A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 20

This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past.

— Agathon

How is she this morning, Maisie?” Thomas asked as the maid closed the door behind her and started down the hallway. “Will she see me?”

The maid shook her head. “No, sir, and you’re wasting your time camping out here. She won’t see anybody, not even Sir Gilbert. And can any of us blame her? It’s like she’s lost them all over again, you understand, her mama and papa both, now she knows what those evil men done to him and has thought back on what seeing him hanging there did to her mama. It’s when she’s done grieving that I’m worried about, sir.”

“Yes, so am I,” Thomas admitted, remembering Marguerite’s wild tears after reading Harewood’s mercifully abridged confession, her refusals to be held or comforted, her gradual descent into stony silence as they rode toward Chertsey.

“I know that girl, and she’s not going to settle for any of the king’s justice, no matter how you told her you wanted to send that there letter to His Royal Highness. No, not my baby. She burnt the thing, you know, late last night after you’d raced us all back here to Chertsey. I couldn’t stop her. And there’ll be no holding her at all once she makes up her mind to go after the earl. She’s already thinking on it, I can tell you that, too. You sure, sir, he ain’t come home to Laleham Hall?”

“Quite sure. Marco and Giorgio are watching for him, but he’s nowhere to be found. Not in London, and not here.”

Maisie lifted a corner of her large white apron to her eyes, sniffling. “I told her it was wrong, from the beginning it was wrong. Headstrong, that’s what she is. Always was. Never could tell her nothing. ‘No one will know it’s me, Maisie.’ That’s what she told me. ‘I just want them to suffer a little, the way I’ve suffered since Papa died.’ That’s what she said. She promised! Well, Mr. Donovan, look who’s suffering now. My baby’s the one, that’s who!”

Thomas put his arm around the maid’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “It’s going to be all right, Maisie. I hated letting her see Harewood’s confession, but she had to know her father didn’t kill himself. I think, in a way, she’s always blamed herself that he died, believing she’d failed him in some way, that he wouldn’t have committed suicide if she hadn’t placed him on such a high pedestal—that he would have been allowed to fail and still be first in her eyes.”

Maisie nodded, taking a deep breath as if to help compose herself. “Could be. Never saw a love like that, sir. Never. Even shut Miss Victoria out some, the way those two fair doted on each other. Did Sir Gilbert tell you the rest, sir? Did he tell you how we all lied to Miss Marguerite, telling her how her papa died in his sleep? Do you know how my baby found out about Master Geoffrey? How her mother slipped and told her the truth, that day at Laleham Hall just a year or so ago—the day some one of those five men tried to kiss Miss Victoria or something, and the poor lady fell to the ground, screaming? Died a couple of days later, she did, her broken heart just giving out. And m’baby turned hard. All the sunshine left her, and she kept going to those Gypsies, and plotting, and—oh, sir, excuse me for running on like this, but you’ve got to do something!”

Thomas stopped at the head of the stairs. “I will, Maisie. It will all be over soon—and then we’ll watch the sunlight come back.”

“Oh, sir!” the maid exclaimed, then lifted her apron to her face and turned away.

Thomas descended the stairs and entered the drawing room, to see Sir Gilbert sitting there, a blunderbuss by his side, and Finch, similarly armed, standing behind him.

“That murdering bastard will be in for a mighty greeting if he dares to show his face here like you seem to think he might. Though I have to confess, I still don’t quite see why you’re believing he will,” Sir Gilbert declared gruffly. “Here now, lad, stop that frowning. She’ll be all right. She’s had a shock. We all have, come to think of it. More than one, with having to hear how that little girl was running rigs in London without me so much as guessing what she was up to! Margy’s diamonds hanging around the neck of some Gypsy boy? Why, the cheek of it! Ah, but that’s my Marguerite. Just like my dearest Margy. Pluck to the backbone, and up to any rig. I know, because I raised her up to be that way. Strong. Independent!” His lined faced crumpled and he sniffled. “Ain’t that right, Finch? Pluck to the backbone!”

“Right you are Sir Gilbert,” Finch answered heartily, while shaking his head dolefully at Thomas.

Thomas rubbed at the back of his neck. He was so tired, for he hadn’t slept in nearly two days except for a short nap in the coach on their way from London. He was so weary he had begun to forget just how much he’d divulged to Sir Gilbert, and how much he had kept from him. From Marguerite.

“We may be overreacting, Sir Gilbert,” he said, hoping to reassure the two old men. “Murdering Sir Ralph when he learned of the man’s confession—and I’m convinced he learned of it—put Laleham beyond the pale. Why, right now he might be boarding ship the way Totton did, knowing it would be foolhardy for him to remain in England with that confession hanging over his head. He probably hasn’t connected Marguerite to any of it.” He forced a smile. “In fact, I believe I’m willing to make a wager on it. Five pounds. No—ten! Any takers?”

Both Sir Gilbert and Finch remained silent, and Thomas left them, going to the morning room to seek out Dooley, who had been assigned the job of watching out over the gardens from that excellent vantage point. Thomas wanted Dooley to feel a part of things but, as with Sir Gilbert and the indomitable Finch, he didn’t want the older man too close to trouble. He already had enough to be sorry for without having to return to Philadelphia and face Bridget with the news that her Paddy had met a nasty end.

“Heyday, Tommie!” Dooley said jovially, laying down the brace of dueling pistols he’d been aiming out the open doors and in the general direction of the garden. “I haven’t been this excited since Bridget’s aged ma was being courted by that draper fella last spring. It came to nothing, of course, and she’s still sticking her skinny shanks under my table—but you never know. Do you really think his slimy lordship will show up here?”

Thomas sat down on one of the green and yellow flowered couches and crossed one leg over the other, his fingers digging in to scratch his skin above his highly polished Hessians. “Everyone’s asking that same question. I don’t know if I’m giving the bastard too much credit or not enough. If he thinks Marguerite and I got together and used her knowledge of them to come up with all those schemes to divide and conquer him and the rest of The Club? Then, yes, I do believe he’ll show up here. Remember, Paddy, how much he wants that letter from Madison. If he thought I have the confession from Harewood to hold over his head, getting myself the goods and ships without having to turn over the letter—”

“And the money, boyo. Don’t forget all that lovely money. You’re the one what let them think you weren’t above getting something for yourself, and the devil with Madison or any of the rest of it. You took Marguerite, used her knowledge of the five of them to bring them down—all of it. Yes, then I do imagine Laleham thinks you’re a very nasty man and would like nothing better than to see you dead.”

“And Marguerite as well, Paddy, now that he knows she won’t be the innocent consort Harewood was raving about in that confession of his. So, whether it be for the one of us or the both of us, he’ll be here. He can’t feel safe as long as we’re alive. You know what, Paddy? After listening to something Maisie said just now, something about Marguerite’s mother—I think Laleham is quite mad, as well as clever.”

“Mad? Well, that’s no great leap, Tommie. I think you’re all mad. Mad as hatters.”

“Don’t worry I’ll try to argue the point.” Thomas crossed his hands behind his head and leaned against the back of the couch. He was tired, so very tired. “Ah, Paddy, I wish he’d make a move. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to travel back to London to search him out, and I don’t want to leave Marguerite.”

“We’ll keep her safe for you, boyo.”



Marguerite stirred sometime after midnight, having at last fallen into a deep sleep after crying until she’d finally run out of tears. She turned onto her back in the bed she had slept in since her early childhood, pressing a hand to her eyes as she tried to remember why she was at Chertsey Abbey rather than in London.

And then it all came rushing back—the news of Ralph’s death, the memory of reading his confession naming William Renfrew as the man who had struck down her father, then hung up his body for his wife to find. She had read all of it while Donovan and Marco and Giorgio and her grandfather and even Paddy and Finch had stood by, silent, waiting for her to react.

And she had not disappointed them, she thought now ruefully, remembering the way she had fallen apart, then gathered herself together and flown into a rage, cursing William and trying to rush from the drawing room to seek the man out and beat him to death with her own two hands.

Donovan had stopped her, of course. The man could stop a charging bull, he was that strong. He’d lifted her over his shoulder, holding her flailing legs as he carried her upstairs, while she beat at him and screamed at him like some Bedlamite. He’d then locked her in her grandmother’s empty dressing room until the coaches were loaded. She’d fought him just as hard when he lugged her back down the stairs and forced her into the traveling coach, and she was sure he must be wearing more than a few bruises.

Poor Donovan. Marguerite spared the man she loved some slight sympathy as she dragged herself from the bed and began quietly going about the business of locating the breeches and shirt she had always donned when she visited the Gypsy camp and rode bareback ponies with Marco and Giorgio and the others.

How long ago that all seemed now, those carefree days of her youth. But she was no longer young, and hadn’t been since her mother died.

Laleham had to have been the persistent suitor in the maze. Marguerite was sure of that now. Her papa had taught her how to think, how to reason, how to take that next logical step. Knowing what she knew now, Laleham was that next logical step. It just made sense.

Laleham had been the man in the maze.

Laleham, the heartbroken but oh-so-true friend who had taken part in the long vigil at her mother’s bedside.

Laleham, their rock, their helpful, sympathetic friend, who had comforted her grandfather and herself when the end had come.

Laleham, the unconscionable bastard who had brought about that premature end.

Laleham, the coldhearted schemer who had murdered Geoffrey Balfour and taken that sweet, wonderful, loving man away from his wife and child.

The Earl of Laleham was the monster behind everything terrible that had ever happened to the Balfours!

And Donovan wanted her to sit here like some helpless miss, safely tucked up in the country, while he, because he loved her, traveled back to London to finish the revenge she had started? He had as much chance of that as he did of hoping for the sky to crack open so it could rain rubies. Not that he’d tell her he was going. It was just the next logical step.

She left her rumpled night rail on the floor and quickly stepped into the breeches, then slipped on the full-sleeved white shirt that had been her father’s, covering it with a long leather vest with large pockets. She found her boots in the back of one of the cupboards and wasted little time tying her hair away from her face before jamming one of her father’s favorite wide-brimmed fishing hats down low on her head.

Now all she needed was a weapon. William would return to Laleham Hall now that his plans for treason most surely had faded away with Stinky, and Arthur, and Perry, and Ralph. She was convinced of that fact for that, too, was the next logical step. Laleham Hall had always been William’s place of safety, his refuge—a haven where he would most naturally retire to regroup after murdering Ralph. Murdering Ralph! God, was there no limit to the man’s evil?

Yes. Yes, there was. She’d put an end to it. She’d started this, and she would be the one to finish it. Only then could she forget the past and find some measure of peace. Peace that would not come if William were only to be hauled off to prison, but only when he was dead.

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.

“Don’t shoot, aingeal. One extra hole in this body of mine is enough for me,” Thomas said coolly as he sagged slightly where he stood, pressing a hand against his left side. “He was standing too close to miss me. And would you happen to have anything handy about you to tie up my wound? Much as I hate to mention it, the thing’s bleeding fair to drain me dry.”

Marguerite laid down the pistol and ran around the desk, pausing only a moment to look down at the Earl of Laleham’s unmoving body—to see the knife hilt visible in the center of a dark, spreading stain on his chest—before throwing herself against Thomas, standing on tiptoe to kiss his face over and over. “You idiot! To throw yourself against his pistols! You sweet... adorable... brave idiot!”

Thomas winced, and she stepped back, realizing she was probably hurting him. Her hands shaking with nerves, she began pulling her shirt free from her breeches, planning to rip a strip off the bottom of it to use as a bandage. “Not really, aingeal. I just couldn’t be sure you were as good a shot as you said you were. But it was nice of you to distract him for a moment.”

“Oh,” Marguerite said quietly, cocking her head to look up at him. “I believe I’m insulted, but as you’re injured, I’ll forgive you. How did you know I’d make a move for the pistol?”

“I didn’t. I only hoped. Come to think of it, I should be glad you didn’t shoot me. How did you know that I was lying to Laleham?”

Marguerite smiled and batted her eyelashes at him teasingly as she helped him out of his jacket in order to tend to his wound. “Oh, well that was simple. You had to be lying to William. I’m a lot of things, Thomas Joseph Donovan, but I am not a miserable bed partner!”

“That you’re not, darlin’,” Thomas answered, grinning down at her. “That you’re not. Lord, how I love you! Here now—take a care pulling off my shirt. I’m an injured man, you know.”

“I heard a shot! Tommie? Where are you, boyo?” Dooley burst into the room, the tail of his nightshirt barely covering his spindly Irish calves, waving a pistol above his head so that Thomas stepped in front of Marguerite, probably to protect her if the thing went off. “Well, heyday!” he exclaimed as his bare foot collided with Laleham’s body. “You could have waited for me, boyo. Now what am I supposed to tell Bridget, I’m asking you—that I was snoring m’head off while you were playing the hero? You’re bleeding? Good. Serves you right for having all the fun without me.”

Marguerite covered her laugh with a cough as Sir Gilbert and Finch came into the room, then sobered as she remembered what William had said about Marco. “Donovan—Marco! We have to go to Laleham Hall.”

“Whatever for, sister of my heart? To watch it burn, as all evil things must? Ah, Donovan, I see you have not disappointed me. But I’ll take him now.”

At the sound of Marco’s voice coming from the doors to the garden everyone turned to see her childhood friend standing in the room. His red, full-sleeved shirt and the patterned head scarf tied around his head above that single, distinctive eyebrow made him look every inch the Lord of Egypt. A very alive Lord of Egypt.

Deserting Thomas where he stood—for no matter how he had complained, he had suffered only a flesh wound and didn’t need all her sympathy—Marguerite raced across the room and launched herself into the Gypsy’s arms. “William said he killed you.”

“Not me, my sister. It was Giorgio he shot. And one shot would never be enough to force the life from such a clever rascal as that infant, although I was kept busy tending to him, allowing the earl to slip past us.” He walked over to Laleham’s lifeless body and, after staring down dispassionately for a moment, spit on it. “That’s for Giorgio,” he said before giving the body a kick. “And that’s for Geoffrey.”

He then turned to Thomas, smiling, as if forgetting that the Earl of Laleham lay dead just behind him. “Giorgio says for you to think about a Gypsy wedding. He’d like three goats and a fat sow for our sister’s bride price, as he has decided he’s owed something for having taken a ball in his shoulder. It’s only a small hole, but Giorgio is insistent. Three goats and one fat sow. Me? I ask only to dance with my sister one last time.”

Marguerite felt tears stinging her eyes and looked to Thomas, wondering what he would say to such an idea.

“Sir Gilbert?” Thomas asked. “Arc you agreeable to Marco’s suggestion? This might not be the best time to apply to you for her hand, but I do very much want to marry your granddaughter.”

“Please, Grandfather,” Marguerite pleaded. “And you wouldn’t be left here alone. Donovan has already told me he would be delighted for you to visit him in Philadelphia for as long as you wish—and even see a red Indian while you’re there. Finch is welcome as well, if he would like.”

“Don’t let yourself get nudged into this, my son. She’s not an easy creature to live with, you know,” Sir Gilbert said, looking to Finch for confirmation. The butler grinned his agreement. “She’s headstrong, willful, stubborn, and has the temper of a hedgehog. A rare handful.”

“Why, you horrible old man,” Marguerite exclaimed as Thomas began to laugh. “I ought to cut off your gin for a fortnight!”

“See what I mean?” Sir Gilbert asked smugly. “Hey, there, Marco. Where are you going?”

The Gypsy had removed the blade, wiped it on his breeches, and returned it to Donovan before lifting the earl’s lifeless form up and over his shoulder. He and his burden were already heading in the direction of the gardens.

Marco turned to look at everyone in turn, his expression solemn. “This is a time of happiness, and it should not be hindered by the continued presence of this lump of offal. I’m taking him where he belongs.”

“A bit of fuel to feed your fire, Marco?” Thomas asked as Marguerite led him to her grandfather’s leather chair, wishing the stupid, brave man would sit down before he fell down. “The poor earl perished in a fire. Terrible pity. Such a sad loss. Yes, that would be easier than having to call in the local authorities and answer a lot of questions, wouldn’t it?”

“I didn’t hear that, my friend, because you didn’t ask it,” Marco said, smiling. “For many years the Rom have been welcomed here, when we are welcome very few places. A dank gray mist that has lain too long on the land is now being burnt away, never to be seen again, and the sun will soon shine down on all of us once more. That’s enough for me. It should be enough for you.”

“It is, Marco, it is,” Marguerite said earnestly, pushing Thomas into the soft chair. It would take her years to explain the logic of the Gypsies to him, and now was not the time to begin. “He—none of us—will be asking anything else. Go with God, Marco. And thank you.”

The Gypsy nodded, then slipped off the way he had come, leaving Dooley to murmur quietly, “I’d give my eyes to tell Bridget’s ma about this. But then she’d never believe me anyway, now would she?”



Later, much later, once Thomas’s wound had been properly cleaned and bandaged and Sir Gilbert, Finch, and Dooley had retired once more to their chambers, Marguerite sat on the edge of his bed and watched him try to find a comfortable position in which his side did not pain him.

“This will never work! This bed might as well be made of rocks for all the rest I’m getting, and I haven’t slept in so long I think I’ve forgotten how,” he exclaimed testily, pushing himself up against the pillows. “Come here, aingeal. If I can’t sleep, we might as well talk.”

She did as he asked, lying down beside him beneath the coverlet, her head on his chest. “What would you like to talk about, Donovan? Or do you merely wish to apologize once more for saying all those terrible things to Laleham?”

“You’re going to make me pay for that for a long, long time, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

She smiled. “Years, and years, and years, Donovan. You can count on it.”

His chest moved beneath her as he chuckled softly. “What was it your grandfather said, darlin’? Willful? Stubborn? Yes. But there was another one. Now what was it? Ah, I remember now! You have the temper of a hedgehog! That was it, wasn’t it, my love? Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should be putting a little more thought into this business of marriage. After all, I’m only a young man—little more than a lad, actually—with places to go, things to do—”

“There’s still two loaded pistols lying on the desk in Grandfather’s study, Donovan,” she reminded him, lifting her head to look up into his laughing blue eyes.

He traced her smile with the tip of his finger. “Neither one of us will ever get in the last word, will we, aingeal? We’ll still be spitting and clawing while our grandchildren toddle around at our knees.”

“And still loving, Thomas,” she pointed out, snuggling against him. “Never forget the loving.” She waited a moment, believing he’d say something, then realized his breathing had become deep and even.

He was sound asleep, the poor lamb. As she should be. In her own chamber. In her own bed. Mrs. Billings would certainly say so. Heaven only knew Maisie would say so. Convention dictated it. The whole, entire world demanded it. Yes. She should get up, get out, and behave like a good English miss. That was exactly what she should do.

Marguerite sighed, shrugged one shoulder in dismissal of all that Billie and Maisie and the world might say, then cuddled more closely against her beloved—her most wonderful Thomas Joseph Donovan—and closed her eyes.