A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,122
to pay for a dinner party. I’m ruined, my dear, all rolled up. Wattle’s sticking as close as plaster, so I can’t bolt and save myself that way, much as I want to. Prinny has deserted me, and the rest of my set has gone with him. I thought they were my friends, but they were the fair-weather sort, sure as check. Ralph is still loyal, but not by much, and only because he wants something from me. So does William, come to think of it. Well, he won’t be best pleased, now will he? Not that it matters, for I couldn’t have pleased both of them. Arthur? He’s too besotted to care if I live or die, and Perry here has enough on his own plate without my problems. Made a real cake of yourself today, Perry, stap me if you didn’t. I hear Cruikshank’s already penning a cartoon for the broadsheets. Calling it “The Balbus Bauble-leer” or some such nonsense. At a ha’penny apiece, they’ll be tacked up all over London. I dare say, Perry, you ain’t looking so good. Do you feel all right?”
Marguerite frowned. Lord Chorley was taking his ruin exceedingly well. “What will you do, Stinky?” she asked, motioning for him to sit down on the facing couch.
“Do?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t the foggiest, my dear. I cried like a babe at first, but that didn’t help a jot. I suppose I’ll simply have to kill myself, put a period to my existence, stick my spoon in the wall—you know.”
“I see,” Marguerite said quietly, then bit her bottom lip. She had wanted revenge, but she hadn’t planned on anyone dying, committing suicide as her father had done. If she had wanted them dead, she would have shot them, one by one, and never blinked. She wanted them to suffer.
Sir Peregrine jumped to his feet, glaring at Lord Chorley. “Don’t frighten the child, Stinky,” he demanded angrily. “You’re entirely too selfish to ever kill yourself.”
Lord Chorley scratched at a spot just above his left ear. “I know, but I want somebody to feel sorry for me. That’s why I came here, but you beat me to it, parading your woebegone look, begging for sympathy.” He slapped his hands against his knees and stood. “Well, Wattle, shall we be off? I believe I have enough in my pockets to feed the two of us one more time before they cart me off to debtor’s prison. You will visit me, Marguerite, won’t you? Perhaps even bring me a basket of warm scones and a fresh pack of cards?”
“You can depend upon me, Stinky,” Marguerite answered, much relieved. With any luck, Lord Chorley would be a resident of the Fleet for many years to come.
“I, too, shall be going, my dear,” Lord Peregrine said, sighing. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see a line of duns outside my own door when I return home—not that I owe the half of what Stinky here does, but nervous creditors are one of the prices men pay for being in disfavor. Good-bye, Marguerite. You’ve been a loyal friend, and I can only hope none of Stinky’s or my taint rubs off on you.”
“Good-bye, dear gentlemen,” Marguerite said solemnly, then ushered them out before returning to the morning room, her step light as she knew she had succeeded even beyond her wildest hopes. They had been destroyed, and they had no idea she had been the instrument of that destruction.
Now the other three had to be dealt with, and quickly, before they had time to realize they were targets, that someone was out to get them.
Tonight, Mappleton.
Tomorrow, the other two. The last two. The ones she felt sure were the worst of the lot. The most intelligent and therefore the most guilty.
She sat at the desk once more and opened her father’s diary to read: R.H.—Greedy. Ambitious and unnaturally superstitious. Poor fellow, so afraid to die that he has yet to live! W.R.—Enigma, damn him. Beware the man without weaknesses.
Marguerite closed the diary and sat staring out the window, gnawing on her knuckle. Victory was soon to be hers, but her triumph would mean Donovan’s defeat in whatever secret dealings he and his country had with the members of The Club.
Donovan loved her. He had said so. But would he still love her when this was over? She had lived in the past and the present for so long. Could she at last dare to think of the future?