A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,149

for a short nap in the coach on their way from London. He was so weary he had begun to forget just how much he’d divulged to Sir Gilbert, and how much he had kept from him. From Marguerite.

“We may be overreacting, Sir Gilbert,” he said, hoping to reassure the two old men. “Murdering Sir Ralph when he learned of the man’s confession—and I’m convinced he learned of it—put Laleham beyond the pale. Why, right now he might be boarding ship the way Totton did, knowing it would be foolhardy for him to remain in England with that confession hanging over his head. He probably hasn’t connected Marguerite to any of it.” He forced a smile. “In fact, I believe I’m willing to make a wager on it. Five pounds. No—ten! Any takers?”

Both Sir Gilbert and Finch remained silent, and Thomas left them, going to the morning room to seek out Dooley, who had been assigned the job of watching out over the gardens from that excellent vantage point. Thomas wanted Dooley to feel a part of things but, as with Sir Gilbert and the indomitable Finch, he didn’t want the older man too close to trouble. He already had enough to be sorry for without having to return to Philadelphia and face Bridget with the news that her Paddy had met a nasty end.

“Heyday, Tommie!” Dooley said jovially, laying down the brace of dueling pistols he’d been aiming out the open doors and in the general direction of the garden. “I haven’t been this excited since Bridget’s aged ma was being courted by that draper fella last spring. It came to nothing, of course, and she’s still sticking her skinny shanks under my table—but you never know. Do you really think his slimy lordship will show up here?”

Thomas sat down on one of the green and yellow flowered couches and crossed one leg over the other, his fingers digging in to scratch his skin above his highly polished Hessians. “Everyone’s asking that same question. I don’t know if I’m giving the bastard too much credit or not enough. If he thinks Marguerite and I got together and used her knowledge of them to come up with all those schemes to divide and conquer him and the rest of The Club? Then, yes, I do believe he’ll show up here. Remember, Paddy, how much he wants that letter from Madison. If he thought I have the confession from Harewood to hold over his head, getting myself the goods and ships without having to turn over the letter—”

“And the money, boyo. Don’t forget all that lovely money. You’re the one what let them think you weren’t above getting something for yourself, and the devil with Madison or any of the rest of it. You took Marguerite, used her knowledge of the five of them to bring them down—all of it. Yes, then I do imagine Laleham thinks you’re a very nasty man and would like nothing better than to see you dead.”

“And Marguerite as well, Paddy, now that he knows she won’t be the innocent consort Harewood was raving about in that confession of his. So, whether it be for the one of us or the both of us, he’ll be here. He can’t feel safe as long as we’re alive. You know what, Paddy? After listening to something Maisie said just now, something about Marguerite’s mother—I think Laleham is quite mad, as well as clever.”

“Mad? Well, that’s no great leap, Tommie. I think you’re all mad. Mad as hatters.”

“Don’t worry I’ll try to argue the point.” Thomas crossed his hands behind his head and leaned against the back of the couch. He was tired, so very tired. “Ah, Paddy, I wish he’d make a move. If he doesn’t, I’ll have to travel back to London to search him out, and I don’t want to leave Marguerite.”

“We’ll keep her safe for you, boyo.”

Marguerite stirred sometime after midnight, having at last fallen into a deep sleep after crying until she’d finally run out of tears. She turned onto her back in the bed she had slept in since her early childhood, pressing a hand to her eyes as she tried to remember why she was at Chertsey Abbey rather than in London.

And then it all came rushing back—the news of Ralph’s death, the memory of reading his confession naming William Renfrew as the man who had struck down her father, then hung up his body for his wife to find. She had