A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,71
needed only to find five more, each to match the funds I had borrowed from W.R. And I listened! Fool that I am, I fought down my intuitions—and believed!
It was good, so very good, in the beginning. But the bubble burst yesterday, before time, before I could warn my friends to sell out. Before I could reap the fortune I was so sure to have won.
Now we are all under the hatches, and it is entirely upon my shoulders that the blame must rest. How do I face these poor men who invested upon my advice, bringing their own families to the edge of ruin? How do I find the funds to save them? How do I face Sir Gilbert?
My dearest wife? My darling kitten—my Marguerite? Myself?
W.R. could afford the loss. Yet I owe him ten thousand. Funds I don’t have. Never will have. I meet with him tonight—with him and the others. The Club. God! That I should be reduced to contemplating a deeper association with those rascals!
But I will go. I will listen, even as I fear that this time it will not be an investment, but a deeper intrigue they wish me to perform.
Stupid! Stupid! My hand trembles as I scribble. I always knew there were deep dealings there. They speak of Amiens. They speak of a sickly Pitt. Fifteen million English standing against forty million French. I hear their sentiments. I understand their meaning. If Pitt were to die sooner than later? They would make of me a murderer, a paid assassin! Sixty thousand pounds for a well-placed bullet. I know what they will ask, what they will offer. Always knew they were not to be trusted. Dare I write the word? Yes, a dead man dares anything.
Treason!
Do my fear and my shame give me the strength to listen to it all and then say no? Will I be able to turn away, report them? Can I risk it? And yet, can I risk doing what they ask in order to save myself, my friends, and then ever again look into my little kitten’s trusting eyes without flinching? Does sweet Marguerite’s man in the moon truly possess a heart? A soul?
The sun drops, and the moon rises. I must go. There is no other way. I must tell them no. I must! Oh, God, my most benevolent God, you allow me to walk upright. Surely, then, I must possess a spine?
Marguerite closed the diary on her father’s final entry, his last before his death just a day later, and wiped at her wet cheeks with trembling fingers. The hall clock had chimed out the hour of three, and still she could not sleep. Thomas had revealed too much to her tonight, and guessed too much in return. How could she possibly sleep?
Treason. She knew from her lessons, from her readings of recent history, that Pitt had been the only man England trusted with her future during those ominous days when the island awaited the French invasion. Pitt had represented national union and resolve when fear and panic reigned supreme.
Thank God he had lived, to ally Russia, Austria, and Sweden, to rally the people, to see Nelson’s triumph at Trafalgar and thwart Bonaparte’s ambition. Let us be masters of the Channel for six hours, and we are masters of the world. That is what Bonaparte had boasted—until Trafalgar. But what of her father’s question? What if Pitt had died early in 1803? What if those opposed to Pitt had been in power? How would their world have been changed?
Treason. If the members of The Club had considered it once, would they hesitate to attempt it again now, with war still raging between England and France?
And precisely where did Thomas Joseph Donovan fit into any of this? There had to be deep doings going on between The Club and the American emissary. She could not blame Thomas, not really, for he was only acting for his government. But these were dangerous times, and he was dealing with dangerous men. They had, in a way, already killed once. They had brought about the death of her father, who could not bring himself to choose between treason and financial ruin. Who could not risk losing the adoration of his loving daughter.
Marguerite cradled her forehead in her hands as she bent over the desk, her temples pounding with a headache she could not ignore, no matter how her brains ached to seek a solution to her problems.