to see her chaperone possessed at least a limited sense of humor.

“What do you think of Miss Rollins’s costume, Mr. Donovan?” Marguerite asked, eager to hear his answer. She had selected the costume personally, and it was fashioned like all of Georgianna’s wardrobe—high-necked and long-sleeved, although tonight’s ghostly white rig-out was more dramatic. The creature’s blond hair was piled high on her head and hung in fetching ringlets on the lace of her usual high collar around which was strung the short, distinctive necklace.

Thomas’s next words took Marguerite by surprise, even though she knew she should have counted on him to come up with a workable theory sooner or later. “Although I cannot see behind her mask, I do recall her features with some clarity. That, and the tilt of her head. Tell me, Miss Balfour, is she the Tower gardener’s sister? She has that same sort of rawboned, good-peasant-stock look to her even though she’s very slim. Is that the joke? I’m thinking of the eyebrow, you understand, in case you’re supposing I’m only guessing at her identity. Is she going to strip off her mask at midnight and then break into a loud cockney? It’s good, and will doubtless cause Lord Mappleton a considerable deal of embarrassment, but it’s not, I fear, up to your previous genius.”

“What’s Mr. Donovan talking about, Marguerite?” Mrs. Billings asked, already searching in her reticule for her vinaigrette. “I’m not going to like this, am I? Oh, I simply know I’m not going to like this.”

Marguerite ignored the woman. “Don’t damn me with faint praise, Donovan,” she said, grinning up at Thomas. “I may not be able to take full credit for Arthur’s insistence upon sending in notice of his upcoming nuptials to all the papers—the announcements should appear tomorrow morning, by the way—but I am willing to accept your compliments on the rest of it. So, no, Donovan. The so very rich and willing Georgianna is not Maxwell’s sister. But you’re close, I’ll give you that.”

The orchestra seated behind a low barrier struck up a loud fanfare before Thomas could answer and, amid a round of giggles and teasing entreaties, the ladies and gentlemen began to unmask, their identities revealed to shouts of “I knew it was you!” and “You! I never guessed!” and a single, “Good Lord! It’s m’wife! M’own wife! Gad, I’m done for!”

Marguerite lifted the eye mask from her own face as Thomas did the same, and then they both leaned slightly forward, watching as Lord Mappleton pulled a sequined half-mask from his features and motioned for Miss Rollins to do the same.

She did.

She removed her pink eye mask, the one with three long feathers attached to it.

She then went a step farther and pulled off her wig, the glorious blond one that had come to be known throughout the ton, exposing a sadly matted Brutus crop of dark brown hair.

As Lord Mappleton stared, his mouth at half cock, Miss Georgianna Rollins stripped off her gloves—Miss Rollins always wore-above-the-elbow gloves—flinging them, one after the other, in his lordship’s face.

Next to go—as heads turned and more mouths gaped and a single, overly volatile lady fainted into her partner’s arms—were the necklace and Miss Rollins’s modest circlet of lace ruching, so that the bodice of the low-cut, loosely fitting gown was exposed—as well as a faint, unimpressive, but nonetheless shocking scattering of dark brown chest hair.

One more unveiling was to follow, Marguerite knew as she stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth to keep from laughing out loud, and within a moment Miss Georgianna Rollins had ripped the bodice of her gown to the waist, revealing a slim but muscular expanse of chest—that, and the certain knowledge that she was no more a female than Lord Mappleton was a king.

“Georgianna!” Lord Mappleton choked out above the laughs and catcalls of the crowd, his difficulty in speaking most probably caused by the tight constriction of his throat as he swallowed his dreams for wedding a fortune and what little, if anything, remained of his reputation. Had his conveniently slow-moving mind leapt ahead to thoughts of the morning papers? Marguerite certainly hoped so!

“Not Georgianna, you monumental ignoramus,” Miss Rollins said in a surprisingly baritone voice. “George!”

Marguerite spoke quietly as Thomas busily attempted to keep a swooning Mrs. Billings from slipping to the ground. “Not Maxwell’s sister, Donovan, but his brother. George makes a fairly presentable debutante for a boy just turned fifteen, don’t you agree?” she asked, turning to him, her smile so wide her cheeks felt stretched. “Society will laugh at first, then become angered to realize that, in a way, they were as duped as poor Arthur. It will take years and years for them to forgive him. So that’s three,” she purred, and then held up her fingers. “And you doubted me. For shame, Donovan. What do you have to say for yourself now?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He, like the rest of the world who had been unsuspecting witnesses to Mappleton’s avid courtship of George Rollins, was laughing too hard to say a single, solitary thing.