A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,132

the light of the small blaze, Thomas was able to see the sack sitting on the ground beside Maxwell. The man opened the sack and pulled out a white rooster, holding it by the feet and extending his arm hard Harewood, who pulled out a knife, its blade glinting dully in the moonlight.

Dooley quickly blessed himself. “We shouldn’t be seeing this, Tommie. I’ve heard tell about such doings. Black arts, that’s what they are. We’ll be going to hell, seeing this, sure as check.”

Thomas motioned for Dooley to be quiet and watched, fascinated, as Harewood dispatched the rooster, then stuffed it back in the bag. Maxwell scooped the ashes from the tin plate they had been on and poured them into the bag, tying it shut with a leather thong before lofting the entire bundle into the air. A moment later Thomas heard a splash and knew Maxwell’s aim had found the ornamental water behind them.

Harewood lifted his chin proudly. Even from this distance Thomas could feel the man’s pride—his relief?—and motioned for Dooley to fade toward their left as Harewood shook hands with Maxwell and headed toward them.

Once Harewood passed, his form melting into the darkness, Thomas waved his arm at Dooley once more, silently instructing him to circle to his left, to come up behind Maxwell, while he himself began moving forward and to his right.

“Hello there, Maxwell,” he said a moment later as the mysterious man with the single eyebrow cut through the trees and ended up directly in front of him. “I’ll take the packet, if you please.”

Dooley came up behind Maxwell, cutting off any notion of escape, although that fact didn’t appear to depress the man. “Packet? Surely you are mistaken. I burned it, which you must have seen, if you’ve been watching for any length of time.”

Thomas smiled. “I’ve watched you play cards as well, Maxwell,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ve seen your handiwork in the Tower garden. You are, in fact, a truly remarkable man, and Marguerite is lucky to have you. Oh, yes, my friend. You have many, many talents. However, Marguerite also has me, and I’m not a hired assistant, but the man who loves her beyond life and would cheerfully kill anyone who stands between me and my intention of protecting her from her folly. Do we understand each other, Maxwell? I devoutly hope so.”

“He means it, boyo,” Dooley piped up. “He smiles a lot, our Tommie does, and goes a mite too far sometimes trying to prove he’s none too smart, but he’s got a mean streak in him a mile wide. All in all, I’d say Thomas Joseph Donovan is as great a rogue as ever stood in shoe leather. And I’d do what he says.”

“Donovan, heh? All right. I’ve heard of you. She must have trusted you more than she let on, though, to tell you about that ‘my friend’ business.” He shrugged. “But I promised Marguerite I’d bring Harewood’s confession to her,” Maxwell said, reaching beneath his jacket and pulling out the packet. “She thinks there should be enough evidence inside it to tuck up Harewood and Laleham in prison forever. Something about a long-ago try at treason, to hear her tell it. He played right into our hands, Harewood did, with his superstitions, his love of fortune-tellers, and his convenient horror of death. The Shield of Invincibility—as if it really exists! The man now believes he cannot die. The others were almost for fun, but Harewood is a bad man. Almost as bad as Laleham—though he’s worse. She loves you, you know. Do you love her? I mean, do you really love her?”

“Well enough to turn her over my knee and spank her darling sweet bottom once this is over, for scaring me out of seven years’ growth,” Thomas said absently, taking hold of the packet and raising his eyebrows appreciatively when he felt its thickness. Harewood seemed to have been a busy sinner. Then he looked directly into Maxwell’s eyes. “Tell me, do you love her?”

Maxwell smiled and shook his head. “Only as I would love a sister, which she is—if only in my heart. Giorgio and me, we’ve known her all our lives. I’m Marco, by the way, and not Maxwell. We weren’t sure Harewood would trust a Marco so easily, you understand. Marguerite came to our camp last spring with a world of hurt in her heart and an idea or two festering in that pretty little head. We’ve been