A Masquerade in the Moonlight (3 page)

It was only after she realized she was in danger of pushing her beloved pony past exhaustion that she reined in and slipped from the saddle in the middle of a newly plowed field. She then fell to her knees, spread her arms wide, and glared up at the heavens, her overwhelming grief and despair tearing at her as she screamed out her unanswerable question to God. Why? Why did her most wonderful papa leave her?
Why?

The years passed, time wearing smooth the jagged edges of her grief, and Marguerite Balfour grew to young womanhood at her home in Chertsey, beloved by all who lived there. Indulged by both her grandfather and her mother, she was never really a spoiled child, for there was not a malicious bone in Marguerite’s body—although, according to Maisie, there were more than a few mischievous ones.

Marguerite’s waist-length carroty curls had darkened since that momentous fourth birthday, to become a rich, warm chestnut with flashing hints of red and gold, making a perfect complement for her creamy ivory skin and bewitching green eyes. Tall, a good half foot taller than her petite mother, the chubby figure of her childhood had reformed itself into small, high breasts, a narrow waist, slim hips, and long straight legs.

In short, Marguerite Balfour was a fetchingly, devilishly, intriguingly beautiful young woman.

But Marguerite’s attributes did not begin and end with her beauty and personal charm. Marguerite had been taught as Sir Gilbert would have instructed his son, if he were to have been blessed with a male child rather than the girl child his late wife had educated as was the custom. In his opinion, this was the same as to say Victoria’s academic achievements bordered within an inch of nonexistence.

Short of sending Marguerite off to school, Sir Gilbert had employed the best tutors, so that she spoke French and Italian fluently, could read Latin, was well versed in mathematics and the sciences, could intelligently discuss the politics of the day, and quoted Shakespeare and even some minor poets without appearing to have to think about it first.

She also rode like a man, excelled in fencing, could load and shoot most any firearm with both speed and deadly accuracy—and had not forgotten a single word of any of Geoffrey Balfour’s sometimes contradictory, but always thought-provoking, lessons. She spent her spring months almost daily visiting the Gypsies, who continued to return to Chertsey, and played in the dirt with the Gypsy children, while learning from the women the dubious talents of purse cutting and fortune-telling.

At fourteen, she stole her first chicken. It was the most delicious chicken she had ever eaten.

Her mama’s softening influence showed itself in Marguerite’s love of beautiful clothing, her talent with needle and watercolors, her sweet if not powerful singing voice, and her graceful movements on the dance floor—even if her only partner to date had been her grandfather.

Marguerite had grown as the only child in a household of adults, so that she had matured far beyond her years in some ways while remaining childlike in many others. Her every wish had not been granted, but she had been given enough to make her believe that anything was possible, if she wanted it badly enough.

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.”

THE FLAMES

BUILD

O! Who can hold a fire in his hand...?

— William Shakespeare

When needs must, the devil drives.

— Irish Saying

LONDON

The Season, 1810

T
homas 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.

Hands that penned an editorial, turned a card, held a rein, cradled a blade, or played over a woman with equal, satisfying expertise.

Now his sky-at-dawning blue eyes, ringed as they were by overlong black lashes and edged with faint lines that crinkled delightfully whenever he smiled, surveyed the crowded ballroom as if in happy anticipation, his outward appearance one of a jolly enough fellow on the lookout for nothing more serious than an evening’s amusement.

Where is the bastard hiding?
he asked himself, still genially smiling and nodding at passersby.
He said he’d be here. And what sort of paper-skulled idiot am I to be taking an Englishman at his word?

His thoughts were momentarily diverted as he noticed a hulking, red-faced young peer who must have last seen his feet when his valet held them up to squeeze them into his black patent dancing shoes. The fool was actually attempting the intricate steps of a lively country dance, and looked as dashing and delicate as a sow caught in muck.
Clod
. Fully half of the Englishmen Thomas had met in his fortnight in England were featherbrained, posturing, pleasure-seeking idiots, and the other half were sneaking, conniving, back-shooting intriguers who would sell their firstborn for a thimbleful of gold.

No wonder his fellow Americans, those brave colonials still so despised by the English, had been able to thoroughly trounce them in their great war for independence. All that had to be done was to prick their island-wide pig bladders of pride and supposed superiority and watch them blow themselves back across the water to the safety of either their overheated ballrooms or their private counting houses!

Just as Thomas was about to turn away, planning to search the game room for his quarry—and perhaps play a hand or two while he was at it, for a man couldn’t be dedicated for twenty-four hours of every day—the red-faced peer let out a high-pitched yelp of pain. “You
kicked
me! Don’t deny it, for it won’t fadge. You kicked me! What did you do that for, gel?” the ungentlemanly gentleman bellowed, hopping about on one foot as he attempted to rub at his shin. “That bloody well hurt!”

“For which you should be unendingly grateful, sir!” Thomas heard the young lady in question reply with some heat, so that he noticed her for the first time—which instantly caused him to curse himself for a blind blockhead for not having espied the beautiful, fiery-haired creature before this moment. “If I had
not
hurt you I should be obliged to have at you again. You’ve torn my flounce with one of those clumsy great feet of yours. If you treat your horseflesh as cowhandedly as you do your dancing partners, I am surprised you haven’t been trampled by one of the poor beasts long since.”

The young woman’s former dancing partner, now showing all the signs of a man who would dearly love to cuff her on the ear but knew he could do no such thing and still be considered a gentleman, blustered a time or two before turning on his heels and limping away, leaving her quite deserted on the edge of the vast dance floor.

Thomas watched in open amusement as the young woman—hardly more than a girl, actually—jammed her fists onto her hips, glaring at the man’s departing back. “That’s it—run back to your mama. Perhaps she’ll feed you a sweet,” she declared vehemently, if quietly, so that Thomas supposed she hadn’t yet realized she’d been placed in the position of having to navigate her way back to her own mama by herself.