A Masquerade in the Moonlight(6)
At the age of eighteen, upon her mother’s collapse and death at a neighbor’s afternoon party, Marguerite unexpectedly learned of something she wanted and almost immediately declared her intention of going to London. Only her grandfather’s pleas for a measure of decorum brought her agreement to wait until the following spring Season, when a suitable period of mourning had passed.
Marguerite was not just being biddable, for she was rarely submissive, even if she was very nearly always kind. She had belatedly realized she would need that time, as she confided to a badly shaken Maisie, to “search out the body of the man in the moon.”
BOOK ONE
THE FLAMES
BUILD
O! Who can hold a fire in his hand...?
— William Shakespeare
CHAPTER 1
When needs must, the devil drives.
— Irish Saying
LONDON
The Season, 1810
Thomas Joseph Donovan tossed his cloak and a coin in the general direction of one of the liveried footmen and strode to the wide marble staircase that clung to the curved wall rising to the first floor of the Grosvenor Square mansion. Always grease their palms early on, Thomas Joseph believed. It’s too late to flash your silver when your brand-new cloak is already riding home on someone else’s shoulders.
He had made certain to be unfashionably late this evening, so that the stairs were empty of the usual crush of bored ton members waiting their turn to pay their respects to their host and hostess. His long legs made short work of the climb, his mind intent on seeking out his quarry as quickly as possible, so that he might be quit of this place before the lure of the card tables drew him into spending another long night attending to any pursuit other than the mission he had been sent to accomplish.
Not that he had any fears for his purse. Thomas, although he had lived in America since his twelfth year, was Irish to the soles of his fashionable evening slippers, and had been blessed with the devil’s own luck with the cards. He could garner himself a tidy fortune in London if he continued to stumble over inept, chinless lords who seemed intent upon divesting themselves of their money night after night, but he had to keep his mind clear and remember his mission. After all, even a true patriot knew fleecing the enemy and routing the enemy were not exactly the same—although the former was jolly good sport.
His host and hostess had deserted their post at the head of the stairs, saving Thomas the tedious business of trying to remember their names and titles. Rid of the need to do the civil and expend any of his solid store of empty flattery, he contented himself by snagging a glass of wine from a loaded tray carried by a passing servant, then stopped just inside the doorway to take in the scene at his leisure.
The ballroom, besides being stiflingly hot and decorated to within an inch of ridiculousness with hothouse flowers and pink bunting, was packed almost solid with elite members of London society—which Thomas considered to be a damnable pity, for that exalted, almost incestuous group for the most part consisted of giggling pullets and cocks, flabby-armed old hens, and posturing roosters.
Thomas swept an elegant leg as Miss Araminta Frobisher tripped by on the arm of a gentleman whose evening coat sported buttons as large as dinner plates, unable to hide a grin as dear Miss Frobisher winked at him. A lovely girl, Araminta, and more than willing to stroll in any convenient dark garden with a man intent on capturing a few naughty kisses. If his quarry didn’t show his face soon, Thomas might rethink his notion of an early night and introduce dear Araminta to the accommodating, concealing stand of shrubbery he already knew lay just outside the French doors to the left of the ballroom.
The young fop with Miss Frobisher did not so much as nod a greeting to Thomas, for he was an Englishman and refused to bother with upstart “colonials.” He probably didn’t even see me, Thomas decided, which suits this colonial just fine, although the effete dandy might have learned something if he had only observed my attire and demeanor, for he looks even more queer in that rigout than a holy Sister in red taffeta.
Thomas, never one to waste time in false modesty, knew he cut a dashing figure as he lounged at his ease against a marble pillar, his taller-than-average, wide-shouldered, leanly muscular frame molded into well-cut midnight blue evening clothes à la that master of sartorial understatement, Beau Brummell. His mirror had told him his thick mane of tawny, sun-streaked hair and his unfashionable yet flattering mustache set off the deep bronze tan of his skin, as did the startling white linen tied so negligently at his throat and extending a discreet inch beyond his cuffs, drawing attention to square, long-fingered hands.