A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,129
the unmasking, and it is very nearly midnight. Would you care to join us?”
“I prefer to leave before midnight,” Sir Ralph answered, already walking away, for he had seen William skulking about and wished to be gone before William saw him. “Until Sunday morning?”
“Yes, indeed,” the American answered, bowing, his assured manner setting off another niggling jangle of warning bells in Sir Ralph’s brain, a warning he once more refused to heed. “Until Sunday morning. It should prove to be a most interesting day. Oh, and Harewood,” he ended, smiling, “good-bye.”
Sir Ralph blinked, nodded, and went on his way.
Couples were streaming toward the center of the gardens as midnight neared, giggling debutantes with their elaborate gowns mussed from Dark Walk assignations, gentlemen strutting like satisfied peacocks, their grins advertising their amorous successes of the evening.
Marguerite could barely contain her impatience for the unmasking. Everything was falling into place. One by one by one her enemies were toppling, just as she had planned for so long, and she was anxious to see Mappleton take his fall.
She looked around her, frowning, wondering if Donovan had forgotten to meet her, then waved to him gaily as she saw him approaching from one of the walkways. He was alone, so Sir Ralph must already be gone, sneaking away into the darkness. That was a pity. She would have liked to see his face when Mappleton was brought low. It might make him understand, at last, that he, too, was about to suffer a major tumble from grace. After all, it might do him good to worry. He couldn’t change anything. The die was already cast.
“Here you are, Miss Balfour,” Thomas said by way of greeting before bowing to Mrs. Billings, who was dressed as a lady-in-waiting to the queen, and looking woefully uncomfortable in the role. “Thank you for the hint. I have no idea why, but Sir Ralph was a most agreeable companion this evening. But now—I have appeared, as ordered, for the unmasking. Where’s his lordship?”
“Be quiet, will you?” Marguerite whispered fiercely. Honestly, the man had simply no finesse, much as she loved him. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to overhear him saying anything that would draw attention to her. “He’s over there, behind you, dressed as His Royal Highness Henry VIII at his most corpulent. Miss Rollins is costumed as the ghost of Anne Boleyn—right down to the necklace bearing the initial B that she always wore. She lost her head, you know. Miss Rollins can’t quite duplicate that feat, but it should be interesting to see her make the attempt, don’t you agree?”
Thomas swiveled sharply on his heels to look at the pair of them, then turned back, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Well, at least he didn’t need much padding around his middle, now did he?”
Mrs. Billings tittered behind her hand and Marguerite smiled, surprised to see her chaperone possessed at least a limited sense of humor.
“What do you think of Miss Rollins’s costume, Mr. Donovan?” Marguerite asked, eager to hear his answer. She had selected the costume personally, and it was fashioned like all of Georgianna’s wardrobe—high-necked and long-sleeved, although tonight’s ghostly white rig-out was more dramatic. The creature’s blond hair was piled high on her head and hung in fetching ringlets on the lace of her usual high collar around which was strung the short, distinctive necklace.
Thomas’s next words took Marguerite by surprise, even though she knew she should have counted on him to come up with a workable theory sooner or later. “Although I cannot see behind her mask, I do recall her features with some clarity. That, and the tilt of her head. Tell me, Miss Balfour, is she the Tower gardener’s sister? She has that same sort of rawboned, good-peasant-stock look to her even though she’s very slim. Is that the joke? I’m thinking of the eyebrow, you understand, in case you’re supposing I’m only guessing at her identity. Is she going to strip off her mask at midnight and then break into a loud cockney? It’s good, and will doubtless cause Lord Mappleton a considerable deal of embarrassment, but it’s not, I fear, up to your previous genius.”
“What’s Mr. Donovan talking about, Marguerite?” Mrs. Billings asked, already searching in her reticule for her vinaigrette. “I’m not going to like this, am I? Oh, I simply know I’m not going to like this.”
Marguerite ignored the woman. “Don’t damn me with faint praise, Donovan,” she said, grinning up