A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,5

making a perfect complement for her creamy ivory skin and bewitching green eyes. Tall, a good half foot taller than her petite mother, the chubby figure of her childhood had reformed itself into small, high breasts, a narrow waist, slim hips, and long straight legs.

In short, Marguerite Balfour was a fetchingly, devilishly, intriguingly beautiful young woman.

But Marguerite’s attributes did not begin and end with her beauty and personal charm. Marguerite had been taught as Sir Gilbert would have instructed his son, if he were to have been blessed with a male child rather than the girl child his late wife had educated as was the custom. In his opinion, this was the same as to say Victoria’s academic achievements bordered within an inch of nonexistence.

Short of sending Marguerite off to school, Sir Gilbert had employed the best tutors, so that she spoke French and Italian fluently, could read Latin, was well versed in mathematics and the sciences, could intelligently discuss the politics of the day, and quoted Shakespeare and even some minor poets without appearing to have to think about it first.

She also rode like a man, excelled in fencing, could load and shoot most any firearm with both speed and deadly accuracy—and had not forgotten a single word of any of Geoffrey Balfour’s sometimes contradictory, but always thought-provoking, lessons. She spent her spring months almost daily visiting the Gypsies, who continued to return to Chertsey, and played in the dirt with the Gypsy children, while learning from the women the dubious talents of purse cutting and fortune-telling.

At fourteen, she stole her first chicken. It was the most delicious chicken she had ever eaten.

Her mama’s softening influence showed itself in Marguerite’s love of beautiful clothing, her talent with needle and watercolors, her sweet if not powerful singing voice, and her graceful movements on the dance floor—even if her only partner to date had been her grandfather.

Marguerite had grown as the only child in a household of adults, so that she had matured far beyond her years in some ways while remaining childlike in many others. Her every wish had not been granted, but she had been given enough to make her believe that anything was possible, if she wanted it badly enough.

At the age of eighteen, upon her mother’s collapse and death at a neighbor’s afternoon party, Marguerite unexpectedly learned of something she wanted and almost immediately declared her intention of going to London. Only her grandfather’s pleas for a measure of decorum brought her agreement to wait until the following spring Season, when a suitable period of mourning had passed.

Marguerite was not just being biddable, for she was rarely submissive, even if she was very nearly always kind. She had belatedly realized she would need that time, as she confided to a badly shaken Maisie, to “search out the body of the man in the moon.”

BOOK ONE

THE FLAMES

BUILD

O! Who can hold a fire in his hand...?

— William Shakespeare

CHAPTER 1

When needs must, the devil drives.

— Irish Saying

LONDON

The Season, 1810

Thomas Joseph Donovan tossed his cloak and a coin in the general direction of one of the liveried footmen and strode to the wide marble staircase that clung to the curved wall rising to the first floor of the Grosvenor Square mansion. Always grease their palms early on, Thomas Joseph believed. It’s too late to flash your silver when your brand-new cloak is already riding home on someone else’s shoulders.

He had made certain to be unfashionably late this evening, so that the stairs were empty of the usual crush of bored ton members waiting their turn to pay their respects to their host and hostess. His long legs made short work of the climb, his mind intent on seeking out his quarry as quickly as possible, so that he might be quit of this place before the lure of the card tables drew him into spending another long night attending to any pursuit other than the mission he had been sent to accomplish.

Not that he had any fears for his purse. Thomas, although he had lived in America since his twelfth year, was Irish to the soles of his fashionable evening slippers, and had been blessed with the devil’s own luck with the cards. He could garner himself a tidy fortune in London if he continued to stumble over inept, chinless lords who seemed intent upon divesting themselves of their money night after night, but he had to keep his mind clear and remember his mission. After all, even a true patriot