A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,150

read all of it while Donovan and Marco and Giorgio and her grandfather and even Paddy and Finch had stood by, silent, waiting for her to react.

And she had not disappointed them, she thought now ruefully, remembering the way she had fallen apart, then gathered herself together and flown into a rage, cursing William and trying to rush from the drawing room to seek the man out and beat him to death with her own two hands.

Donovan had stopped her, of course. The man could stop a charging bull, he was that strong. He’d lifted her over his shoulder, holding her flailing legs as he carried her upstairs, while she beat at him and screamed at him like some Bedlamite. He’d then locked her in her grandmother’s empty dressing room until the coaches were loaded. She’d fought him just as hard when he lugged her back down the stairs and forced her into the traveling coach, and she was sure he must be wearing more than a few bruises.

Poor Donovan. Marguerite spared the man she loved some slight sympathy as she dragged herself from the bed and began quietly going about the business of locating the breeches and shirt she had always donned when she visited the Gypsy camp and rode bareback ponies with Marco and Giorgio and the others.

How long ago that all seemed now, those carefree days of her youth. But she was no longer young, and hadn’t been since her mother died.

Laleham had to have been the persistent suitor in the maze. Marguerite was sure of that now. Her papa had taught her how to think, how to reason, how to take that next logical step. Knowing what she knew now, Laleham was that next logical step. It just made sense.

Laleham had been the man in the maze.

Laleham, the heartbroken but oh-so-true friend who had taken part in the long vigil at her mother’s bedside.

Laleham, their rock, their helpful, sympathetic friend, who had comforted her grandfather and herself when the end had come.

Laleham, the unconscionable bastard who had brought about that premature end.

Laleham, the coldhearted schemer who had murdered Geoffrey Balfour and taken that sweet, wonderful, loving man away from his wife and child.

The Earl of Laleham was the monster behind everything terrible that had ever happened to the Balfours!

And Donovan wanted her to sit here like some helpless miss, safely tucked up in the country, while he, because he loved her, traveled back to London to finish the revenge she had started? He had as much chance of that as he did of hoping for the sky to crack open so it could rain rubies. Not that he’d tell her he was going. It was just the next logical step.

She left her rumpled night rail on the floor and quickly stepped into the breeches, then slipped on the full-sleeved white shirt that had been her father’s, covering it with a long leather vest with large pockets. She found her boots in the back of one of the cupboards and wasted little time tying her hair away from her face before jamming one of her father’s favorite wide-brimmed fishing hats down low on her head.

Now all she needed was a weapon. William would return to Laleham Hall now that his plans for treason most surely had faded away with Stinky, and Arthur, and Perry, and Ralph. She was convinced of that fact for that, too, was the next logical step. Laleham Hall had always been William’s place of safety, his refuge—a haven where he would most naturally retire to regroup after murdering Ralph. Murdering Ralph! God, was there no limit to the man’s evil?

Yes. Yes, there was. She’d put an end to it. She’d started this, and she would be the one to finish it. Only then could she forget the past and find some measure of peace. Peace that would not come if William were only to be hauled off to prison, but only when he was dead.

Marguerite tucked the boots under her arm, slowly depressed the latch leading to her dressing room, then tiptoed toward the door in the back hallway that led directly to the servants’ stairs. She’d take up pistols in Sir Gilbert’s study and be on her way across the fields to Laleham Hall, traveling a well-worn path she could follow in the moonlight. She’d be there, waiting, when William returned to his country home, when he came back to the scene of all his crimes against the Balfours—and she’d stand there