A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,135
could never know it all!
“What are you going to do, boyo?” Dooley asked, returning to the table after getting them all fresh drinks. “You have to let her know her father died a hero. She deserves to know that.”
Thomas took a long drink, then came to a decision. “Paddy—get yourself pen and ink and some paper. Marguerite won’t know Harewood’s handwriting, I hope, and if she does, the words she’ll be reading will keep her from questioning it. Copy down the confession, all that information about bubbles and business ventures. That and the very end. Marco—help him rework the middle pages, where Harewood talks about the details of Balfour’s death, and that business about her mother as well. Say that Geoffrey fought like a man possessed, but William threw him down and he—he hit his head on an andiron or something, killing him instantly. They strung up the body so no one would know it was murder. Marguerite can read that. She can handle that. She has to know her father never planned to leave her without saying good-bye. But that’s all she has to know. Understand?”
Paddy nodded, already writing. It was after one in the morning, and they all knew Marguerite expected Marco at the kitchen door before ten. Harewood was a wordy man, his confession running to ten close-written pages. They didn’t have much time. “What will you be doing, Tommie?” he asked, looking up at him.
“First,” Thomas answered, shrugging into his jacket, then fitting a knife, his favorite knife, up one sleeve, “I’m going to climb a Portman Square drainpipe and love that brave, courageous, wonderful aingeal to within an inch of exhaustion—because she deserves it and because I’d like to think she’ll sleep late tomorrow after I leave her.”
“And then?” Dooley was looking at him strangely, as if there was something visible in his eyes the Irishman had seen once or twice before. “There’s more. And not just because I saw you slip that fancy sticker up your sleeve. I know it in my bones. What will you be doing while your Marguerite is sleeping, a smile still on her pretty face?”
Thomas headed for the door, stopping only when he had his hand on the handle. “Marco, you deliver the packet, but not until eleven. Stay with her while she reads the confession, then sit on her if you have to, but don’t let her out of your sight until I come for her. Paddy, you go with him, to make sure he gets in to see her, then come back here and pack, for we’ll be leaving for Chertsey tomorrow afternoon—and most probably Philadelphia soon after that.”
“Always the valet,” Dooley muttered, sighing. “I’d much rather go around town banging heads with you. You can’t count on that fool Harewood to do any of the work for you, even if he does hint in that sorry confession of his that he plans to murder Laleham. Precious lot of courage the man’s gotten, now that he has Marco’s Shield of Invincibility. Immortal, is it? Bloody fool! Even the leprechauns can’t promise that. So that’s what you’ll be doing early tomorrow morning, isn’t it, Tommie? Having some of your own back on Harewood and the earl before we’re on our way? Marguerite would want that.”
“No, Paddy,” Marco said, his head cocked to one side as he regarded Thomas solemnly. “He’ll not be beating on them. He’ll be killing them. Killing them dead. Won’t you, my friend?”
Thomas smiled, although his heart wasn’t in it. “I didn’t hear that, Marco, because you didn’t say it. You’re welcome to come to Philadelphia with us—you and Giorgio both. If anything goes wrong, Marguerite and I won’t be the only ones to have worn out our welcomes in England.”
“Many thanks, but we’re late joining the others for our summer trek. I’ve a taste for pilfered chicken that must be satisfied. We’ll be leaving London tomorrow, once we know Marguerite is safely with you.”
Thomas nodded, silently agreeing to the plan. “My thanks to you, Marco. Marguerite couldn’t have been half so brilliant without you, although I like my head too much to ever say such a thing to her face.”
“The plans were hers, my friend. Giorgio and I were only her instruments. Good luck to you.”
“Tommie—have a care.”
Thomas looked to Dooley. “Do you worry I can’t handle them?” he asked, already thinking ahead to his confrontations with Harewood and the earl.
“Not those bastards, boyo,” Dooley shot back. “Marguerite. She might not take kindly to