A Masquerade in the Moonlight(140)
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.