A Masquerade in the Moonlight(62)
“Of course you have. Dozens of times. Hundreds of times. You are a true woman of the world.”
“Oh, shut up,” Marguerite countered, her eyes, her lovely emerald eyes shifting away from his. “Tell me your news and let me get back into the mansion. It’s turning cool.”
He leaned down so that he could whisper into her ear, so that he could deliberately put himself closer to her, to smell the perfume of her hair, to allow his lips the luxury of brushing lightly against the skin of her temple. “Lord Mappleton told me something very interesting earlier this evening. He is entertaining the thought of marriage.”
Her eyes snapped to the left, toward him, quickly followed by a swift turn of her head even as a triumphant smile lit her features, betraying her utterly. He knew, because his own head was only inches from hers, and he was watching her closely. “You’re not bamming me, are you?” she asked, then sobered, her expression troubled. “Oh, dear! You can’t mean he’s betrothed to Miss Rollins, can you? Why, they just met. And she is totally unsuitable. What a terrible, fast, encroaching female. Something must be done. I—”
“Cut line, aingeal,” Thomas interrupted when he had heard enough, his heart inexplicably heavy to have his suspicions confirmed once and for all. “That outraged air might work with some, but not with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, staring straight into his eyes without blinking. She was very good at lying, and would probably fool anyone else with her sincere expression and sorrowful voice. “Why, I made great pains just this morning to tell Sir Ralph I was not best pleased to find Miss Rollins had fibbed about her origins in order to broach an introduction to my grandfather and myself.”
“I’ll just wager you did.” Thomas tipped his curly brimmed beaver back on his head, wondering how much he could say without scaring her off entirely, then decided that with Marguerite, it was impossible to go too far. “Do you think that’s enough to cover your tracks? Or will you hie yourself off to Mappleton himself to beg him to reconsider marrying beneath him? If you do, make sure you have an audience, for I wouldn’t count on the money-mad fool even remembering you’d come to visit.”
Marguerite drew herself up to her full height, her chin jutting out belligerently. “That was a sinister remark. I cannot believe we’re having this conversation, any more than I can understand why I am continuing to stand here, listening to your insults. Good-bye, Mr. Donovan!”
“Is this where you meet the gamester, Marguerite? Here, in the mews? And how long are you going to let Chorley win before you strip him of his last penny so that he’s disgraced?” Thomas asked as she turned her back, then watched dispassionately as her shoulders stiffened, then slumped.
She turned around slowly, her head tipped to one side, looking at him as if he had just told her he’d rediscovered the formula for Greek fire and was willing to sell it to her, for a price. “What do you want, Donovan?”
He ignored her question. “And isn’t it strange Sir Peregrine discovered the secret to some ancient coded map just days after I heard you invite him to browse the bookstalls with you. You did take him to the bookstalls, didn’t you?”
“If I did—what of it?”
“Yes, indeed, that’s what I thought. Just a coincidence, I thought. But then I said to myself, I said: ‘Thomas, maybe it isn’t a coincidence. Maybe,’ I said to myself, ‘she’s up to something. Maybe she’s up to mischief.’”
“I see,” Marguerite replied, her smile tight. “And do you have many of these conversations with yourself?”
Thomas ignored her barb, continuing, “I thought about Sir Peregrine. He’s just eager enough to make a name for himself in the intellectual community to grab at any chance to prove his genius, isn’t he? Will he be sailing for Italy any day now, in search of some nonexistent Roman ruin? Is that what you want—to have them all banished? No, that wouldn’t explain Georgianna Rollins, would it?”
“You’re mad, do you know that? When you close your eyes at night, do you worry there are hairy monsters hiding beneath your bed? Do you see goblins in dark corners? Or perhaps you’re a devotee of Gothic novels, and believe spies and ne’er-do-wells lurk everywhere?”
Again, he ignored her. “I haven’t figured out what you’ve planned for Harewood, although I think he’s an unhappy man, and unhappy men are vulnerable to many different kinds of attack. Which leaves Lord Laleham. Are there others, or have I got the lot of them identified? No matter, five are enough to get on with, aren’t they? Better stay away from Laleham, Marguerite. He won’t involve himself personally, but only send someone else to deal with you. Although,” he said, touching a hand to his own still-tender jaw, “he does make exceptions.”