A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 13

Surely there is nothing more wretched than a man, of all the things which breathe and move upon the earth.

— Homer

“I hate him! I loathe the man! If he were to choke on a cherry pit in front of me I’d stand there laughing—yes, laughing—watching his loathsome, hairy face turn purple and his eyes bulge like sausages plumping on a skillet!”

Marguerite swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks and continued to pace in her bedchamber, hating Thomas Joseph Donovan, hating herself, hating the entire world.

She had sped past Finch last night and raced up the stairs to the privacy of her bedchamber, locking that door and the one to her dressing room behind her, vowing not to leave again until they broke down the door and carried out her skeleton.

How dare Donovan say he loved her—and then have the audacity to think she’d believe him? As if she could! She had believed her father, and he had left her, hadn’t he?

Kitten, kitten. Kitten!

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—what was she thinking? She didn’t hate her father. She couldn’t. She loved him, had always loved him. Adored him.

Marguerite pressed her hands to her mouth, feeling her lips trembling as a new bout of tears threatened. First she had lost her temper, and now she was losing her mind! This was all Donovan’s fault He was the one who had brought up the insane notion that she distrusted men. Hated them, that’s what he had meant. She knew.

But she didn’t hate all men. Yes, she hated The Club. She had every right. But her father? That was utter nonsense. She couldn’t hate her father. She loved her father—adored him! It wasn’t his fault.

She closed her eyes, remembering against her wishes what she’d heard that last day, the day she’d been sitting in the very center of the Earl of Laleham’s pretty maze, dreaming of the day she would come to London for her first Season.

She had been so happy. Her mama had been feeling more the thing, even agreeing to take part in the house party, and even her grandfather was talking about Marguerite’s coming debut with something at least vaguely resembling enthusiasm.

But then she had heard the voices, her mother’s and that of a man, coming to her from somewhere near the center of the maze. She’d stayed very quiet, listening as the man spoke softly, intimately, overhearing bits and snatches that led her to believe the gentleman was about to propose marriage.

The notion depressed Marguerite at the same time it cheered her. Mama had been alone for so long, and although she did her best to put a brave face on things, Marguerite was sure she was lonely. It was one thing for Marguerite to miss her papa and another for Victoria to live the remainder of her life alone.

After all, Marguerite would be going to London soon, and everyone knew the object of that exercise would be to find her a husband. Not that it would be an easy task, for Marguerite knew she would compare any man she met to her beloved papa, and it would take an extremely exceptional gentleman to win her heart.

But once she was wed, her mama would be all alone at Chertsey, with only Sir Gilbert for company. Grandfather was growing older, another thought that did not appeal, but one that had to be faced. Perhaps marriage for Victoria Balfour was not such a terrible idea after all.

Who could it be? It was a small party, with only Lord Laleham’s closest friends in attendance—Sir Peregrine, Sir Ralph, Lord Mappleton, and Lord Chorley. Which one was about to become her mother’s new husband? She wouldn’t think of him as her stepfather, for that was a ridiculous notion. No one could ever replace her papa. Not really.

“Please, forgive me, and thank you again for your most kind offer, but Geoffrey will always be my husband.”

Marguerite heard her mother and smiled, loving her for her loyalty. But perhaps her petitioner would pursue her again at a later date and eventually change her mind. It didn’t pay to go too fast with her mother, who hadn’t had to make any real decisions for herself since Marguerite had taken over the day-to-day running of Chertsey.

She strained to listen, to hear all that was being said, but it was impossible to hear more than another round of male muttering until her mother raised her voice. “What are you saying? You say you love me, but you’re looking at me as if you hate me. What? I don’t understand. Why am I foolish? That is unkind of you. Is it so foolish to love only once?”

Couldn’t the man take no for his answer? Marguerite, feeling very protective of her mother, rose from the bench she had been resting on and began walking toward the sound of Victoria’s voice, wishing she had paid more attention to the construction of the high, thickly hedged maze, for the first turn she took found her moving farther from the voices, not nearer.

She quickly retraced her steps, then skidded to a halt when she heard the sound of a slap ringing in the air, followed quickly by her mother’s anguished scream. It was one thing to be tenacious, but quite another to go beyond the boundaries of polite behavior. The boor must be trying to kiss her.

Holding her skirts high as she ran, Marguerite tore down the twisting paths to the rescue, loudly calling for her mother as a way to warn the woman’s admirer away, her heart pounding in fear liberally mixed with righteous anger as the lovely day descended into a living nightmare.

Moments later, years later, whole centuries after that single scream, Marguerite discovered her mother’s slim form lying like a wilted flower in the center of one of the paths and raced to her side, lifting her mother’s head against her knees.

Victoria looked up at her, her eyes clouded and rather unfocused, and pleaded, “He said... he told me... but it was suicide, wasn’t it? He hanged himself. Dear God, he hanged himself! I saw him! It was suicide! Everyone knows. How can I stand it? How can I live?”

Those were the last words Victoria Balfour ever uttered, for she had fainted then, and died two days later, Sir Gilbert, Marguerite, and Lord Laleham at her bedside, all of them grieving over their sad loss.

“But I lost twice, didn’t I, Papa?” Marguerite said now, looking up at her father’s portrait, seeing him smile down at her, the perpetual mischief in his eyes captured forever by the artist’s brush even though the man himself lay in the mausoleum at Chertsey, beside her mother. “I lost my mother, and I lost my innocence. Suicide. I understand why they never told me, for I was only a child. But how could you have done such a thing? You didn’t even say good-bye. I lost you once years ago, and yet again last year, along with Mama. And never did I hear a good-bye.”

Her eyes strayed to Geoffrey Balfour’s diary and she remembered the final, undated entry, the one in which he had mentioned The Club and his fears for his meeting with those members. The same men whose initials he had listed in another part of the diary along with short descriptions that had helped her to identify them—the same men who had been in attendance that fatal day at Laleham.

She walked across the room to stand directly beneath the life-size painting. “You taught me so many things, Papa, about the stars and the moon and the foibles of our fellowman. But you never taught me how to lose. Maybe you never learned yourself. Perhaps that explains why you couldn’t face those people who invested with you—why you couldn’t go along with whatever treason The Club asked of you and still face me, your kitten.”

She shivered, remembering the way Donovan’s voice had sounded as he had used that endearment just last night, afterwards. Why had she reacted so badly, so violently? It was a word, just another word. Words. Like kitten. Like good-bye.

“Yes, Papa,” she continued, forcing herself to push her memories of the night before into the farthest recesses of her tortured brain. “Your kitten, your adoring, all-believing daughter. So you left me. You left me here by myself, to take care of Mama, to grow up alone and all unknowing. But now Mama’s gone too, and one of those damnable men of The Club had killed her as surely as if he’d put a knife through her heart. You took the coward’s way out, leaving those men here to hurt her with their unkind words about your suicide, and me here to deal with it all. Love! It doesn’t exist, not when put to the test.”

She turned away from the painting, the heavy white silk of her gown whispering as, after taking only three steps, she sank to her knees on the carpet, wrapped her arms about her waist, and began to rock, reluctantly reliving the hours she had spent with Donovan.

Donovan said he loved her. Donovan would say anything to get what he wanted. He was an Irishman, for all his talk of America, and he could spin silken webs around her mind, her heart, her will, with his glib words and easy smiles. And she had given him what he’d wanted.

No! Like her papa, in the end she had to stop deluding herself. She ceased her rocking, her self-pitying indulgence, and faced the truth. She had given Donovan what she wanted, and they both had taken their fill—greedily, selfishly, without thought of tomorrow. Isn’t that how she had wanted it to be? Isn’t that what she had counted on?

It was over now, an error of judgment now past all hope of correction, but over and done. Besides, if she had it to do over again, she would not change any of it. Because for a moment—if only for a moment—she had felt loved again. Felt secure again. Felt safe and inspired and curious and delighted and excited for the future and, yes, cherished.

But it was all a charade, a myth, an impossible dream. Donovan had his own plans for The Club, for her. Now that she thought about it, he’d probably launched this entire seduction in order to keep her occupied, out of his way while he went about his country’s business, aiding The Club in their latest attack of treasonable conjecture.

Her eyes narrowed, her pupils twin slivers of emerald ice. It had to be treason. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks.

She pressed her hands to her temples. Her head ached. Her entire body ached. She hadn’t slept all night, hadn’t even undressed, part of her wanting to hide her shame; another part of her wishing to cling to Donovan’s scent, Donovan’s remembered touch, the memory of his loving.

His loving? No, never call it loving. His desire. His lust.

Her desire. Her lust. Her grand stupidity.

Dear God, please don’t let it be love! I can’t lose again. I can’t trust again. I can’t love.

Oh, how her head was pounding, the pain so loud the sound seemed to come from outside her.

“Marguerite? Marguerite Balfour, you horrible, mulish child, open this door before I have Finch fetch some footmen to break it down!”

“Maisie?” Marguerite raised her head and stared dumbly at the door to the hallway. Wouldn’t she even be allowed to wither and die in peace? Soon her grandfather would be outside the door as well, and worrying could not be good for him at his age.

Rubbing at her wet cheeks once more, Marguerite sighed, then rose slowly, like a very old woman, and dragged her weary body across the room to unlock the door, standing back as the maid barreled through it, her round, peasant’s face a thundercloud, and talking so quickly the words tumbled over one another.

“Well, heyday! There she is, the little girl who brushed past Finch last night wearing some man’s cloak, then hid herself in here like a criminal doing his best to outrun the Watch, while that widgeon Billings comes dragging herself home close onto three, giggling like she’s had the grandest time. What have you gone and done now, Miss Marguerite? Has it anything to do with those old men you’ve been haunting, looking for trouble best left lying dead? Answer me, girl—for I’ve been in charge of you since the day you was born, and I’ll not be taking any sauce from you. Oh, no. Not no more. This has gone on far enough! My stars—you’re still wearing the same gown I put you in last night. Look at you! Crying, your eyes weepy red, your mouth all swollen, and—oh, my dear God!” Maisie’s face crumpled, losing its angry expression. “Bastards! They’re all bastards —every last randy one of them! Marguerite! Baby!”

Marguerite felt herself being enveloped in Maisie’s ample embrace and gave herself up to tears once more, still not quite precisely sure why she was crying.



William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, entered the gaming hell quietly, knowing his intimidating presence would not go unnoticed for long, but also confident no one would dare to approach him and ask his business. He stood just inside the doorway, a scented handkerchief raised to his well-sculpted nostrils, and surveyed the room from beneath heavy-lidded eyes, almost immediately sighting his quarry.

Damn the man. Wasn’t it enough to be a part of the most exciting, profitable venture since Cromwell had ridden to power on the beheaded shoulders of Charles I? Did the man have no sense, no discernment?

“Good afternoon, Stinky,” he said from between carefully compressed jaws once he had made his way through the crowd of green-as-grass youths and down-at-the-heels sharpers to the table where Lord Chorley sat losing yet another hand to a weasel-like man whose most outstanding feature was one dark eyebrow that stretched across his forehead.

“Willie—I mean, William! Good to see you without the bandage. What on earth are you doing here?”

“I imagine I could ask you much the same question,” Laleham answered, still looking at Lord Chorley’s partner, who had quickly donned a leather visor that all but obscured his eyes and the eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d lost enough last night at Lady Jersey’s. If you believe you can tear yourself away from what I am convinced is an inspiring interlude, I would like a word with you.”

Lord Chorley looked from the earl, to his cards and back again.” Couldn’t it wait just a moment?”

Laleham peered over his lordship’s shoulder, then at the size of the pot sitting in the middle of the table. “Why? You’re hoarding kings again, Stinky.” He inclined his head to the visored gambler. “If you would do me the favor of showing his lordship your aces, my good man, I would much appreciate it.”

The gamester obligingly fanned his cards face up on the table and Lord Chorley groaned. “Only one ace, William, but four trumps! I could have sworn there were only two left out.” He threw down his cards and scraped back his chair, giving one last, longing look to the marker the gamester was pocketing. “That’s another hundred I owe him—curse the man and his unbelievable run of luck,” he complained, following Laleham to an unoccupied table in a far corner.

Laleham looked distastefully at the rough chair before he sat on it, his coattails carefully spread, then nodded his head, indicating that Lord Chorley might seat himself as well. “Luck, Stinky, has little to do with success. I imagine the fellow has been cheating you hollow. That, combined with your stunning inability to recognize the fact you’re hopeless at gaming, accounts for your losses. How deeply are you in to him?”

Lord Chorley evaded his eyes, picking at a hardened bit of food stuck to the tabletop. “No more than I can handle,” he said, then raised his eyes and added defiantly, “and no one will dun me as long as Prinny and I are such great chums. Brummell lives on nothing but tick, and no one bothers him.”

“Such confidence, Stinky. I commend you. However, if you were to fall afoul of moneylenders or unscrupulous gaming partners, the rest of London would be on you in a heartbeat, demanding to be paid what you owe them. Butchers. Chandlers. Vintners. Greengrocers. You do know that, don’t you?”

“So?” Lord Chorley summoned one of the servants with a wave of his hand and ordered a bottle. “It doesn’t matter to you, does it, William?”

Laleham wove his fingers together beneath the table, longing to reach across the scarred wood and choke the life out of the simpleton who dared to ask such an asinine question. But he wouldn’t lose his temper. He never lost his temper. It was unprofitable. “You’d have to rusticate, Stinky, out of the way of your creditors. You cannot have much influence on Prinny—stay close to him—if you’re in Surrey.”

The bottle and a single glass arrived, and Lord Chorley poured himself a liberal amount, then drank it down in one swallow. “I thought we were ready to move,” he said leaning forward and speaking quietly, conspiratorially, as if any one of the drink-befuddled loobies in the place was listening to him. “I don’t have to drop any more hints in Prinny’s ears about keeping our people in the ministries.”

Laleham shifted in his chair, feeling his buckskins sticking to something on the seat, then crooked a finger in Lord Chorley’s direction, urging him to come closer. “You can’t stick a knife in the man’s ribs from Surrey, Stinky, now can you? After all, we don’t want to wait until the people finally take it into their heads to do it for us. We’re none of us young men anymore, are we?”

“What! Are you saying that—”

“Shut up,” Laleham bit out from between necessarily clenched teeth. After all these years, it was still difficult to believe how thoroughly blockheaded Stinky was. Hadn’t he figured it out on his own?

Lord Chorley looked around fearfully, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Murder, William. You’re talking about murder. No! He’s almost the king. You’re suggesting something very close to regicide! I thought we was just going to ship him off somewheres. I like him! Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Not going to do it, Willie. Not going to do it!”

“Why not, Stinky?” Laleham asked quietly, once more pulling out the club he had used on the man, had used on all of them. “You’ve killed before. He wasn’t altogether dead when we hung him up. You saw his futile attempts to grab at the rope, his desperate struggles when he knew he was about to die. Did you lift a hand to help him, raise your voice to stop it? You’ll learn after the first, the second comes easier. Especially when we all know the prize awaiting us. The fortunes. No more worries about money, Stinky, you’ll be able to gamble away two fortunes a day and still be rich.”

Lord Chorley began worrying at his thumbnail. “Yes, well, there is that. But Ralph never said anything about regicide, Willie.”

The earl smiled, or at least as much of a smile as his still tender jaw allowed. “I don’t tell Ralph everything, Stinky. Only those I feel are closest to me. Those for whom I have the greatest affection, the most ambitious plans. You’d feel comfortable living in Carleton House, Stinky, as you visit it so often to see the prince. And then there’s that ridiculous building project Prinny’s working on in Brighton. It can be yours as well.”

Then Laleham sat back, watching the smile that dawned over Lord Chorley’s round face, banishing the last remnants of his frown and the last of his misgivings. He still might marvel at the man’s stupidity, but the earl knew he had never underestimated his old friend’s overweening greed. He owned Lord Chorley, body and soul, and the devil with the man’s incessant gambling. Soon it wouldn’t matter if Lord Chorley gambled away his own back teeth.

His plans, his very private plans, were all beginning to come together. Now all Laleham had to do was line up the rest of his ducks, make them quack on cue—then sit back and watch as they mowed each other down, leaving him to reap the rewards of victory, Marguerite by his side as he ascended the throne.



Sir Peregrine Totton lifted his chin and raised a hand to his chest, peering at his reflection, mentally congratulating himself on both his new jacket and his impressive air—the look of the Compleat, Accomplished Gentleman. A gentleman of breeding, a gentleman of knowledge. Respected, and more than that, envied by his peers. Worshiped by his intellectual inferiors. Feted and applauded by all!

“I believe the shoulders could be broader,” he said to the tailor, who was reclining on his haunches beside Sir Peregrine, his mouth stuffed with pins. “Some buckram padding? And I’d like the same styling made up in Clarence blue, although this brown must be in my hands tomorrow morning. That should not tax your abilities overmuch, should it? You can have the brown altered and to me by nine. Not a moment later, mind you, for I shall be off to the Tower before ten.”

The tailor bobbed his head enthusiastically and quickly helped Sir Peregrine out of the jacket before bowing himself out of the private office, nearly backing into the Earl of Laleham.

“William!” Sir Peregrine exclaimed, espying the earl’s reflection in the mirror and wheeling about to greet him. “Why didn’t my man Grouse tell me you were here at the Ministry? I would have dropped everything to meet with you.”

“Supplementing your wardrobe, are you, Perry?” the earl asked, helping himself to a chair. “Is there something I should know about?”

Sir Peregrine smiled widely, then turned away, to slip back into the jacket he’d been wearing before the tailor had showed up for a final fitting. “Don’t be ridiculous, William,” he said a moment later. “There is nothing in the least unusual about ordering a new jacket or two. Why, I wager you own several dozen yourself.” All of them black as your heart, he added mentally, wondering where he had found the temerity to so much as think meanly of William Renfrew.

He covered his mouth with his hand, hiding a smile behind a cough, feeling suddenly giddy with the knowledge that, after tomorrow, he would not have any reason to worry about William Renfrew ever again. Not after tomorrow. He would be established, he would be famous—he would be respected! In the meantime, he would keep his secret. William could read about it in the newspapers, like the rest of London.

“You’re perspiring, Perry,” the earl said smoothly, so that Sir Peregrine quickly remembered that it was not yet tomorrow—that today he still belonged to William Renfrew. “You haven’t any bad news for me, have you? Everything is still going forward as planned?”

“Of course it is, William,” Sir Peregrine hastened to assure him, knowing the dependable Grouse had all the proper papers ready for his signature. “Or at least it would be if that pigheaded Irishman would only turn over the letter from Madison. He’s proving devilish sticky on that point. But surely Ralph has already told you as much.”

“He has,” the earl said quietly, and Sir Peregrine watched him intently, marveling at the way the man could speak without opening his mouth. His cracked jaw must still be quite painful. That bothersome Irishman was worth something, Sir Peregrine thought, indulging himself just for a moment in the joy of seeing William discommoded.

“But you’re the one I trust, Perry,” he heard Laleham continue. “We’re entering a very difficult, ticklish stage of the negotiations, and I need to assure myself you will keep an eye out for our best interests.”

Sir Peregrine mentally berated himself for thinking badly of William. The earl trusted him. Trusted him more than he did Ralph, who had always been closest to him. Sir Peregrine smiled. Of course William trusted him. Wasn’t he the one with the real brains, the only one with the intelligence to not only carry out the plan, but also become a vital part of the new world order that plan would evoke?

“Why, thank you, William. I’m honored. Ralph is a good man, but rather too closemouthed about his own affairs sometimes, perhaps to the detriment of our plans,” Sir Peregrine said, then bowed—but not too low. It wouldn’t do to look subservient. “If there is anything else I can do to ease your trepidations—anything at all...” He let his words die away, awaiting further instructions, further responsibilities.

“Possibly, Perry. Possibly. Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes, yes, certainly,” Sir Peregrine answered quickly. Of course he could keep a secret. He had kept his mouth shut about Geoffrey Balfour, hadn’t he? What larger secret could there be? Everything else they had done over the years paled into insignificance beside the secret of Geoffrey Balfour. Unless, of course, he was to consider the knowledge of his soon-to-be triumphant entry into the world of scientific discovery.

“Very well, Perry,” Laleham said, rising. He walked to the doorway, then turned and looked piercingly at Sir Peregrine. “I am considering removing Ralph from his position once the full contingent of fifteen ships has sailed, and replacing him with a man I know I can trust. A man like you. In the meantime, I want you to watch him, for I believe he may be entertaining thoughts of cutting us out with the American. Will you watch him for me, Perry?”

“I would be honored!” Sir Peregrine’s thin chest puffed with pride as William smiled a thin, painful smile.



Thomas found Lord Mappleton and Sir Ralph Harewood walking together along Bond Street, Lord Mappleton red-faced as he attempted to keep up with Sir Ralph’s longer strides.

“Good day to you, gentleman!” Thomas chirped cheerfully, touching the brim of his hat to them in greeting, while longing to kill them both on the spot. They had something to do with Marguerite’s unhappiness—precisely what, he didn’t know—but it was enough that they had incurred her anger. He hadn’t had the foggiest notion of what he would say when he met up with any of them, but he’d felt an overwhelming need to see at least a few of them today, look at them closely, and hope to begin to understand why Marguerite hated them so much—perhaps even feared them.

“Donovan,” Sir Ralph returned evenly, barely inclining his head.

“I was so hoping I’d find one of you out taking this lovely afternoon air,” Thomas told them frankly. “How is the most estimable Miss Rollins, your lordship? She was looking quite ravishing on your arm last night at Lady Jersey’s.”

“What? What? Didn’t see you, Dudley. O’course, don’t see much of anyone, now that I’ve my wealthy—er, my pretty Georgianna to gaze at, eh, Ralph? You ought to think about finding yourself a rich wife, Ralph. It would do you no end of good to smile once and again. But then, you’re already rich as Croesus, aren’t you? Not that you spend a penny of it. I spend entirely too much, keeping up with Prinny, but I’ve enjoyed every debt I’ve ever incurred, stap me if I haven’t!”

“Shut up, Arthur,” Harewood said without emotion, looking questioningly, suspiciously at Thomas, and most probably wondering why he was seeing him here instead of at Vauxhall, as they had planned. “Are you ready to discuss terms?”

Thomas smiled at him, more than happy to have confused the man. You’d really hate that, wouldn’t you, you bastard, he thought, when you already thought you had me in your private pocket? Why, it’s getting so that a fellow doesn’t know who to trust anymore, isn’t it, my friend? “I presented you with my terms at Richmond, Sir Ralph. I was only thinking, you being a reasonable man, you may have seen the merit of them.”

Lord Mappleton shifted his feet, as if eager to be on his way. “Well, if that’s all,” he said, shaking his head. “Ralph here can’t do anything unless—”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen... you too, Mr. Donovan.”

Thomas turned to see the Earl of Laleham standing behind him. He moved so quietly, Thomas knew he couldn’t be faulted for believing the man practiced at it. But now he had three of them in front of him. Two more and he’d have the full set. He’d never seen them all together. Maybe if he did, he might begin to figure them out—the gambler, the fortune hunter, the hopeful intellectual, the colorless plodder, and the artful schemer who pulled all their strings.

“Your lordship,” he said in greeting, bowing to the earl, and refusing to acknowledge the man’s veiled insult. “How good to see you up and about. You’re talking and everything. Wonderful! I do hope you have forgiven me for that sad mistake at Gentleman Jackson’s. It was a lucky punch, no more. Anyone who witnessed our exchange could see you were the superior man. Isn’t that right, Sir Ralph?”

But Harewood did not immediately jump to his friend’s defense. “What are you doing here, William?” he asked, looking past Thomas to the earl, his expression hinting that he knew something Laleham did not know. “I thought you were intending to call on Miss Balfour this afternoon—after having failed to speak with her last night. She disappeared rather oddly, didn’t she? You were there, Mr. Donovan? Didn’t you find Miss Balfour’s disappearance odd?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Saw something last night, didn’t you, you nasty little devil? Thomas thought, looking at Harewood. Saw it, and have every intention of hinting that you saw it. But you wouldn’t say anything outright, would you? No. You’re not brave enough to do that.

“Why, Ralph, I had no idea any slight alteration in my plans could be so discommoding to you,” the earl returned quietly after a moment. Thomas watched in amusement as a tic began to throb in Sir Ralph’s left cheek. Did Marguerite have anything to do with their animosity toward each other, or were Renfrew and Harewood just unlovely gentlemen in general, each more than willing to score off the other?

“But,” the earl continued, “to answer your question, Miss Balfour is not receiving today. It appears she retired early from the ball last night due to a slight indisposition and is not up to seeing visitors. Although I believe I did see you conversing with her for some moments at Lady Jersey’s, Mr. Donovan?”

“Only long enough for her to send me away with a flea in my ear,” Thomas lied smoothly. This might, he decided, be a good time to allay some of his lordship’s concerns about any involvement with Marguerite, especially after Harewood’s remarks. The poor love had enough problems. So did he, damn it, now that he thought about it. “I’m top over ears in love with the girl, your lordship, but she will have none of me. I think she much prefers more mature gentlemen, such as yourself. Well, I do hate to run off, us all being so cozy here and all, but I have already planned to meet with my friend Mr. Dooley at the bottom of the street in less than a quarter hour. There’s a most lovely tavern there—you should try it. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

As he walked off, Thomas felt three pairs of eyes boring into his back. He was so angry, it took all his resolve not to turn around and demand they tell him why Marguerite was out to harvest their livers and lights. But he controlled the urge. He’d simply have to content himself on the sidelines for a little while longer, watching as Marguerite went about her business, protecting her quietly and only stepping in if she seemed to be getting in over her head.

And, in that meantime, he knew he’d die a little each day he spent without her.



“We have to be rid of Arthur, I tell you,” Sir Ralph said watching as the Earl of Laleham twirled his wineglass by its stem, staring into the dark liquid as it glowed in the lamplight. They had left Lord Mappleton, who was off to drool all over the rich Miss Rollins yet again, and retired to White’s. “He is becoming a liability. Every time the man opens his mouth he nearly betrays us.”

“Impossible, my dear fellow. There is no time to recruit another willing conspirator and use Stinky to have him inserted into the Treasury. But I do agree we’re in danger. Five men are too many for this operation. Especially when one of them is disloyal and only out for himself.”

Sir Ralph felt his stomach turn over, nearly causing him to lose his lunch of sweet ham and buttered biscuits. “Disloyal?”

“Yes,” the earl went on, still gazing into his wineglass, “Perry is putting his own desires above those of the group.”

“Perry?” Sir Ralph nearly sank to his knees, so complete was his relief. “How?”

“Why, by believing his own high opinion of himself transfers to real intelligence. Lord, to think I once rated him as our equal. Stinky and Arthur have never been more than willing dupes since our school days—well born, respected, and convenient to our plans—but I had held out higher hopes for Perry. But to get back to what I was saying—I have an acquaintance at one of the newspapers, and he forwarded to me a story that will be printed in tomorrow’s edition. It’s most interesting!”

“How so?” Harewood was beginning to enjoy himself. He’d always known of William’s low opinion of the others, and was more than willing to believe they would be disposed of the moment their usefulness in this latest, greatest of their schemes was done. Even better, if William was taken up with Perry’s suspected treachery, he’d have no time to look into his affairs with Maxwell or his secret meetings with Thomas Donovan. No time to wonder about his ambitions.

“The pompous idiot believes he’s discovered a description of buried Roman treasure. Worse, he enlisted Stinky into his plans, prevailing upon him to convince our ridiculous Prince of Wales to allow Perry to dig up the grounds to the south of the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula.”

Sir Ralph laughed out loud. “Inside the walls of the Tower? Is the man insane?”

“Quite possibly, Ralph. But to push the boundaries of credulity—what if the fool is right for the first time in his life? What then, Ralph? Will he decide, now that fame and respect are at long last his, he no longer has need of our scheme? Even worse—will he conclude he would be appreciated much more by the prince than he ever would be by us when we came into power? Consider it, Ralph—can we afford such a single-sighted, puffed-up co-conspirator?”

Harewood rubbed his chin, thinking furiously. “He has already done everything except to actually order the transfer of goods from the War Ministry. Once I—that is, once we’ve reached an agreement with Donovan, Perry will be superfluous. But, William, we always knew that. Neither of us has actually said it, but they are none of them necessary once the plan is well launched.”

“How true. But I, unlike you, had been prepared to be generous. Now, with Perry striking out on his own, I’ve rethought the matter. He knows too much about our plans and about our past. You do remember our past, don’t you, Ralph?”

“About Geoffrey Balfour, you mean. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it, William?” Harewood didn’t need to be reminded of Geoffrey Balfour. He saw his face each night before he fell asleep. Saw the terror. Felt the fear. “Arthur is equally as dangerous in that regard, William,” he pointed out reasonably. “Maybe more so, especially now that he’s thinking of marriage to a rich woman.”

William set down his glass and prepared to rise. “So very bloodthirsty. Very well, Ralph, if you insist. I had only thought of Perry, and then, not quite seriously. But you have my permission to kill them both—dispose of them all. But not until we are finished with Donovan.”

“Me?” Harewood breathed, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. How had it all come down to him, and not William? How had the man maneuvered him into being the one who put forth the mention of murder? How could he refuse now—now that he’d been the one who said they should all die? He fell back against his chair, watching in dumbfounded silence as the Earl of Laleham quit the room. Curse the man! The bastard had outsmarted him again!



Dusk had begun to descend before Sir Ralph, after an afternoon spent in deep thought, reached Lord Chorley’s mansion in Grosvenor Square. Three rather angry men were sitting on the front steps.

He brushed past them and banged the knocker, nearly losing his hat as the door opened and Lord Chorley grabbed his arm, pulling him inside.

“Stinky! What in blazes is going on? Where are your servants? Who are those men outside?”

Lord Chorley, his graying hair rumpled, his waistcoat hanging open over his ample stomach, motioned for Sir Ralph to follow him into the drawing room. “Gone, Ralph. The servants are all gone. They left this afternoon, when the first of those black crows showed up outside. And good riddance to them, I say—I owed them all at least a quarter’s wages.”

Harewood began to understand. This was going to be even easier than he had thought! “Those men outside, Stinky. They’re duns, aren’t they? Your creditors are after you.”

Lord Chorley’s features screwed up and he began to cry. “The first arrived this morning after I’d already gone out, or so he told me when I met him in the hallway a while ago, carrying off m’candlesticks. The man I’ve been gambling with the past few weeks sold my vowels to some moneylender or somebody like that I suppose, and the new owner demands payment immediately.”

“That is awkward,” Sir Ralph said commiserating.

“Awkward! It’s damn insensitive, that’s what it is. Once the first appeared the rest of the vultures took up the scent in a heartbeat. I didn’t know grocers and chandlers really hired duns—you’d think they’d know a gentleman pays gaming debts first and tradesmen last. There’s one of the duns in the kitchens, Ralph, gathering up the pots, and another in the dining room. He refuses to leave, even after I offered him that silver epergne m’mother left me. Ugly thing, but it has got to be worth something. If I open the door more than a crack, the place will be crawling with the leeches taking up residence here—and I barely have food enough for myself. The servants took most of it. I sent a note round to Prinny, but he refused to answer.”

He collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands. “Ralph—what am I going to do? I can’t tell William. He already warned me this would happen—just today. Blast the man—it’s as if he had wished this on me!”

Sir Ralph smiled. His face felt strange as the skin stretched over his lean cheekbones, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. He had come here to convince Lord Chorley that William was dangerous, believing he needed an ally and knowing the weak Arthur was no use to him and Perry was too dangerous. Lord Chorley, who was always in need of money, had been his last, best hope. Now it was beginning to seem as if it was also the surest bet he, a man who never gambled, could ever make.

“Most of my money is tied up at the moment,” he lied after a few moments, long seconds when only Lord Chorley’s pathetic, heartbroken sobs filled the silence. He had to make the man believe it would be a sacrifice to help him. “However, I believe I could find my way clear to advance you some funds. How much do you owe? In total, Stinky.”

Lord Chorley raised his hands, then dropped them into his lap. “I don’t know. Twenty thousand pounds?”

Sir Ralph nearly laughed, but that degree of response was beyond him. This was proving to be almost too easy. Conveniently forgetting he himself had already planned to cut Lord Chorley out, and the rest of the group as well, Harewood concentrated on Laleham’s heartless treachery. Try to trick me into murdering three of my oldest and dearest friends, would you? Oh, no, William. You’ve gone too far this time! For this time it will be Sir Ralph Harewood who calls the tune!

“Your estates, Stinky? Are they mortgaged?”

Lord Chorley nodded. “All of them. Three times over.” He raised his head and looked pleadingly at Sir Ralph. “Can you help me? You have plenty, and never spend a penny that I can see. Help me, Ralph. Just until William’s plans come together. Then we’ll all be rich.”

“Oh, yes, we will, if William is as generous in victory as he says he will be. Only consider this—we’re doing all the work, and he stands to reap the most benefit. Why, if it weren’t for that nasty business all those years ago—which was also Willie’s idea, remember—none of us would have thrown in our lots with him. Oh, yes, the bubbles worked, most of the time. But do you remember Amiens? Pitt? That fell through, and badly. Poor Geoffrey!”

Harewood did laugh softly then, amazed he could say Balfour’s name without flinching—now that he had Maxwell! “That’s when we disbanded,” he continued swiftly, soberly, “until this latest scheme, of course. This project could fail as well, and then where will we be? Where will you be, Stinky?”

“Oh, God. I’ll be locked up in the Fleet, lowering a basket out the window to the crowds below, angling for farthings like some common debtor!”

“Precisely.” Sir Ralph went to Lord Chorley and knelt down beside him. “But that’s why I’m here, Stinky. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. A long, long time. That fool Donovan trusts me. He doesn’t even know William is a part of it. I believe I can work directly with the American, completely bypassing William. That way you and I can be better assured of success. William has already failed us once, then made murderers of us all, crippling us with our remembered guilt. We must face it, Stinky, the man has no soul. You do trust me, don’t you? Leave Arthur and Perry to their own devices. We have to look out for ourselves. You and I have always been close, haven’t we?”

“We did room together at school,” Lord Chorley said, wiping his eyes. “I thought you had forgotten. How much, Ralph? How much can you lend me until you get the American to agree to the plan?”

“Five thousand now, to rid you of the tradesmen,” Sir Ralph promised carefully, “and twenty more next week. That should keep you out of the Fleet. But in return, I need your loyalty.”

“Anything, Ralph,” Lord Chorley promised, hugging Harewood. “Anything at all, I swear it!”

“Good,” Sir Ralph responded, smiling yet again. He was beginning to enjoy smiling. This blubbering fool would be the last man William would suspect, the last one he’d fear. When the time came, he didn’t want to have to worry about William’s suspicions. It wouldn’t pay to be immortal, if he had to spend eternity in the Tower dungeons while William sat upon the throne. “Um—you do own a pistol, don’t you, Stinky?”