A Masquerade in the Moonlight(135)

But Marguerite was still laboring under the perceived brilliance of her plans, her damnably clever revenges that had turned so suddenly deadly. She would still believe herself to be the one with the upper hand. If Laleham came knocking at her door, she’d order him brought inside.

Please, Lord, let her still be sleeping!

Thomas threw down the charred page and started for the door. He had to get to Marguerite, had to see her, hold her—now! No! He had to enlist Marco and Paddy first, then go straight to Portman Square and remove Marguerite from London immediately—even if he had to bind and gag her to do it!

“‘ere now! Where would yer be runnin’ off ta? Oi thought yer said yer wuz gonna ‘elp me?”

“Me?” Thomas asked, pausing only for a moment. “I think not. Here—” he said, tossing a coin to the man, “this should help. Hire somebody to do it, why don’t you? Although, before you do that you might want to call back that watchman who was in here before and ask him a question.”

“Now why would Oi go and do that?” the servant asked, pocketing the coin.

Thomas smiled thinly. “Because you might be interested —as would I be if I were inclined to linger, which I’m not—in hearing him explain how your employer committed suicide with his hands tied behind his back.”





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!”