A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,147

was getting too complicated—and too dangerous by far.

The servant all but bowed Thomas into the house, and they were soon inside the drawing room, Sir Ralph’s grotesquely suspended body the decided focal piece of the well-kept, plainly furnished chamber.

He was dead all right, Thomas told himself, looking into Harewood’s lifeless eyes, doing his best to ignore the man’s purpled complexion. He walked slowly around the room, taking in the fallen chair, the tied cords, the short distance between Harewood’s toes and the floor, and remembered the man’s description of Geoffrey Balfour’s death and his horror of meeting the same fate.

There was, Thomas knew, no possible way Harewood would commit suicide. Not a man who had longed to live forever. And especially not a death by hanging.

He walked over to the cold fireplace, touching the cord as it was tied to the handle of the damper, then looked down at the ashes and saw the charred remains of several pieces of paper. He lifted one out, recognizing Harewood’s handwriting immediately as he read the words William and confession.

Had Harewood burned an earlier draft of his confession? It was possible. But then he looked at the body once more, at the cords. At all of the carefully knotted cords. Yes, it was possible Harewood had burned the papers. But not probable. He would have saved a copy; he had been that sort of man.

A man like Laleham, however, seeing those pages, would burn them.

What all had been in that confession? What all had Harewood written about Marguerite? About Laleham’s passion for Marguerite?

And then Thomas remembered.

... if he ever learned about the American, about the way he tumbled her, he’d kill her, that’s what William would do.

“Sweet Jesus and all the saints.” Thomas looked at the clock on the mantel. It was nearly nine. Marco and Paddy wouldn’t be arriving in Portman Square before eleven.

Marguerite wouldn’t know—she’d have no idea Laleham had in fact murdered her father, and not driven the man to suicide. She wouldn’t know Laleham had found a copy of Harewood’s confession. She wouldn’t know he had murdered Harewood. She wouldn’t know of Laleham’s obsession with her, wouldn’t realize that, because of her involvement with one very stupid American, she had put herself in the position of not only earning Laleham’s hatred but of becoming a prime suspect in this business of bringing down the members of The Club. Laleham was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d see it, sooner or later, a way to turn all blame away from himself. He may have seen it already.

But Marguerite was still laboring under the perceived brilliance of her plans, her damnably clever revenges that had turned so suddenly deadly. She would still believe herself to be the one with the upper hand. If Laleham came knocking at her door, she’d order him brought inside.

Please, Lord, let her still be sleeping!

Thomas threw down the charred page and started for the door. He had to get to Marguerite, had to see her, hold her—now! No! He had to enlist Marco and Paddy first, then go straight to Portman Square and remove Marguerite from London immediately—even if he had to bind and gag her to do it!

“‘ere now! Where would yer be runnin’ off ta? Oi thought yer said yer wuz gonna ‘elp me?”

“Me?” Thomas asked, pausing only for a moment. “I think not. Here—” he said, tossing a coin to the man, “this should help. Hire somebody to do it, why don’t you? Although, before you do that you might want to call back that watchman who was in here before and ask him a question.”

“Now why would Oi go and do that?” the servant asked, pocketing the coin.

Thomas smiled thinly. “Because you might be interested —as would I be if I were inclined to linger, which I’m not—in hearing him explain how your employer committed suicide with his hands tied behind his back.”

CHAPTER 20

This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past.

— Agathon

How is she this morning, Maisie?” Thomas asked as the maid closed the door behind her and started down the hallway. “Will she see me?”

The maid shook her head. “No, sir, and you’re wasting your time camping out here. She won’t see anybody, not even Sir Gilbert. And can any of us blame her? It’s like she’s lost them all over again, you understand, her mama and papa both, now she knows what those evil men done to him and has thought back on what seeing