A Masquerade in the Moonlight(97)
“Yes, yes you were, William,” Marguerite agreed, remembering her father’s diary, remembering her mother’s admission of a year ago that her father had taken his own life. She pushed her suspicions from her mind, but not too far, for she would consider them again later, when she was alone. After all, it could have been William that day in the maze. It had to have been one of them. Why not William? “You must have been devastated when my papa died so suddenly.”
Still Laleham held her hands in his, her knuckles brushing against the folds of his cravat. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath when he opened his mouth, to utter what she immediately knew was a lie. “I always thought he had a poet’s frail constitution—but his death was still so sudden. Your dear mama never really recovered from her loss, did she?”
Beware the man without weaknesses. Marguerite heard her father’s words ringing in her head. He hadn’t heeded his own warning, but she would. She did. She had no plans to involve herself personally in Laleham’s destruction. Sir Ralph would do it for her, thanks to his fear of death, thanks to his new pursuit of eternal life. To gain his “Shield of Invincibility” Ralph would spill all his secrets—and all of William’s secrets—to his trusted fortune-teller, thus giving her all the ammunition she would need to destroy the man. But it was so difficult not to call Laleham on his lies, so very difficult to stand here, smiling, and listen to his assertions of friendship, his nearly declared proposal of marriage. A dynasty? Dear God—did William possess a weakness after all?
Marguerite blinked rapidly, tears that were close to the surface anyway now helpful to her as she said, “Dear, William. Such a good friend, and yet you don’t know. I had thought—I had always assumed... William, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this. Papa did not die peacefully as you were told. He—he hanged himself in the gardens. Grandfather told me everything last year, after Mama died. You see, it was she who found him there. It was she who ever after suffered from a weak heart—and with good reason.”
Laleham released her hands only to draw her against his chest, her head pressed into his shoulder. “Dear, sweet child! Of course, I knew. But you were never to be told. What good would it do? What harm could it deal you to hear such terrible truths? You’re an innocent, my dear—an innocent! Your mind shouldn’t be cluttered with terrible visions.”
An innocent? Now Marguerite knew the man was mad. She hadn’t been innocent in the ways of man since last spring, when her mother had collapsed in Laleham’s maze, died in Laleham’s own country house. Surely he had to know that! Now, since last night, she was no longer an innocent in the ways of love. She was in the process of bringing five men to their knees for their part in her parents’ deaths. If she were any less innocent she would have already sprouted horns and a pointed tail.
She carefully disengaged herself from Laleham’s embrace —an embrace that didn’t feel the least avuncular, especially in sight of his prattlings about a “dynasty.” Averting her eyes, for she could no longer look at him without wondering yet again, Is he the one? Is he the one who was in the maze with Mama? she said, “I believe I should like to be returned to Mrs. Billings now, William. I suddenly feel the need to sit and reflect upon all we have said here tonight.”
“I agree,” he answered quickly, as if he too needed to think, then took her arm and led her back into the brightly lit room. “I did not mean to shock you, my dear child. But I have been watching you all these years, watching and feeling proud as you grew into a beautiful young woman. Slowly, over this past year, it dawned on me that our little Marguerite was ready for marriage. Even you must notice that you seem to seek the company of mature men. No one like that clod, Donovan! Our lands already march together, and Sir Gilbert would want for nothing all the remaining days of his life. But I would never frighten you, my dear. There is time for you to consider what I’ve said. Truly. I am nothing if not patient.”
“Thank you, William. I am grateful, truly I am.” Then another thought struck her. “You—you aren’t planning to speak to Sir Gilbert about Mr. Donovan or—or anything else, are you, William?”
“There will be no need for that,” he answered shortly, and she looked up at him, startled at his arrogance, to see him glaring at something across the room. Without turning her head she sensed that Donovan had arrived. “Come, my dear,” he commanded, “and I’ll return you to your chaperone. I would stay and listen to the program with you, enduring the pain with you, but I have just now recalled an invitation elsewhere I cannot shirk. The Season is so full of entertainments. You will forgive me, won’t you?”