A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 10

As the saying is, I have got a wolf by the ears.

— Terence

It never ceases to amaze me, the lengths to which a man who publicly purports his intelligence might travel to establish his inborn stupidity. I agreed to the scheme, for the money it would bring my dearest Victoria and Marguerite. No—strike that. At least let this pitiful fool be honest one last time, if only with himself.

I did it for the solace it would bring my accursed vanity to be able, at last, to care for my wife and child as I would like rather than be the indigent husband living on his wife’s father. W.R. swore the investment was sound, and I 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.

Chorley was already happily riding along the road to financial ruin, obligingly following the path she had plotted for him—with the able guidance of her card-sharping hireling, Maxwell, of course.

Mappleton was proving even easier than she’d hoped, the fortune-mad simpleton. As Perry’s reaction to news of Miss Rollins had proved consistent with her father’s diary entry concerning Mappleton, Arthur had been on the look out for a rich wife for so long, he now could be led to his doom with a halter of snow.

Totton’s fall from the lofty pinnacle of his own consequence, again, already in progress, thanks to his overweening air of superior intellect, would be a delight to watch.

Those three were the minor ones, the easy ones, and she wanted them out of the way quickly, so that she could concentrate on Harewood and Laleham, for whom she prayed there would be prison cells waiting at the end of her path to revenge. After all, attempted treason, even one contemplated years in the past, had to be punishable, didn’t it?

According to her man, Maxwell, Harewood was nearly in their grasp. Maxwell had been having great success in bending the superstitious, ambitious man’s will by way of employing hypnotic, soporific tones and the simple words “my friend” each time they met, slowly undermining Harewood’s inhibitions. Soon they would learn his greatest fear and use it to their advantage, as they had planned. She needed Harewood under her control so that she could use Sir Ralph to destroy Laleham. Unlike her father, who must have forgotten his own warnings, she respected the earl’s strengths and had long ago decided not to take him on personally.

She was well on her way to revenging herself on the members of The Club. For her father’s murder, as she could find no other word to describe what had happened to Geoffrey Balfour. For her mother’s years of suffering and final agony. For her own pain. Her revenge, more than a year in the making, was playing out now just as she had hoped.

She did not wish to kill any of them, for that would make her no better than they. But she had suffered for long years. Now they would suffer, each in his own, separate hell. For long years. That was the best revenge.

Except she hadn’t planned on Thomas Joseph Donovan.

She also had not considered she would be dealing with anyone save five aging men who had settled into comfortable lives far removed from intrigues such as those they had indulged in so many years ago. Yet this new development could work to her advantage. If William and the rest of them were busy concentrating on their own scheme they would not have much time to question the small diversions she was offering, diversions that would soon bring them crashing down one by one.

Their defeat would also be Donovan’s defeat, if she had deduced correctly that he was representing his government in some intrigue with The Club. If he had already guessed she was up to mischief, would his loyalty to his country also move him to try to thwart her? Would her loyalty to her own country be enough to console her if she did thwart some possible treason and Donovan turned away from her?

Yes, what of the two of them? What of this insane passion that had sprung up between them, this wild attraction that could no more be denied than it could ever be fulfilled? This certain knowledge that what they shared between them could very easily destroy them both?

She had run from him tonight, not in fear of being compromised there in the shrubbery, but in sudden terror of her own desires. A single look from his laughing blue eyes, a single touch of his hand on her arm, a single smile curving that absurd mustache—any one gesture was enough to send her melting at his feet, eager and open to his every caress, his every intimacy, his every sweet, believable lie. She couldn’t trust him, but she could love him.

Perhaps she already loved him? How would she know? Would she recognize love when she saw it, felt it?

She raised her head to look at the portrait of her father through her tears. “Ah, Papa, I need you so much. I’ve planned for so long, but now I don’t know. Does your kitten follow her head—or her heart?”



The heavy velvet draperies were closed across the windows, shutting out the morning sun from the small room Sir Ralph Harewood used as his private study.

Sir Ralph twitched the edge of one drapery into place, then lit two small candles on the table that was almost the only piece of furniture in the room, before seating himself behind it, facing the door. A moment later there was a single knock and he called out “Come!” before touching the deck of tarot cards that lay between the candlesticks. Just as quickly as he had touched the cards he drew his hand away.

It wouldn’t do to look anxious.

A tall, thin man with frayed collar and cuffs entered the room and took up the chair on the opposite side of the table, his long, bony fingers nimbly picking up the deck as he smiled at Sir Ralph. “Not today, my friend,” he said in a deep, gravelly voice, pocketing the cards. “Do you hear me, my friend? Today the stars guide me to the ancient art of chiromancy. If you would be so good as to give me your two hands.”

“Palmistry, Maxwell?” Sir Ralph asked, frowning even as he laid his hands, palms down, on the tabletop, as if he could not help himself, which was ridiculous, because he was his own man and not a puppet.

Still, he shied away from palmistry, and had done so for a dozen years, ever since that old crone he’d met in Italy had pointed to his life line and warned him against cigars and heavy drinking. He had learned to moderate his life, his emotions, his desires. He lived evenly, almost austerely, seeking neither the highs nor the lows, for too much emotion could tire his heart and shorten his life.

“You do not trust me, my friend?”

Sir Ralph looked up to see Maxwell’s coal dark eyes staring at him, looking straight through him. The fortuneteller gave him the shivers, but he had been right more than he had been wrong these past two weeks, ever since the man had walked up to him on the street and told him he had been “sent by the stars to search out an honorable but troubled gentleman and then guide him through rough waters and into a safe harbor.”

It was ridiculous to believe such a man, but Sir Ralph had believed in omens all of his life, and he could not turn the man away with a coin or a curse and still rest easy at night. He had met with Maxwell that same afternoon and every day since, still not sure Maxwell was really the man’s name, but increasingly confident the fellow knew his business.

Harewood returned Maxwell’s stare, unable to look away.

Maxwell knew things about him only someone who had known him for years and years could know, even to his dislike for red meat and his affection for his deceased mother.

And so much more.

Hadn’t Maxwell warned him that someone close to him would soon fall under Cupid’s dart—and an unsuitable alliance at that?

Hadn’t he seen William’s injury, albeit after the fact, and hinted of “foreign” intervention in his life?

Hadn’t he foretold Perry’s discovery of some ridiculous coded manuscript, describing Perry as an ambitious man with delusions of his own importance?

Most recently—and most telling of all—Maxwell had held up the card of The Hanged Man as he had spoken of a shared shame, a dark secret that he, with all his knowledge of the ages, could not yet pierce—an old crime for which blame was equally yet unfairly shared.

The Hanged Man. It had been that session, that damning card, that had served both to prove Maxwell’s talent and unearth Sir Ralph’s deepest resentment. It was William’s fault. It had always been William’s fault!

Sir Ralph blinked rapidly, took a deep breath, and extended his hands—and his trust.

Maxwell took Sir Ralph’s left hand and held it between both of his, massaging the palm, lightly manipulating each finger. “Relax, my friend. I am put off by tension and cannot concentrate.” He turned Sir Ralph’s hand palm up, and smiled. “Ah—just as I supposed. You were destined for great things, my friend. These mounds—here, and here—symbolize success, wealth, and, yes, even power. Most especially power. You were born to lead, my friend.”

My friend. My friend. My friend. How soothing. How comforting. I feel so peaceful now. I always feel so very relaxed when Maxwell is with me. I could listen to him say it forever. My friend. Oh, yes—yes, I hear you. Sir Ralph leaned forward, staring at his own hand, trying to see what Maxwell saw. “Go on. Please.”

Maxwell smiled. “I will, my friend. But you must now give me your right hand. What I have told you thus far is what you were born to accomplish. Now, with your right hand, I will see what you have done with your life.”

Sir Ralph hesitated, his muzzy senses once more alerted by old yet ever-present fears. “I know my past, Maxwell. It’s my future that interests me.”

“Your past is your future, my friend,” Maxwell said in a soothing voice, beginning to massage Sir Ralph’s right hand, his bony fingers gently pulling on each digit as he turned the hand palm down, then palm up once more. He ran a finger over the contours of Sir Ralph’s palm, then looked at him inquiringly. “I’m confused, my friend. Such greed. Such avarice. I see money, so much money coming into your hands and never leaving them. You live simply. You keep only one plain carriage and live in these few rooms—a Spartan life without luxuries. Why, my friend, when you have so much?”

Maxwell was getting too close. Sir Ralph pulled his hand away and balled it into a fist in his lap. “That is none of your concern. What I do with my money is my business.” He shoved his hand onto the table once more, surprising himself at his own daring. “Here—look again. Look at my line of life. Tell me what you see.”

Maxwell shook his head. “No, my friend. You don’t want to know what I see.”

“Why?” Sir Ralph had to force the question past his lips. It was as if he was back in Italy, and the old woman was cackling, laughing at his terrible fate. Hadn’t anything changed? With everything he had done, all the precautions he had taken, couldn’t his future have been altered, at least a little? Was he living plainly, austerely, soberly, saving his money for an old age he would never see? Was he about to die? Oh, God! He didn’t want to die! Not yet. Not ever.

“Because without your total cooperation, my friend, the reading would be incomplete. I might miss something of the highest importance.” He leaned forward, his black-as-pitch eyes nearly burning red, so that Sir Ralph found it impossible to look away. “I want to help you, my friend. I need to help you. Trust me, my friend. And tell me, tell me now—why do you need so much money?”

My friend. My friend. Sir Ralph’s mouth was dry, and his heart pounded in his chest like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil. He couldn’t look away from Maxwell, from those black, burning eyes. He felt otherworldly, as if he were floating above his chair, caught in the invisible rays of power emanating from the fortune-teller.

The final wall of his resistance lay in ruins at his feet. He could no longer deny the man anything. He no longer wanted to deny him. “It—it sounds silly to say it, Maxwell, but I—I’ve been saving as much as I can, living as evenly as I can, so that I will live longer,” he heard himself admitting against all he had promised himself. “I want to have a comfortable old age. I want to live—for a long time. A very long time.”

“So do we all, my friend. But if it is not written in your stars, in your palm—” Maxwell sat back, sighing. “Unless...”

“Unless what? Maxwell, do you know something? Can you help me? You must help me!” he fairly shouted, perspiration pouring out all over his body even as he shivered with cold. “Maxwell—I’m so afraid. You say you’re my friend. Can’t you help me? I need help, some way, some answer to life—to the alternative to death! I don’t want to die,” he said passionately, beginning to weep, his nondescript, emotionless features twisted into a grimace of real, physical pain.

He could still hear the old crone speaking of his death. And he could still see Geoffrey Balfour, dying. Geoffrey hadn’t wanted to die. He didn’t want to die. No sane man wants to die. “Death is so obscene, so wasteful. I saw it, Maxwell! I’ve seen death, felt it.”

Maxwell’s voice turned hard, demanding. “This is all very enlightening, my friend, but you are not being totally honest with me. You mustn’t fight me, my friend, but answer truthfully every question that I ask. We are, the two of us, on the verge of a miraculous breakthrough, a union of spirits and minds that can bring you your greatest wish. Talk to me, my friend. You are not telling me everything about the money. There’s more to it than a wish for a comfortable old age, isn’t there? You expect the money to keep you alive, don’t you?” he heard Maxwell asking, as if from a distance, his once more singsong tones calling Sir Ralph back from the edge of panic he had learned to hide so well. “Tell me, my friend, how will money keep you alive?”

Maxwell was so smart, so deep! He was all knowing, all seeing. And he wished to help him! Sir Ralph’s eyes widened as he wet his lips, suddenly eager to explain. “You will think me stupid, superstitious—but I have heard there are ways to prolong life, ancient secrets. I’ve spent thousands. Tens of thousands. For potions. For machines. I’ve nearly beggared myself time and again, but it will all be worth it if I can live another day, another decade more than that old woman said I—” He broke off, feeling slightly ashamed of himself. “Just tell me, Maxwell. Tell me what you see.”

Maxwell shook his head, releasing Sir Ralph’s hand. “You already know the answer, my friend. You have been seeking to purchase a long life, but have not succeeded, for you have been pouring your money away in all the wrong places.” He smiled. “Until now. Today, my friend, I know why I was sent to you. Today, my friend, we shall begin your journey to the Shield of Invincibility that will guarantee you more than longevity. I can offer you a return to innocence that in turn leads to the path of eternal life.”

“Immortality?” Sir Ralph whispered the word, then pressed both hands over his mouth, to stifle the tide of hysterical giggles rising in his throat. He knew it! He just knew it! Maxwell, who had come to him unbidden, this man of the dark eyes that burned like coals, was to be his salvation. “How much?” he asked... he begged... he bleated... not caring how desperate, how revealing his tone. “Christ, man, don’t leave me hanging—how much?”

“Twenty thousand pounds,” Maxwell answered, his tone suddenly very businesslike as he rose from the chair and headed for the door. “But the money is not for me. Half must be given to charity, and given freely, in order to cleanse your soul. The rest will be used in another way, one which you shall soon understand.”

“Charity? Good works? Yes, yes, that seems sensible.” Sir Ralph nodded furiously. “Yes, yes, I can do that. It will take some time to raise such a substantial amount—a few weeks, no more than a month—but I can do it.”

“Friday, my friend. Not a day later. I shall go away now, to prepare, but I will return on Friday. Remember, my friend. I have seen your palm. You haven’t much time. Good-bye.”

Sir Ralph turned his hands palm up, looking quickly from his left to his right, nervously comparing the lines, seeing that, indeed, they were different. It wasn’t fair! He had been destined for greatness—his left hand told the story. But life had not dealt him the cards he deserved. William had stolen his thunder, his will, even his courage. William, by drawing him into nefarious schemes, into murder, had even tried to steal his life!

But all that was soon to change. As the door closed behind Maxwell, Sir Ralph allowed the first giggle to escape his lips. He no longer felt in the least tired, but was reeling in exultation. Let William do the work. It was he, Sir Ralph Harewood, who would wear the crown. And he would wear it into eternity!



Paddy Dooley collapsed his rounded body into what was fast becoming his favorite chair and shook his head in disgust as he looked at his friend, who had been stretched out full length on the couch, in Dooley’s mind, long enough to have begun putting down roots. “Is it fixing to crawl into that bottle you’d be, Tommie, my boy? I’m not nosy, you know. I’m only wondering if I should be fetching the chamber pot in from the other room for when you drink enough to start casting up your accounts all over the carpet, for you’ve been pouring that stuff down your gullet since you got home last night. I like that little girl who comes in to tidy up after us, and I wouldn’t want to upset her.”

Thomas, who had been balancing a bottle on his chest, opened one eye to glare balefully at the Irishman. “You don’t understand. I’ve met my match, Paddy,” he said, not without sorrow. “All these years of playing about, setting my wits against men twice my age and winning time and time again—and a female brings me low. It’s embarrassing.”

Paddy nodded his agreement, “How the mighty have fallen,” he said, then grinned. “And what a thrill it is to watch as you go tumbling down into love.”

“Love?” Thomas jackknifed to a sitting position, holding on to his bottle so not a drop of the liquid spilled. “Love is one thing, Paddy. I’ve fallen in love twice in the same week.”

“But this time it’s different, isn’t it, boyo? Ah, but it’s my Bridget who’d be delighted to see you now. She’s been wishing this comedown on you for years.”

“Don’t gloat, Paddy, it doesn’t become you. Yet I suppose it had to happen. All right, I’m truly in love. All men fall sooner or later—although in my case I thought it would be later. Much later. I never even bought her that bauble I was planning to use to dazzle her soft heart.”

He ran a hand through his hair, which, Dooley observed silently, already looked as if it had been combed with a rake. “And to fall so hard, Paddy? So quickly? I hadn’t counted on that. But to have her running rings around me with her keen eyes and quick mind? To love a woman who is capable of setting up rigs like a prime flimflam man, and who dares to tease me with hints that she knows that I’m up to no good? That little girl could teach the devil himself a trick or three! Ah, Paddy, it’s a terrible blow to my consequence, I tell you.” He fell back against the cushions once more. “I don’t know if I’ll survive the shock of the thing.”

“Glory be to God—what a miserable caterwauling.” Dooley pushed himself up from the chair and crossed the room, to take the bottle out of Thomas’s hand. “It’s eight of the clock in the morning. Mark the time, boyo, for you’re back on the water wagon as of now. And, speaking of water, I’ve ordered up a tub. I don’t think I want to look at you again until you’ve had a bath and a long nap. You’re as great a rogue as ever stood in shoe leather, or so you’ve always told me. I’ll ask you to remember that. Are you really going to let one little colleen bring you so low? And what about Madison? What about our mission? Or do rogues in love have no time for anything more important than weeping into their liquor?”

Thomas arched one eyebrow as he glared up at Dooley. “Feeling pretty full of yourself, aren’t you, Paddy?”

The Irishman smiled so widely the gap on the top left side of his mouth—where he had long ago lost a tooth to an angry Scotsman with fists like hams—was visible. “Fair to brimming, boyo,” he admitted. “It clean takes the cockles off this old heart of mine to see the cock of the walk fitting himself out for hen stubbles.” His grin faded. “But, happy as I am, I have to remind you that if this Marguerite of yours is fixing to do terrible things to our group of traitors it could put paid to all our plans.”

Thomas stood and began stripping off the rumpled shirt that had been a marvel of pristine perfection when he had donned it to meet with Harewood and the others the night before in Richmond. “That’s what I like most about you, Paddy—your unflagging determination in pointing out the obvious. However, if Marguerite fails in whatever it is she’s about, she could be in danger. These men are desperate, and desperate men are unpredictable. Remember, President Madison left it up to me to decide whether or not to go along with their plans. I’m not so sure we’d be serving our country to deal with them.”

Dooley shrugged, accepting the discarded shirt rather than see it hit the floor. “So what are we doin’ cooling our heels here then, boyo? We can settle the whole business easily enough. Just toss the girl over your shoulder and we can all three of us escape to Philadelphia on the next tide. We could take Sir Gilbert up with us while we’re at it. He’s a friendly enough fellow, for an Englisher, and he wants to meet a wild Indian or two before he cocks up his toes. Told me so the other night at the theater. Just go—that’s all we have to do—and let the bloody earl and the others discover us gone.”

“And leave Laleham to rethink his scheme and perhaps begin dealings with the French, you mean. I’m not so deep in my cups that I would entertain such folly. No, Paddy, if we decide not to enter into an agreement with them—and I still haven’t ruled it out—we’ll have to do more than spike their guns. We’ll have to destroy them.”

“Destroy them? Kill them, you mean?”

“It’s only a minor possibility. So—how’s that old heart of yours now, Paddy?” He grinned at the gape-mouthed Dooley as he sat down and held out his foot for the Irishman to help him remove his boots. “Relax. I’m not saying we do the deed today. For now, I think we’ll amuse ourselves by sitting back and letting my darling Marguerite have at it. She may just make up my mind for me, the little dear, and do our dirty work for us as well.”

“No wonder you’re crazy mad for the girl. You’re both bloodthirsty little demons.” Dooley threw a leg over Thomas’s, turning his back and waiting for the pressure of his friend’s foot against his rump, assisting him in easing the first boot loose. “Is anything else to be going on while your ‘little darling’ is causing a dustup and you’re watching?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I believe, Paddy, my good friend, that I shall be enjoying myself by passionately wooing Miss Marguerite Balfour, and to hell with her grandfather’s title. And then, my very good friend, since you’ve asked, I shall do my level best to make your Bridget a happy woman.”

Dooley staggered across the room from the force of Thomas’s pushing foot, one boot in his hands and struggling to keep his balance. He turned to goggle at Thomas. “You don’t mean—”

“Why, as a matter of fact, Paddy, I do. I believe I’ll simply toss my bachelorhood away on Miss Marguerite Balfour. I have to—may God and your lovely wife forgive me—for I most certainly intend to seduce the little cat before another week passes.”





BOOK TWO


INTO THE FIRE



What is love? Ask him who lives, what is life? Ask him who adores, what is God?

— Percy Bysshe Shelley