A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 3

Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs.

—Oliver Goldsmith

Marguerite knew she looked her best as she stood just outside the ballroom, yet wondered why she had felt the need to tend to her toilette with such care, as if she were arming herself for battle and not simply dressing for another exceedingly silly ball. The evening at Lady Sefton’s promised to be no different than any other since she had come to London—no more or less important.

No, that wasn’t true. It was one thing to lie to others, but it would be foolhardy—even dangerous—to lie to herself. Tonight would be very different. She knew perfectly well why she had lingered so long over her selection of the ivory silk gown she had finally chosen and why she had dared instruct the always competent Maisie over the styling of her coppery curls rather than to simply trust the woman’s judgment.

Her attire was her battle raiment, and she was about to face her adversary. His name wasn’t Lord Mappleton, or Sir Peregrine, or any of the rest. His name was Thomas Joseph Donovan, and he was, in his own way, as potentially ruinous to her peace of mind as William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, her father’s “enigmatic” W.R.

Where Lord Laleham was seemingly without weakness, “without any visible failing” she might exploit, Thomas Joseph Donovan was without fear—a faintly mad, reckless sort who possessed a glib tongue, a quicksilver personality impossible to pigeonhole, and a wealth of intelligence and discernment hidden deep inside his open, laughing, seemingly guileless blue eyes.

His extremely appealing blue eyes.

She had known he was in with Sir Peregrine that afternoon. She had known it because she had asked Grouse, whom she had seen hovering outside in the hallway, pacing and biting on his thumb, terrified to reenter the room and inform his employer there wasn’t so much as a sliver of cheese to be found to serve his guests.

Ordinarily, Marguerite would not have burst in on Sir Peregrine for she was, after all, a well brought up young lady, no matter how devious her motives. But the impulse to see Thomas Joseph Donovan again, to see him in his official capacity, had been too intense to overcome. That—and she detested admitting this to herself—and the opportunity to bait him with her plans for the evening, just to see if he took the hook in his mouth.

But now it appeared he had no intention of furthering their acquaintance.

Didn’t he feel the same excitement she did when they spoke, when they so much as looked at each other, the thrill of the hunt that skipped down her spine when she’d recognized a fellow conspirator, the physical attraction that she had assumed to be mutual?

A dangerous attraction.

Surely he would come.

He had to come!

“Marguerite, my dear, I hesitate to interrupt your thoughts, but I fear I should mention you’re wringing your hands. Such worrying of your gloves is potentially injurious to the kid, which is unconscionably dear, and the action is not quite as ladylike as I should hope.”

Mrs. Billings’s carefully couched censure, delivered with the older woman’s usual “the meek shall inherit the Earth” condescension, touched Marguerite on the raw, although she knew her chaperone meant well. She always meant well, more was the pity. But upbraiding Mrs. Billings would only prompt the woman to issue a lengthy apology liberally sprinkled with advice about even-tempered misses catching more beaux than do uncivilized Hottentots. Knowing this, Marguerite only smiled apologetically at the woman, then folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Do forgive me, please, Billie,” she said sweetly, employing the chastened tone her late father could have told Mrs. Billings meant Marguerite was just inches from committing mayhem. “I do my best, but I still most obviously require your continued tutelage in order to acquire the correct measure of town bronze necessary to be a credit to my grandfather.”

Mrs. Billings patted Marguerite’s cheek. “Such a sweet child, to think of Sir Gilbert. As I tell all the other chaperones while you are whirling so gracefully around the dance floor, this charge of mine is sure to be the crowning achievement in my career of introducing young ladies to society. If you behave, that is. Now sit up straight, do, or else your shoulders will become permanently stooped.”

“I exist only to please you, Billie,” Marguerite said, straightening her already erect posture, then covertly searching the crowded area around the top of the staircase from beneath her eyelids.

Damn you, Donovan! Where are you? My dance card is nearly full. Or am I wrong, and the hint I dropped so heavily in Perry’s office this afternoon should have been tied to a red brick and aimed at your grinning head? Oh, what’s the matter with me, that I should abandon my quest even for one evening, and indulge myself in this mad attraction?

“Good evening, Miss Balfour. Have you misplaced someone, that you’re peering so intently at the knot of people doing their best to monopolize our host and hostess?”

“Donovan,” Marguerite whispered under her breath, turning her head swiftly, just in time to see him smiling down at her, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Wasn’t it just like him to sneak up on her, to discover her searching for him? And he knew she had been looking for him. Oh, yes. He knew, damn him, and dared to tease her with his knowledge. “I’m not looking for anyone.”

“Now, now. Don’t be shy. Of course you’re looking for someone. Perhaps I can be of service. I have just now shamelessly deserted a most insistent dowager bent on having me squire her prune-faced daughter in the first set in order to throw myself on the mercy of the most beautiful woman in this room and beg her for the honor of a dance. In order to save me from her clutches, you understand. If I must first perform a boon, I shall do so gladly, if only to see your smile. Tell me the scoundrel’s name, and I’ll seek him out for you.”

“You have put me to the blush, Mr. Donovan,” she replied quietly, deliberately looking past him, to wave at Lady Hertford, who was passing by on the arm of a uniformed hussar. “And you force me to admit to my curiosity. I was searching the guests for a sight of you, worried for your welfare. But now I see I was silly to concern myself. You don’t look the least bit, um, singed.”

“Singed? Now you have piqued my curiosity, Miss Balfour.”

She gave up the pretense of feminine modesty and looked straight into his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Donovan. Singed. I was certain Sir Peregrine’s assessment of your character, delivered to me as we spent an enjoyable hour perusing the bookstalls, would have served to burn your ears to cinders. Tell me, however did you manage to upset him so?”

He bowed to Marguerite. “Not I, Miss Balfour, I assure you. I am the most congenial of men,” Thomas answered, straightening once it had to be obvious to him she was not about to offer him her gloved hand to kiss. “It must have been my assistant, Patrick Dooley, who set the man’s back up. A good man, Paddy, but a little rough about his edges, you understand.”

“Ah, Mr. Dooley. That would be the sweet-faced gentleman you neglected to introduce to me this afternoon, as you were so involved in maintaining your own smooth edges? Another Irishman who has adopted America as his home, I suppose. Tell me, are there any of you left in Dublin?”

“More than enough for you English to browbeat, Miss Balfour, I’m sure,” Thomas said, turning to look at Mrs. Billings, whose confused expression advertised the fact she had no notion of what was going on beneath her nose. “And you must be Mrs. Billings, the fortunate lady who has charge of the Season’s most sought after debutante? May I compliment you on your dressing of her? A prettily wrapped package goes a long way toward assuring its possible buyer he will be purchasing something worth the price.”

Marguerite dug her fingertips into her palms. Poor Billie. Donovan had cleverly delivered both a compliment to the chaperone and an insult directed at her charge, and Mrs. Billings was clearly at a loss as to how to react. “Marguerite?” she asked, beginning to fan herself with her lace-edged handkerchief, for her usually pale cheeks had become quite flushed. “Do you know this gentleman?”

“That she does, Mrs. Billings,” Thomas said before Marguerite could overcome her amusement at the woman’s confusion and reply. “Mr. Quist, a dear friend, introduced us just last evening when he became indisposed and could not continue to partner Miss Balfour for the remainder of a country dance. We chanced upon each other again today, as you may have gleaned from our conversation, in the offices of Sir Peregrine Totton, another mutual friend.”

“Your interpretation of the requirements for friendship is most unique, Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite said, watching impotently as Mrs. Billings seemed to have come to a decision as to how to react and began to bloom under Thomas’s wide smile, his ingratiating manner—and his outlandish massaging of the truth. But how could she blame the woman, when she felt the same urge to melt beneath the glow of Donovan’s charm, the heat of his masculine attraction? “But I believe you have requested a dance? I am devastated to say I do not think I have a single one free. Being well dressed has served to have many potential ‘purchasers’ petitioning to further examine the merchandise.”

“As long as they don’t attempt to unwrap it,” Thomas returned, a hint of steel, of possession, in his voice, although he was still smiling genially, revealing his straight white teeth to advantage. “Now, Miss Balfour, why don’t you consult your card and see if there’s some way you can set aside a single dance for this humble petitioner? I harbor the hope I can use that time to convince you to drive out with me tomorrow, so that you might introduce me to some of the glorious sights of your fair city. I am, after all, a visitor on your shores.”

Marguerite didn’t have to consult her card, and she knew it. So, damn him, did Thomas Joseph Donovan. Just as they both knew she would most definitely drive out with him tomorrow. She couldn’t ignore such a direct challenge—didn’t want to ignore it. “I believe I’m still free for supper, Mr. Donovan, if that is all right with you?”

“I will count the minutes, at the same time toting up my blessings,” Thomas told her, bowing to Mrs. Billings and then to Marguerite, who knew she had to offer him her hand this time or else spend the next ten minutes listening to another lecture on deportment from Billie.

She felt Thomas squeeze her fingertips intimately as he lowered his head, then at the last minute he turned her hand over, to place his kiss on the inside of her wrist, just where her above-the-elbow glove was held by a pearl button and a scant inch-long oval of her skin lay revealed. His mustache tickled at the sensitive area, and the touch of his tongue sent a shiver racing up her arm. “Until midnight, Miss Balfour,” he said a moment later as she looked up at him, trying to control her breathing.

“Until midnight, Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite answered coldly, resenting his physical assault, which was an unlooked-for shifting of the rules in their game of verbal thrust and parry. “As you count the minutes, I shall measure the hours.”

“In anticipation, as a child waiting for Father Christmas, Miss Balfour, or will you deplore each tick of the clock, as would a prisoner about to mount the gallows?”

Ah, they were back to fencing, and Marguerite knew she could relax now—even enjoy herself. “La, Mr, Donovan, you must not tease me so,” she told him, opening her dance card and glancing down at the first name on the list. “Such impertinent questions smack of your growing infatuation for me, a circumstance I can only report to my grandfather, who would not, I believe, be best pleased to hear I’m being so determinedly wooed by a brash colonial who might wish to carry me off to his own country, to be set upon by red-skinned savages. Now shoo yourself off like a good little diplomat, for Lord Whittenham already approaches, eager to lead me into the first set.”

“Your most devoted and obedient servant, Miss Balfour,” Thomas said, inclining his head once more so that another woman, one not so observant as Marguerite, would still be able to believe she had come out the victor in this veiled exchange of hostilities.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Billings exclaimed once Thomas—still smiling, Marguerite noticed—melted into the crowd milling at the edge of the dance floor.

“Yes, Billie, I’m convinced you haven’t,” Marguerite responded, trying not to giggle.

“I beg your pardon? No, don’t explain. Just allow me to say what I feel I must. Although Mr. Donovan is a particularly well set up young man, Marguerite, and much more of an age I believe would suit you, as I do not countenance your continued insistence on allowing yourself to be courted by so many older gentlemen, I am convinced I should be neglecting my duty if I did not encourage you to avoid further conversation with Mr. Donovan—not that I understood above three words that passed between you. I don’t think I can quite like the way he looks at you, my dear. It is entirely too forward, even for an American.”

“I shall take your words to heart, Billie,” Marguerite lied. “But please don’t fear for my girlish inclinations, for I have only agreed to go down to supper with the gentleman to ascertain for myself if our opportunistic American eats his peas with a knife. After tomorrow you will not have to worry about the man.”

“After tomorrow? Then you are planning to drive out with Mr. Donovan tomorrow? Oh, Marguerite, do you really think you should?”

Marguerite stiffened. “That, dear Billie, is entirely beside the point. Now, excuse me, please, for I must not keep Lord Whittenham waiting. You know how cross he gets if he has to thread his way all across the room to us, bumping noses with everyone he meets until he is close enough to see me. I can only hope he doesn’t misplace me in the middle of the dance floor. Lady Whittenham told me he once lost her for an hour at the opera, and she was standing less than five feet from him.”

“If you didn’t persist in being partnered by shortsighted old men such as their lordships Whittenham and Mappleton you would not have to worry your head about such things,” Mrs. Billings pointed out as Marguerite rose, gaily waving to Lord Whittenham as that gentleman stood not ten feet away, peering inquiringly into the face of a purple turbaned dowager.

“Again you’re correct, Billie,” Marguerite told her before moving away, momentarily unnerved to see Thomas Donovan was standing not twenty feet away, looking at her intently, appraisingly. “You’re always correct. Does such unwavering surety in your own knowledge ever fatigue you? No, don’t answer, dear lady. It was an unfair question. Lord Whittenham and I will be sure to bring you some lemonade once the set is over. Ta-ta.”



“I tell you, I cannot like him.”

“We are not required to crawl into bed with the man, Perry,” Sir Ralph Harewood drawled, playing down a card as he, Sir Peregrine Totton, Lord Arthur Mappleton, and Lord James Chorley sat around a small table in a corner of the room Lady Sefton had set aside for her guests who preferred gaming for high stakes over dancing. “Stinky,” he prompted, addressing Lord Chorley, “I have played a card. As you are to my left, you are to play a card now. That is how it is done. Please pay attention.”

Lord Chorley, who had been busying himself inspecting a passerby and obviously judging the man’s rig-out totally unacceptable, turned to Sir Ralph, frowning. “Did you see that coxcomb? Green satin. And those red heels! I mean, now really, gentlemen! It is more than laughable. Beau will have something wonderfully witty to say about that when I ask him. I’m meeting him later, you know—he and His Royal Highness both. A private party. Sorry.”

“We may whimper, Stinky,” Sir Ralph replied, “but we will survive the slight. Tell us, please—however do you stand being so avidly courted by both the preening Brummell and our dearest Prince of Whales? That’s spelled with an H, Stinky.”

“What! What!” Lord Mappleton exclaimed. “Prince of Whales? Oh, Ralph, that was jolly good! Better if you scribbled it, o’course, for they both sound the same, don’t they? Wales. Whales. But never mind. It’s still a whacking good joke!”

“Thank you, Arthur, but it’s not mine. I borrowed it from Charles Lamb,” Sir Ralph said tersely, inclining his head to Lord Mappleton before looking to Lord Chorley once more. “Stinky, are you going to play a card or not?”

“What does it matter, Ralph?” Sir Peregrine piped up peevishly, throwing down his own cards. “I have naught but trumps remaining, so the rubber goes to me. You really should concentrate your minds, gentlemen, for to play without counting trumps is inviting disaster. I have devised a stratagem for card playing that has yet to fail me, not that I particularly care for gaming. And, James,” he said, leaning toward Lord Chorley, who was still frowning over his own cards, “you really should strive to overcome your penchant for hoarding kings. Fawn on them outwardly, yes, but never put your faith in them. It’s woefully unproductive. My aces best you every time.”

“What? What? You’ve got all the trumps, Perry?” Lord Mappleton asked, frowning. “Well, stap me if that don’t smack of nastiness on your part. Weren’t none of the rest of us paying attention, save you—and James, of course, when he isn’t vetting everyone who passes by, looking for red heels. But he always loses anyway—don’t you, Stinky?”

“Quiet, Arthur, before James realizes he’s been insulted and calls the both of you out,” Sir Ralph warned, then leaned back in his chair, applauding softly. “And thank you so much, Perry, for your modest homily concerning your own brilliance, although I will agree James should restrict himself to playing for straws. That’s three hundred you owe me, Stinky. I’ll expect your vowels before we adjourn. But to get back to the matter at hand before Perry here has an apoplexy—who is next to meet with Donovan, now that Arthur here has abdicated? William believes it’s Stinky.”

“If Willie says so, then I guess that’s right,” Lord Chorley said at the mention of William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, “not that I know what I’d say to him. Do you think the Irishman gambles?”

“Willie, is it?” Lord Mappleton asked, wiping at his perspiration-sheened forehead with a large handkerchief. “Best not let William hear you call him by that childhood nickname, Stinky. He don’t like it above half, you know.”

“And that’s another thing that discommodes me!” Sir Peregrine exclaimed, leaning forward to place his elbows on the tabletop. “Why are we dancing around like this, with Willie standing back, his hands lily white? Why isn’t he meeting with this upstart Irishman?”

Sir Ralph speared Sir Peregrine with a steely stare so that Totton abruptly coughed into his hand and sat back, his gaze suddenly intent on inspecting his manicured fingertips, and the small group lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

When, Sir Ralph wondered, had his three friends crumbled into such decrepit piles of faded splendor?

He continued to look at the trim, diminutive Perry, seeing little of the brilliant youth who had once dazzled them all with his store of knowledge on most any subject. His understanding of government, his affinity for numbers, his ability to astonish gullible investors with his seemingly endless store of information on most any subject from ancient architecture to zoology, had grown stultifyingly boring over the years, until he had developed a supercilious attitude of superiority that barely hid his disdain for any he believed to be his intellectual inferiors.

Condescending, arrogant, chicken-hearted, dried-up little twit! If it weren’t for his position in the War Ministry Sir Peregrine Totton would not only be insufferable, he would be expendable.

Sir Ralph looked next to the graying, portly, yet elegantly clad Lord Chorley, whom they all had called Stinky since their days at school. Once his bluff friendliness and universal popularity—and his well-known, limited brainpower—had been useful, even amusing, but now these same traits were becoming oppressive. He had come to believe himself a true bosom crony of the ever-fickle Prinny. Stinky now used that friendship to lord it over his fellows at this table, as if he were not James, but another wily Jack Horner, who had stuck his thumb in the kingly pie and picked himself out a royal plum. Poor, superficial Stinky. Did he really think Prinny would bail him out of the River Tick if his constant gaming finally outstripped his once considerable fortune?

But Stinky did have connections in the royal clique. And as William had pointed out, it was far better to work from the inside than from the outside.

And then there was Arthur. God’s teeth, had there ever been such a fall as Mappleton’s? Once quite the man about town, the dream of every foolish young girl, the nearly bald Arthur had aged with less grace than any of them. He’d become little more than a laughably inept, fortune-hunting roué, harmless if embarrassing to behold whilst he chased after each year’s new crop of wealthy debutantes as if unaware that he had ballooned to twice his size, becoming pudding-faced and ungainly. While his sad intellect—never his most shining light—could no longer be overlooked because of his handsome face or his well-turned leg.

But Arthur held a post with the Lord of the Treasury, a result of birth and political connections and not a reward for any hint of brilliance. Sir Ralph didn’t need William Renfrew to tell him how important the aging, biddable, money-mad Lothario was to their plans.

Luckily, once the deed was done, all three of them would be superfluous. Only he, Sir Ralph Harewood, a peer who worked diligently at the Admiralty, and William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, one of the most eloquent, universally beloved peers in the House of Lords, deserved to reap the bounty that would come when they harvested the result of the seeds of revolution all five of them were so busily planting.

Only he would survive—he who had always been what he was now, an average man of average size, of forgettable features, of impeccable lineage and adequate fortune, but possessing a hidden agenda of treason no one could suspect. And William, of course—William, the ultimate gentleman, the smooth night-dark devil who had all the handsomeness and wealth and ancestry handed to him as rights of birth, but who longed for dominance over mankind more than the devil himself.

Neither of them had changed over the years, succumbed to the debilitating diseases of laziness, age, and easy living as the other three had. No, he and William had only become more so than they had been before—himself more covetous of wealth and William more eager for power... and each of them growing daily more desperate to attain both.

Sir Ralph knew once their plan succeeded he would be content to count his money, while William, who had no need of money, was probably already planning the details of his coronation. And God knew the man had already chosen his consort.

Sir Ralph felt a moment’s pity for his old friends gone to seed, but no more than a single moment. It was so difficult to remember how all five of them had once worked as a cohesive unit—daring, unafraid, brilliant. When had it all begun to go downhill, so that the three were all sorry enough, and desperate enough, that they had agreed to come together one last time, that they had agreed to play integral parts in his and William’s grandiose scheme?

No. No, he wouldn’t think about that. If he thought about that, he’d have to think about the beginning of the end, of the years that had taken their toll, until they had been so foolish, so overconfident, thanks to their past successes, that they had made a near fatal mistake with Geoffrey Balfour. It did no good to think about Geoffrey Balfour, or the deed that held the five of them bound together almost seven long years after they wanted, needed, to go their separate ways.

If he were to look too hard, to examine Arthur’s pathetic flirtations, Stinky’s dedicated gaming, Perry’s insistence upon demonstrating his brilliance, he would be able to put out a finger and touch the moment they had all begun to fall apart. Even the moment he had come face to face with his own personal weakness, witnessed the certainty, the inevitability of his most secret, lifelong fear. That moment. That horror. That “business” of Geoffrey Balfour.

So, no, he would not think of that now, not now they were so close to achieving the most brilliant coup of the century, now that he and William were at last to reap the reward of a lifetime of scheming by carrying off the most daring, inventive plan ever devised.

“Hullo there! What are you gentlemen doing stuck in this dim corner—holding a silent vigil for past or future glories? Or were you sitting here, statue-like, waiting for me? I sincerely pray that is not the case, much as I’d be flattered. And you’re right not to offer me a chair. Someone might think you actually pleased I stopped by to chat. But I shan’t linger. You see, I intend amusing myself by toppling ears over tail in love this evening, so we shall not meet again until Saturday, at the earliest. Love rarely outlives two sunsets, does it, gentlemen? Tell me—except for Sir Peregrine and Lord Mappleton, of course, who need not answer —are you at all familiar with the beauteous Miss Marguerite Balfour?”

Sir Ralph looked up at Thomas Donovan, taking in the man’s impeccable clothing, his relaxed posture, and the amusement in his clear blue eyes—merriment Sir Ralph was sure was at their expense, although he didn’t for the life of him know why. “So you plan a courtship of Miss Balfour, Mr. Donovan? How enterprising of you—and how brave. Miss Balfour eats young pups like yourself for breakfast. You see, dear man, the lady much prefers the company of mature gentlemen.”

“Yes,” Thomas said, smiling at each of the men in turn, his full, healthy mustache an abomination to Sir Ralph’s sensibilities, “just such a depressing rumor did reach my ears—by way of a fellow named Quist, as I remember it. Do you think that could be because Miss Balfour believes she can outrun doddering old men—or just outlive them? Oh—forgive me, Sir Peregrine, Lord Mappleton. It’s no more than my impetuous American tongue. Well, I must be going. I’m escorting the little darling down to supper, you know—does she eat young men for supper as well? What an intriguing, nay, titillating thought! See you Saturday?”

“Saturday,” Sir Ralph repeated from between clenched teeth. Once the tall American had taken himself off—his step too long for fashion, his sure, lord-of-the-hill gait setting Sir Ralph’s nerves on edge—he sat back in his chair, absentmindedly stroking his own clean upper lip.

“I cannot believe the success of our plan resides with that impertinent, skirt-chasing Irishman,” he said, his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Donovan is either eminently clever or criminally ignorant. Perry, for once I agree with you, much as it pains me to admit it. It’s time our good friend Willie came out into the open. Why should we be the ones taking all the chances?”



“Do I have a smut on my nose, Mr. Donovan? You’ve been staring at me for a full minute. It’s most disconcerting, you know.”

Thomas, who had been lounging against the back of the uncomfortable chair, leaned forward, placing his elbows on the tabletop and his chin in his hands. “For an entire minute, Miss Balfour? I had thought it no more than a second. Indeed, I could spend an eternity gazing into your magnificent emerald eyes. They remind me of my beloved, native Ireland.”

“Really, Mr. Donovan?” Marguerite responded, lifting her fork and inserting the last bit of cream pie between her full, deeply pink lips. “I should think,” she continued after dabbing her serviette against those same enticing lips, “your beloved, native Ireland lies only a short journey away, so that you should not have to attempt to comfort yourself with reminders rather than to see the place itself. Do you have plans to visit your homeland while you are on this side of the ocean?”

“Ah, dear treasure of my heart, but I did visit the Auld Sod, me and Paddy both, before sailing on to London. Beautiful County Clare. Alas,” he ended, sighing soulfully, doing his best to look pitiful, “there is nothing there for either of us now save memories.”

She laid down her serviette and looked into his eyes, her own limpid with sympathy. Was it real, or was she only reacting as she must know she should? It was plaguey difficult deciding what was true and what was false when dealing with Miss Marguerite Balfour. “How very sad. Please, if you promise to refrain from giving voice to any more foolish endearments, will you tell me about your life in Ireland?”

Thomas decided to believe the possible lie that she was sincere in her interest—not that he was. He closed his eyes. “No, no. I wouldn’t wish to distress you with my tale of woe.” He opened his eyes again, waiting for her to discreetly push him into confession. She didn’t disappoint him.

“Are you an orphan, Mr. Donovan?” she asked, tilting her head slightly, so that the light of the chandelier just above them turned her hair to dark, liquid fire. “If so, I can understand your sorrow for I, too, am without parents, although I do have my dear grandfather to comfort me. As you and Mr. Dooley must have each other to turn to in times of remembered grief.”

Dooley? Dooley, who had his quarrelsome wife, an older-than-the-flood mother-in-law whose eyesight might be failing but whose razor-sharp tongue could still strip the hide off a man at twenty paces, and a half dozen runny-nosed children waiting for him in Philadelphia? “Yes, dear lady, Paddy and I do at least have each other. He is such a comfort to me—after the trouble.”

She leaned slightly closer, so that he could smell her provocative perfume, see her modestly displayed expanse of flawless, creamy bosom rise and fall with her every breath. Saint Peter and all the apostles, but she was a tempting morsel! And she knew it, blast her! “The trouble? You cannot stop now, Mr. Donovan, for I vow I’m near to bursting with curiosity. Please—tell me what happened.”

Lean a little closer, aingeal, and that lovely gown hiding your glory from me will burst, for which I shall be eternally grateful. “Oh, very well,” he answered, sighing, employing every bit of willpower he could marshal not to reach across the small table and run his middle finger from the underside of her chin, to the base of her throat, to the cunning cleft between her breasts—and beyond. “But not here, Miss Balfour. I fear I sometimes allow my emotions to get the better of me when I think of my childhood in County Clare. Perhaps if we were to stroll outside, onto the balcony, where it’s less public?”

Her smile was triumphant as she held out her hand for him to help her to rise, which confused him, for he had thought this to be his victory. “Of course, Mr. Donovan. I shouldn’t wish for you to become a watering pot here, among so many people who would be sure to gawk and point fingers. Let us adjourn to yon balcony, where you might weep to your heart’s content with only me there to mock you.”

She allowed him to slip her arm through the crook of his elbow as they threaded their way through the crowded tables and out onto the balcony, although she did stop several times to introduce him to people who, every last man at least, looked down their noses at him (a mighty feat, he acknowledged with some admiration, for people who remained seated while he was left standing, like some lackey at their service).

To a man they had wasted no courtesy on the companion Marguerite introduced as “an emissary of President Madison.”

To a woman, however, Thomas noticed, his presence had seemed more than welcome. Either English women were sadly ignorant politically or they were more impressed with his appearance than his official presence. It was really too bad he hadn’t been sent to negotiate with the ladies of London. Not only would there be no war looming on the horizon, but he would probably sail home with papers deeding him half the British Empire!

“Lovely people, your countrymen,” Thomas commented as he assisted Marguerite to a stone bench at one side of the balcony—the dark side of the balcony, away from the lights and noise in the supper room. “I felt most welcome as you introduced me.”

“Yes, I noticed,” Marguerite answered, opening her fan and beginning to wave it slowly just beneath her chin. “Half of them would be more than pleased if they could invite you to an execution—yours, I believe—while the ladies wouldn’t shriek if you were to climb the drainpipes to their boudoirs, with intent to ravish them. Tell me, Mr. Donovan, do you always meet with such extreme reactions?”

“It’s a cross I bear, Miss Balfour,” Thomas told her, propping one foot on the bench just beside Marguerite’s skirt and leaning toward her. “So, my dear lady—on which side of your grandfather’s mansion will I find the drainpipe leading to your boudoir?”

The fan snapped closed and she tapped it more sharply than coquettishly against his knee. “Your reach exceeds your grasp, Mr. Donovan, just as your mouth outstrips your minuscule comprehension of civilization outside the rough-and-ready atmosphere you must live with in Philadelphia.”

“Did I tell you I live in Philadelphia?” Thomas asked, pleased to see she was not quite the woman of the world she would like him to suppose. Innocent, but not too innocent—and definitely interested in him. Ripe for the plucking, Miss Balfour was, but not likely to fall into his hands without some effort. That was also good, for he disliked winning too easily.

“I don’t remember,” she answered quickly, folding her hands in her lap, avoiding his eyes. “Perhaps Perry told me—not that it matters, for I know less than nothing about America, nor care to. Oh—I believe I hear the musicians tuning up once more.” She stood before he could react. “Much as I would enjoy hearing your tale of woe—the one you promised me earlier—I fear I must ask you to escort me back upstairs. I am promised for the next set, you understand.”

Thomas took hold of her arm, of the soft skin of her upper arm that rose above her over-the-elbow kid gloves. “I can remedy that lapse tomorrow, if you’ll drive out with me.”

She looked pointedly at his hand and then at him, and he could see the thrill of the hunt was once more in her eyes. “I’d much rather ride in the park, Mr. Donovan. I’ve brought my mare, Trickster, with me from the country, but she has had little exercise since our arrival. I will promise to bring an extra handkerchief with me, for I’m sure the story of your boyhood will quite reduce me to sympathetic tears. Unless, of course, you don’t ride.”

Thomas smiled, inching closer to her so-tempting mouth. They were isolated, alone together in the darkness, so close they could sense each other’s every breath, so near to kissing they might as well have been kissing. “Oh, I ride, Miss Balfour,” he drawled softly, staring into her eyes to see if she understood what he was saying, what he was sure they both were thinking, no matter how innocent she might be. “There’s nothing I like better than a good ride. A hard ride,” he said, lowering his head even closer. “Hard, and fast, and—”

“Then it is settled.” She pulled her arm free and took two steps toward the open doorway so that Thomas was left to look at her ramrod-straight back, her rigidly set shoulders. “I’ll expect both you and your sad story in Portman Square at eleven tomorrow morning.”

He moved past her and inclined his head in the direction of the supper room, offering to allow her to precede him into the room, which she did, her chin held high, her perfume tickling his senses as she swept by him. “Don’t rush so, Miss Balfour,” he told her, taking hold of her arm once more, this time gently tucking it through the crook of his elbow, as befitted an attentive companion. “He’ll wait for you, whoever he is. I, for one, would wait an eternity.”

“You, for one, Mr. Donovan,” she answered sweetly, “would have to. Now, please excuse me. I see Lord Chorley searching for me now. If you will simply deliver me to him, you can return to the ballroom unaccompanied, where I am convinced you will locate at least a half dozen giggling misses eager to hang on your every word, idiotic as each may be—meaning both your words and any female silly enough to give them any sort of credence. Good evening, sir.”

“Idiotic?” Thomas echoed, stepping in front of her so that she could not escape him without causing a scene. Lord, but she was lovely, especially when she was in a temper! Obviously she was not used to losing her verbal battles. “If you find my speech so idiotic, my manner so barbaric, and my presence so unpalatable, why have you agreed to ride out with me tomorrow? Unless you are playing coy, which I cannot believe.”

“Why, I in turn must wonder,” she countered, her voice low but intense, “would you persist in wishing for my company when I have made it so abundantly obvious that you and I are incompatible in the extreme?”

Thomas grinned, shaking his head. “Ah, my argumentative aingeal, isn’t it clear to you yet? Whether we like each other or not, whether we are compatible or not—or if we are as unalike as chalk and cheese—is totally beside the point. I’m mad for you. And you’re mad for me.”

Marguerite closed her eyes and raised a gloved hand to her mouth. A moment later Thomas saw that her shoulders were shaking, and when she opened her eyes they were alight with laughter, “Ah, Donovan,” she said intriguingly, just as Lord Chorley stopped beside her, obviously eager to claim his partner, his starched neck cloth so tight his face was an alarming shade of puce, “perhaps we’re both simply mad.”

“Mad?” Lord Chorley wrinkled his nose in thought. “Whatever are you two mad about, dear Marguerite? The supper not to your liking? I agree. The crepes were depressingly soggy. Hullo, again, Donovan. Leaving so soon? Best to do so quietly, as the better man is here now, for all your bragging. Ain’t I, Marguerite?”

Marguerite looked quickly to Lord Chorley, then to Thomas, and then back again to his lordship. “What are you talking about, Stinky? What sort of bragging?”

Thomas winced and lifted a hand to scratch at a spot behind his left ear. That would teach him to open his potato trap just to get a rise out of his audience. Who would have thought the man would be blockheaded enough to repeat such an insulting tale to the woman in question? He had meant to upset the gentlemen, not infuriate Marguerite.

A prudent retreat seemed a good idea. “Well, now, I believe I must be going,” he said, bowing. “Lord Chorley? Miss Balfour? Your devoted servant. Good evening.”

And then Thomas took himself off before “Stinky” Chorley could repeat the stupid boast he had made earlier, the one that would undoubtedly cost him dearly tomorrow, when he took Miss Marguerite Balfour out riding.

What lies, he wondered as he climbed the stairs to the ballroom, would they tell each other then?