A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,86
is quite obvious you have had little experience in society. Everyone is to unmask at midnight. We will have to meet earlier—say, at eleven. Then we can be gone our separate ways long before the unmasking.”
Thomas inclined his head a second time. “I bow to your superior planning and intelligence, my friend.”
Harewood lifted a hand to just below his left eye, where a nerve had begun to twitch. “Your friend? How nice of you to say that, Mr. Donovan. I like it. Yes, I believe you’re correct. Friends can be very helpful to each other, can’t they?”
“Extremely helpful, Sir Ralph,” Thomas said, suddenly realizing Marguerite had been busy again, for this was not quite the same Sir Ralph he had been dealing with since coming to London. He seemed less sure of himself, yet at the same time was showing signs of independent thinking Thomas had not noticed earlier. “But now I must be off, for I have promised Miss Balfour I would speak with her tonight about her grandfather’s wish to meet and discuss life in Philadelphia.”
“Marguerite?” Harewood questioned, frowning. “She is in disgrace this evening, Mr. Donovan, having flaunted convention by eschewing maidenly pearls for colored stones. Sir Gilbert has let her run wild and, much as I wish to be her friend”—he blinked hard as he said the words, then collected himself—“I, and the rest of us, cannot continue to champion her if she’s determined to make a spectacle of herself.”
“Then I am no longer being warned off, Sir Ralph? And do your associates agree as well? Lord Chorley? Lord Mappleton? Sir Peregrine? Laleham? How accommodating of you all.”
Harewood slipped a finger beneath his collar, easing it away from his throat, as if he felt the rough hemp of a noose around his neck and was seeking escape. “I don’t care what you do with her, Mr. Donovan. She’s no longer of any concern to me. Just meet with me at Vauxhall so that we might conclude our negotiations. Our plans must move forward, and quickly. I need my future assured now that—never mind. I see Lord Mappleton over there, with his latest, and only, conquest. I believe it’s time I congratulated him on his good fortune, even if Sir Peregrine is convinced he will be throwing himself away on a rich tradesman’s chit—as if I care either way. Good evening to you, Mr. Donovan—until Friday night?”
Thomas watched after Harewood as the man moved away, noting the new air of confidence in his stride while trying to understand the reason behind both it and Sir Ralph’s new forthcoming manner, especially in the face of Laleham’s presence.
This could get ugly, he decided before dismissing the thought of intriguer falling out with intriguer from his mind. He made his way down the length of the enormous ballroom to meet the beautiful, outrageous, and most certainly conniving young woman he knew to be his fate.
“Good evening, Mrs. Billings, Miss Balfour,” he said by way of greeting once he’d bowed in front of the ladies, smiling as he saw Marguerite was wearing his gift in her hair. If he had needed another sign of her unspoken agreement to what he had planned for this evening, the hairpin was it.
“Mr. Donovan,” Marguerite responded, snapping open her fan and beginning to wave it rapidly beneath her chin. “You are very daring this evening, sir, to approach these outcasts. Or haven’t you noticed Mrs. Billings and I have been consigned to limbo, thanks to my grandmother’s rubies.”
Mrs. Billings, who had been in the process of concealing a wide yawn behind her lace-mitted paws, leaned forward confidingly. “I have thrown up my hands, Mr. Donovan, and take no responsibility for this hoydenish behavior. Not that it matters, for I am already ruined. I shall never find gainful employ as a chaperone again! Oh, I am so weary, and have the most crushing headache!”
“I suggested she adjourn to Scotland, where no one will know her, and become governess to someone’s little kilted laird but, alas, she is still overset,” Marguerite told him, her emerald eyes shining with what he knew was an almost unholy glee. “Do you know, Mr. Donovan, that even my dearest friends have deserted me? Not Mappleton, nor Harewood, nor Chorley—not even Sir Peregrine—have dared to approach me this evening. And I did so wish to speak with Miss Eyebrows again. It is vastly amusing, you know, being a pariah.”
“Oh, my head, my head!” Mrs. Billings exclaimed, searching in her reticule for her