A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 16

Shallow men speak of the past; wise men of the present; and fools of the future.

— Madame du Deffand

Sir Ralph looked out through the drawn-back draperies to see the rain had stopped at last and a thin, watery sun was once more peeking down through the low-hanging clouds. He had driven Marguerite home from the Tower, consoling her as she wept soundlessly into her handkerchief at Sir Peregrine’s sad disgrace, hardly able to keep his temper in check.

The fool! The bloody stupid, vain blockhead! And even worse—who had taken such pains to disgrace the man, to put him in a position where the only thing he could do was resign his clubs, relinquish his position at the War Ministry, then take himself off to the country and hide his head?

It couldn’t have been William. William didn’t do his own dirty work, no matter that this particular deed had been executed with the sort of wicked finesse William was certainly capable of producing.

He allowed the drapery to fall back into place and turned away from the window. No, it hadn’t been William. William had already ordered him to kill Perry, but surely not until after his usefulness at the War Ministry was at an end.

How would they be able to convince the slow-moving, quick-witted American the transfer of goods would still go on as planned? Totton’s assistant, Grouse, was firmly in William’s deep pockets, and had been for months, not knowingly participating in any plan of treason but merely supplementing his meager wages with what he believed to be the usual sort of graft and corruption rampant in government. But the shipments still had to be sent, and quickly, before Totton’s replacement could be named and Grouse possibly replaced by another clerk. Yes, the whole matter could prove sticky.

How could Perry have set himself up for such a fall? How could he have been so stupid! William would be livid when he heard about this morning’s disaster, and probably blame him.

It was falling apart. It was all falling apart, slipping through their fingers, just the way it had before, when William had tried to strike a deal with the French all those years ago. Why hadn’t he kept to simple schemes like the one they had used on Geoffrey Balfour? They had all five become rich men on those schemes, taking their profits before the bubbles burst, leaving their selected dupe and his investors to mourn their losses.

All right, so Balfour had nearly brought them to grief. But they’d scraped through, even after the French debacle. They had gone on to double their wealth with other less stiff-backed dupes than Balfour, and then retired from the game, going their own way these past years.

Until this latest scheme of William’s. This ridiculous belief he could undermine the government and have Farmer George removed from the throne. He had blackmailed them all into agreeing with him, held Geoffrey Balfour’s name over their heads while dangling visions of increased wealth and power in front of their eyes, making them believe this time it would work.

William had to be destroyed, before they all went to the gibbet for treason. Stinky was no use to Sir Ralph anymore, and he had ample proof of his own desperation in that he had even entertained the thought the bankrupt gambler could bring himself to the sticking point and eliminate William for him.

Well, that was money saved. If duns were following him in public, as Sir Ralph had seen today, there would be no rescuing Stinky with a few miserable thousand pounds. Prinny had turned his back on him. He’d have to rusticate, like Perry, and good riddance to both of them.

Who was left? Who could help him? Arthur? Hardly. The buffoon had told him this morning he was definitely going to marry the rich but unsuitable Georgianna Rollins. He had informed Sir Ralph he had even sent notice of their engagement to all the newspapers today. The newspapers! His companions seemed to have a penchant for advertising their stupidity.

He frowned, his last thought bringing him back to Peregrine Totton. Who had engineered the farce that had been enacted this morning at the Tower? Who could have so cleverly tapped into Sir Peregrine’s vanity, finding precisely the correct route to make the man bring himself down? Who but their little group knew him that well? Who outside that same small group stood to gain by Sir Peregrine’s fall? Who in all the world hated him that much?

And then there was Lord Chorley. Nobody hated Stinky; he was a favorite of all the ton. But someone had given a hefty push to the towering avalanche of debt that had hovered about Stinky’s head all these years, and brought the entire mountain tumbling down around him. He didn’t even know who owned his vowels, who had tipped off his other creditors that he had empty pockets and no real prospects. Nobody hated Stinky? Somebody did. But who? And why?

Sir Ralph pulled out the straight-back chair from the table and slumped on it, cudgeling his brain for the answers to his questions. He smelled something rotten about Arthur’s diamond-wearing heiress, but he might be overreacting, seeing trouble where it did not exist solely because of Perry’s and Stinky’s problems.

But Arthur knew nothing—less than nothing—about Georgianna Rollins. What if it were to turn out she truly was, as Perry had suggested, a shopkeeper’s daughter —or worse! Worse? What could be worse? Sir Ralph couldn’t imagine. But if the engagement were to be seen as a misalliance Arthur would become a laughingstock—and be forced to rusticate with his wealthy but unacceptable bride until another scandal raised its head and banished his debacle from memory.

Rusticate? Now there was a word with a familiar ring to it. He’d believe William was trying to get them all out of the way so he didn’t have to share the spoils of his coming victory with them if it weren’t that their victory would be more difficult to pull off without Arthur and Perry. Besides, subtlety wasn’t William’s way when he wished someone eliminated. He didn’t banish those he had no need of—he disposed of them, permanently. No, William wasn’t behind this rash of unfortunate happenings.

Perry, humiliated. Stinky, running from his creditors. Arthur, about to wed an unsuitable chit half his age. That was three of them. He, Sir Ralph, could be the fourth—leaving William for last?

Ralph knew if he had planned to knock the five of them down one by one, he would certainly leave William to last. He leaned forward and shoved his fingers through his hair. He was being ridiculous. No one even knew they were a group, a club of sorts, with a past that didn’t bear much scrutiny. The men they had so successfully set up, then fleeced, had all believed themselves to blame and had thought Sir Ralph and the rest had also lost money in their financial schemes.

Only Geoffrey Balfour had suspected, had suggested differently. Only Geoffrey Balfour, thanks to William’s insistence, had been made privy to their plan to throw in their lot with the French. Only Geoffrey Balfour could really wish to revenge himself on them.

But Geoffrey Balfour was dead. He had seen him die, would never forget seeing him die, feeling his life leave him.

Geoffrey Balfour was dead, and yet someone was after them. Someone wanted them destroyed.

He squeezed his hands into fists. He was close; he was so close. There was something he wasn’t seeing, something he could taste but not swallow. Some hint he was overlooking, some fact he knew but did not as yet comprehend. Who was after them? Who?

“Do you have the money?”

Sir Ralph looked up sharply to see Maxwell standing in the room, his sad, hangdog face staring at him from beneath that single heavy eyebrow. He nodded, his mouth suddenly dry, remembering that today Maxwell was going to begin taking him down the road to eternal life. How had Maxwell found him? Had someone sent the man to him with mischief on his mind? Was he a fool to believe him? Could there actually be a way not to die? Like Geoffrey Balfour had died, his legs twitching, his chest heaving, his eyes bulging with fright?

But no one knew of his fear of death. No one knew how superstitious he was, or was aware of his belief in omens, even in fortune-tellers. Not even William had ever suspected. Only Geoffrey Balfour. Sir Ralph felt a goose walk over his grave. He had told Geoffrey about the old woman in Italy, one night when they were both deep in their cups. Geoffrey had a way about him, a confiding air, and he had confided in him. He had told him. But Geoffrey Balfour was dead!

“My friend, listen to me. Come back from wherever your mind’s travels have taken you, my friend, and hear my voice. I have put to you a question. If you did not understand, I will rephrase it. Are you back to elementary nonsense, such as tarot cards and the reading of palms—or are you still interested in learning the secret of the Shield of Invincibility? Tell me, my friend, for I am, as always, at your service.”

My friend. My friend. How silly he was being. Maxwell was his heaven-sent angel—his friend. He could trust him; he would do anything to please him; he believed in him utterly. “I’m ready,” Sir Ralph said, his tongue thick, his speech slow, but his mind so very much at peace. He wanted nothing more than to please Maxwell, his friend. He stood, going to his desk to remove two packets of bills. He had been thinking ridiculous thoughts, acting like an old woman afraid of villains hiding under her bed. Maxwell wasn’t involved in anything devious. Maxwell was his friend, the man who would help him to cheat death. My friend. “I have it all here. The money for charity—and the rest.”

He placed the packets on the table, then sat down across from Maxwell. “This can’t be all that’s necessary, can it? What do I have to do next?”

Maxwell picked up the packets, pocketing one and pushing the other toward Sir Ralph. “No, my friend, you keep this one. I cannot take your money and still help you.”

Sir Ralph was confused. “But you asked for it.”

Maxwell smiled, his dark eyes looking at him levelly, so that Sir Ralph found himself relaxing even further, as he always did in Maxwell’s presence. “Only so that I could return it to you, my friend, and prove my honesty. The money I have just taken will go to charity, as I promised. You have shown good faith. I have shown good faith. Now, my friend, we can proceed.”

Sir Ralph swallowed down hard on any small, niggling doubts and gave himself up to Maxwell’s melodious voice, Maxwell’s deeply compelling dark eyes, Maxwell’s promise. No more fear of dying. No more nightmares about death. Only life, sweet life, awaited him! “I’m ready,” he said, sitting up very straight, like a child at his lessons.

“You are to take paper and pen—not now, but when I am gone—and write down every secret you have ever held dear to your heart, every hurt you have caused another, every pain you have made your fellowman to suffer. You are to write a full, last confession, my friend, a complete listing of your sins, and those of any who have been your partners in those sins. Everything, my friend, holding nothing back, or else—”

“Yes, yes. Or else?”

Maxwell smiled. “You seek a higher power today, my friend. You wish to place yourself in the hands of one who can banish your fear of death by granting a most wonderful boon, that of the coveted Shield of Invincibility, which guarantees eternal life and protection from your enemies.”

“Pro-protection from my enemies? Yes, yes. The Shield of Invincibility. No one will be able to hurt me! Oh, Maxwell—thank you!”

“There is more, my friend. I know how desperately you seek peace, a return to innocence, a way to sleep at night without suffering terrible dreams.”

“Ah, Maxwell. You are so wise. So infinitely wise. But hurry, please. Tell me what I must do!”

“The path is easy, for those who are sincere. To do this your old life must die, so that you may be reborn. Did not your beloved mother teach you the only way to gain eternal life was to make yourself as a child, an innocent newborn babe, free from sin, safe from the corruptions of the world?”

Sir Ralph nodded once more, unable to disagree. His dear mother, dead all these years, had taught him just that. Maxwell knew him so well. Maxwell. His friend.

“You have today placed your life in the realm of divine will, my friend, a higher power that will give you the answer you seek. You have proven your charity, you have proven your willingness. Now you must rid yourself of guilt. You must write the names of those who drew you into your transgressions, then shun them forevermore, as you would shun any occasion of sin. Your confession, my friend. You must take this next step. Give me your sins and let me destroy them. Give me your problems and let me solve them.”

Sir Ralph blinked several times, trying to clear his head. He’d had so much on his mind these last weeks, so much intrigue, so many problems. But his suspicions were aroused once more, even through the fog of his mellow feelings. “What—what happens to this confession once it is written? I—I won’t give it to you, I won’t be blackmailed, Maxwell. I’m not so desperate as to open myself to—to anything like that.”

Maxwell pushed back his chair and stood, looking down at Sir Ralph. He reached into his pocket and drew out the money packet, tossing it onto the table. “Farewell, my friend.”

“No! Wait!” Sir Ralph was out of his own chair, catching at Maxwell’s arm as he reached the door. “I didn’t mean it, Maxwell, I swear it. Please, come back. I’ll do anything you say. Anything! I only know real peace when you’re near. I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

Maxwell stared deeply into Harewood’s eyes, drawing out all the worry and fear and replacing those emotions with a deep contentment, so that Sir Ralph knew if he so much as blinked his lids would close heavily and he would fall into a deep sleep. “Please, Maxwell.”

“Very well.” Maxwell returned to the table and picked up the packet. “Listen carefully, my friend, for I will only say this once. You are to write your confession, making your break with the past, and then seal it in this envelope.” He reached into his waistcoat once more, withdrew and unfolded a large brown envelope, tossing it onto the table. “Tomorrow, at midnight, you will meet me in Green Park, just at the Chelsea Waterworks, There, my friend, we will burn the envelope, transferring your guilt and sins to another host, allowing your rebirth.”

Sir Ralph spread his hands. “A host? What sort of host? I don’t understand.”

Maxwell smiled. “Understanding is not necessary to the exercise, my friend. I will provide the host, which you will kill, then inter there in the park with the ashes.”

“I’ll kill no man, Maxwell!” Sir Ralph declared coldly, daring to say what he had never dared with William.

“Such misplaced vehemence! You’ll kill a rooster, my friend,” Maxwell told him, heading for the door once more. “Until tomorrow at midnight?”

“A rooster?” Sir Ralph rose from the chair to look at Maxwell’s departing back. “Why didn’t I guess it before? You’re a Gypsy, aren’t you?”

Maxwell turned, smiling. “I am one of the Lords of Egypt, as we prefer to be called. Good day to you, my friend. Sleep well this night—for your trials are nearly over. Good-bye.”



Dooley liked Thomas, he really did, but there were times when he wished he had stayed home in Philadelphia, smoking his pipe while sitting in his favorite chair after dinner, listening to his beloved Bridget and his mother-in-law bully the children the way the two women usually bullied him.

But he had come to London, had volunteered to aid his country’s cause, exchanging petticoat tyranny for dubious intrigue. The pity of it was that dubious intrigue could sometimes be plaguey boring, propping up walls and lampposts while waiting for something to happen, and then when it did happen he still had to rely upon Thomas to explain it to him.

He had spent the majority of the afternoon outside Sir Ralph Harewood’s domicile, stepping out of the way of passersby and explaining to an endless parade of hawkers that, no, he did not wish to buy their cherries or have any brooms mended or have the dents knocked out of any of his pots. He had seen fewer people and suffered less noise on his weary ears the month he and Bridget had all six of the kiddies down with spots and been run off their feet caring for them.

But Thomas had been right. Again. The man of the frayed cuffs appeared at Harewood’s domicile more than two hours after Dooley had taken up his post, and stayed for some minutes before taking himself off again, a spring in his step that boded no good for Sir Ralph, Dooley wagered himself silently.

Dooley brushed the crumbs of the seedcake he had purchased and eaten—just to pass the time, he’d told himself—from his neck cloth and pushed himself away from the brick wall he had been leaning against, jammed his curly-brimmed beaver down farther on his head, and began to follow the man with the odd, single eyebrow.

He kept his distance, doing his best to blend in with the other people crowding the flagway, stopping now and again to look up at one of the buildings, as if only out for a stroll, before swinging his gold-knobbed cane and continuing on, always careful to keep the man in sight.

The man moved quickly, being at least a score younger and three stone lighter than the Irishman, so that Dooley arrived, breathless, at the Covent Garden market only after the fellow already had a live rooster in hand, the bird in a cage he carried with him as he passed by Dooley, once more on the move.

Fifteen minutes later, Dooley was standing outside a rundown-looking inn near the Thames, watching man and bird disappear inside. “I can hardly wait to tell Tommie this one,” he said out loud, swinging the cane one last time before heading for the corner and, hopefully, a hackney cab that would take him back to the Pulteney. “And if he can make sense of it, I’ll kiss Bridget’s ma square on the lips when next I see her!”



Marguerite approached the drawing room cautiously, for Finch had only told her one of her “old twits” had come to see her and had then withdrawn, his nose in the air as if he wished nothing to do with such odious matters.

Her father’s diary was safely in the pocket of her gown, for she had been sitting at the desk in the morning room, reading over it yet again before carefully drawing her pen through two lines he had written: T.—Vain, and believes he knows everything. Just ask him, and he’ll tell you, and, farther down, Stinky—never saw a penny he couldn’t gamble away.

There were still three lines remaining to be dealt with, but soon—tonight—yet another would fall victim to her pen, and to her resolve. Lord A, the line read, Loves money more than anything. A skirt-chasing buffoon with the wits of a flea.

“Perry!” she exclaimed upon entering the drawing room, espying the man standing in a near crouch beside the windows, looking down on Portman Square as if half afraid someone out in the street might forcibly breach the walls of the mansion and slay him. “My dear friend—I’ve been so worried about you.”

He turned red-rimmed eyes to her and opened his mouth as if to speak, then shook his head.

“I longed to stay and support you in your trouble, but Ralph insisted we leave. He muttered something about avoiding the taint, but that’s simply ridiculous. I would never desert you!” she told him fiercely, taking hold of his arm and leading him to one of the couches. She could feel him trembling and suppressed the urge to smile by wondering why he had come to her. Did he suspect something? “What is it? What can I do for you, Perry?”

“Do for me?” he repeated questioningly, almost condescendingly, as he’d had long practice at arrogance and precious little at humility. “What could you do for me? What could anyone possibly do for me? I’m ruined, Marguerite. Don’t you comprehend that fact? Ralph certainly did!”

Oh, yes, Perry. Yes, I do comprehend that you are ruined. Completely and utterly ruined. Would you like to know why? Marguerite thought, but she answered only, “Surely something can be done. I know it looks dark now, but His Royal Highness might yet see the humor in the affair—”

“Humor!” Sir Peregrine brushed her hands away and collapsed onto the couch, not seeming to notice that she, his hostess, had not yet taken her seat. “You ignorant child. The entire city has seen the humor in the affair. I am become a laughingstock! My majordomo has resigned, not wishing to be sullied by the stain of being in the employ of such a thorough disaster as myself. I passed a man on the street—someone I don’t even know—and he pointed at me and called me Balbus. Then he held up one of those infernal gold-painted pieces!”

“Have you spoken with William? He’s wonderfully influential. Perhaps he—”

But Sir Peregrine cut her off yet again, which was a good thing, for she was having difficulty speaking without breaking into laughter. “William will have my guts for garters,” he said bitterly. “I have only come here this afternoon to say good-bye, Marguerite. I have no choice but to leave the country.”

This was better than she had hoped! “The entire country, Perry? Couldn’t you simply withdraw to one of your estates for a few months, until the furor dies down?”

“Ain’t enough months for that, my dear, not in ten thousand years,” Lord Chorley said from the doorway, his entrance followed closely by Finch’s amused announcement from the doorway that “Lord Chorley and a Mister Simon Wattle, debt chaser, are here to see you, Miss Balfour.”

Marguerite turned to see Lord Chorley bounding into the room, followed closely by a man of indeterminate years and dressed in a very bad suit of clothes. “Stinky! What are you saying? And who in the world is this man?”

“Wattle? He’s my dun. Well, one of them, and the most persistent. Sheridan used to have so many of them running tame in his household he enlisted them to serve his guests at dinner, but only Wattle here is camped in my drawing room, and I don’t have enough of the ready to pay for a dinner party. I’m ruined, my dear, all rolled up. Wattle’s sticking as close as plaster, so I can’t bolt and save myself that way, much as I want to. Prinny has deserted me, and the rest of my set has gone with him. I thought they were my friends, but they were the fair-weather sort, sure as check. Ralph is still loyal, but not by much, and only because he wants something from me. So does William, come to think of it. Well, he won’t be best pleased, now will he? Not that it matters, for I couldn’t have pleased both of them. Arthur? He’s too besotted to care if I live or die, and Perry here has enough on his own plate without my problems. Made a real cake of yourself today, Perry, stap me if you didn’t. I hear Cruikshank’s already penning a cartoon for the broadsheets. Calling it “The Balbus Bauble-leer” or some such nonsense. At a ha’penny apiece, they’ll be tacked up all over London. I dare say, Perry, you ain’t looking so good. Do you feel all right?”

Marguerite frowned. Lord Chorley was taking his ruin exceedingly well. “What will you do, Stinky?” she asked, motioning for him to sit down on the facing couch.

“Do?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t the foggiest, my dear. I cried like a babe at first, but that didn’t help a jot. I suppose I’ll simply have to kill myself, put a period to my existence, stick my spoon in the wall—you know.”

“I see,” Marguerite said quietly, then bit her bottom lip. She had wanted revenge, but she hadn’t planned on anyone dying, committing suicide as her father had done. If she had wanted them dead, she would have shot them, one by one, and never blinked. She wanted them to suffer.

Sir Peregrine jumped to his feet, glaring at Lord Chorley. “Don’t frighten the child, Stinky,” he demanded angrily. “You’re entirely too selfish to ever kill yourself.”

Lord Chorley scratched at a spot just above his left ear. “I know, but I want somebody to feel sorry for me. That’s why I came here, but you beat me to it, parading your woebegone look, begging for sympathy.” He slapped his hands against his knees and stood. “Well, Wattle, shall we be off? I believe I have enough in my pockets to feed the two of us one more time before they cart me off to debtor’s prison. You will visit me, Marguerite, won’t you? Perhaps even bring me a basket of warm scones and a fresh pack of cards?”

“You can depend upon me, Stinky,” Marguerite answered, much relieved. With any luck, Lord Chorley would be a resident of the Fleet for many years to come.

“I, too, shall be going, my dear,” Lord Peregrine said, sighing. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see a line of duns outside my own door when I return home—not that I owe the half of what Stinky here does, but nervous creditors are one of the prices men pay for being in disfavor. Good-bye, Marguerite. You’ve been a loyal friend, and I can only hope none of Stinky’s or my taint rubs off on you.”

“Good-bye, dear gentlemen,” Marguerite said solemnly, then ushered them out before returning to the morning room, her step light as she knew she had succeeded even beyond her wildest hopes. They had been destroyed, and they had no idea she had been the instrument of that destruction.

Now the other three had to be dealt with, and quickly, before they had time to realize they were targets, that someone was out to get them.

Tonight, Mappleton.

Tomorrow, the other two. The last two. The ones she felt sure were the worst of the lot. The most intelligent and therefore the most guilty.

She sat at the desk once more and opened her father’s diary to read: R.H.—Greedy. Ambitious and unnaturally superstitious. Poor fellow, so afraid to die that he has yet to live! W.R.—Enigma, damn him. Beware the man without weaknesses.

Marguerite closed the diary and sat staring out the window, gnawing on her knuckle. Victory was soon to be hers, but her triumph would mean Donovan’s defeat in whatever secret dealings he and his country had with the members of The Club.

Donovan loved her. He had said so. But would he still love her when this was over? She had lived in the past and the present for so long. Could she at last dare to think of the future?