A Masquerade in the Moonlight(67)
Marguerite cradled her forehead in her hands as she bent over the desk, her temples pounding with a headache she could not ignore, no matter how her brains ached to seek a solution to her problems.
Chorley was already happily riding along the road to financial ruin, obligingly following the path she had plotted for him—with the able guidance of her card-sharping hireling, Maxwell, of course.
Mappleton was proving even easier than she’d hoped, the fortune-mad simpleton. As Perry’s reaction to news of Miss Rollins had proved consistent with her father’s diary entry concerning Mappleton, Arthur had been on the look out for a rich wife for so long, he now could be led to his doom with a halter of snow.
Totton’s fall from the lofty pinnacle of his own consequence, again, already in progress, thanks to his overweening air of superior intellect, would be a delight to watch.
Those three were the minor ones, the easy ones, and she wanted them out of the way quickly, so that she could concentrate on Harewood and Laleham, for whom she prayed there would be prison cells waiting at the end of her path to revenge. After all, attempted treason, even one contemplated years in the past, had to be punishable, didn’t it?
According to her man, Maxwell, Harewood was nearly in their grasp. Maxwell had been having great success in bending the superstitious, ambitious man’s will by way of employing hypnotic, soporific tones and the simple words “my friend” each time they met, slowly undermining Harewood’s inhibitions. Soon they would learn his greatest fear and use it to their advantage, as they had planned. She needed Harewood under her control so that she could use Sir Ralph to destroy Laleham. Unlike her father, who must have forgotten his own warnings, she respected the earl’s strengths and had long ago decided not to take him on personally.
She was well on her way to revenging herself on the members of The Club. For her father’s murder, as she could find no other word to describe what had happened to Geoffrey Balfour. For her mother’s years of suffering and final agony. For her own pain. Her revenge, more than a year in the making, was playing out now just as she had hoped.
She did not wish to kill any of them, for that would make her no better than they. But she had suffered for long years. Now they would suffer, each in his own, separate hell. For long years. That was the best revenge.
Except she hadn’t planned on Thomas Joseph Donovan.
She also had not considered she would be dealing with anyone save five aging men who had settled into comfortable lives far removed from intrigues such as those they had indulged in so many years ago. Yet this new development could work to her advantage. If William and the rest of them were busy concentrating on their own scheme they would not have much time to question the small diversions she was offering, diversions that would soon bring them crashing down one by one.
Their defeat would also be Donovan’s defeat, if she had deduced correctly that he was representing his government in some intrigue with The Club. If he had already guessed she was up to mischief, would his loyalty to his country also move him to try to thwart her? Would her loyalty to her own country be enough to console her if she did thwart some possible treason and Donovan turned away from her?
Yes, what of the two of them? What of this insane passion that had sprung up between them, this wild attraction that could no more be denied than it could ever be fulfilled? This certain knowledge that what they shared between them could very easily destroy them both?
She had run from him tonight, not in fear of being compromised there in the shrubbery, but in sudden terror of her own desires. A single look from his laughing blue eyes, a single touch of his hand on her arm, a single smile curving that absurd mustache—any one gesture was enough to send her melting at his feet, eager and open to his every caress, his every intimacy, his every sweet, believable lie. She couldn’t trust him, but she could love him.
Perhaps she already loved him? How would she know? Would she recognize love when she saw it, felt it?
She raised her head to look at the portrait of her father through her tears. “Ah, Papa, I need you so much. I’ve planned for so long, but now I don’t know. Does your kitten follow her head—or her heart?”
The heavy velvet draperies were closed across the windows, shutting out the morning sun from the small room Sir Ralph Harewood used as his private study.
Sir Ralph twitched the edge of one drapery into place, then lit two small candles on the table that was almost the only piece of furniture in the room, before seating himself behind it, facing the door. A moment later there was a single knock and he called out “Come!” before touching the deck of tarot cards that lay between the candlesticks. Just as quickly as he had touched the cards he drew his hand away.