A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 18

As a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.

— Proverbs 26:11

“Well, now, boyo, if this isn’t the loveliest time you’ve ever shown me,” Dooley said as he crouched behind a large bush he had learned, too late, was dotted with thorns. “Make me stand the whole day long at Laleham’s, where absolutely nothing was happening—I coulda had pigeons roosting on me for all the moving I did—then you force me to gulp down m’dinner in two bites before dragging me off to watch Harewood over there stumbling around in the dark in this park. Bridget will be that pleased that her dear husband has seen so much of Londontown.”

Thomas hunkered down beside Dooley, squinting in order to spot Sir Ralph’s dim form in the moonlight. “You nag worse than a fishwife, Paddy, do you know that? Now, keep your voice down. Harewood’s stopped again, and this time I don’t think he’s going any farther.”

They had positioned themselves in a hired coach outside Sir Ralph’s residence before seven that night and been forced to cool their heels until half past eleven, until the man finally came out and entered his own closed carriage. They had then followed as the carriage led them to the entrance to what Donovan believed to be Green Park, where Sir Ralph had abandoned his carriage and walked into the park, guided only by the same moonlight that made him visible now.

Donovan and Dooley had joined him in the dark a few prudent seconds later, careful to keep their distance, and had been running, crouched over, from tree to bush to tree ever since, until a few moments ago.

“Tell me why we’re here, Tommie,” Dooley whispered to him. “I know you already told me, but now that my feet are wet and my bent back feels ready to break, I seem to have some need of hearing it all again.”

Thomas sighed and said quietly, “She’s taking them down one by one, thinking they pushed her father into suicide. Totton was allowed to bring himself low in his quest for intellectual recognition.”

“Served him right, with all his prosing and posturing. He was always running a losing race, boyo,” Dooley interrupted. “All the world would not make a racehorse of a jackass.”

Thomas nodded, agreeing. Marguerite had read her man correctly. “And then Chorley was brought down by his incredibly bad luck at cards—and a little help from the man we now know as Maxwell.”

“He was happy enough when he was winning, wasn’t he, Tommie? As my beloved mother-in-law has been heard to say, the man who wagers his fortune on the turning of a card is a fool, and it isn’t today or yesterday that it happened to him. He was born a fool, Chorley was, and had to lose. There was no other way.”

“Thank you, Paddy, and my compliments to your mother-in-law. I couldn’t have said it better myself—but keep your voice down. Harewood’s waiting for someone, and I don’t want him to think we’re his company. Now, as I was saying—Totton and Chorley helped to bring themselves down and, in a way, because of his vain belief that a rich young woman would favor his suit, so did Mappleton.”

“I would have given a year’s growth to see that! I’ve been chuckling all the day long just thinking about it.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, then smiled in spite of himself. Mappleton had stood very still for a long moment after George’s declaration, then turned and run faster than the man’s bulk would have made anyone believe. For all Thomas knew, the fellow was still running. “Marguerite has taken the easy ones out of the way, but now she’s heading for trouble—not that she’ll let me help. That’s why we’re here tonight, Paddy—to help her. Can you remember that?”

“I can remember anything, boyo, except why I agreed to come to London with you. We’ve seen these fellas and we’ve decided not to have dealings with the likes of them. I still say we take up the girl and her grandfather, find ourselves a lovely big ship heading for Philadelphia, and have done with it. All this revenge business and sneaking around in the middle of the night is sure to bring us all to grief. What ho? I think I see someone, Tommie. Look—over there. Be quiet now, boyo, or you’ll give the game away.”

“I’ll give the game away?” Thomas sliced a quick, amused look at Dooley, then parted the branches of the bush he was hiding behind to see another male form beside Harewood’s. “Maxwell,” he breathed softly. “How you do get around, my beetle-browed friend. Where’s your baby brother—rigged out in another wig and dancing at Covent Garden?”

Dooley, a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing, gave Thomas a shove on the shoulder and motioned for him to be quiet. It would appear, Thomas thought ruefully, his reluctant Irish friend was at last beginning to feel some of the thrill of the thing.

They watched, alternately amused and intrigued, as Harewood handed Maxwell a large packet, then sat on the damp ground as Maxwell did the same. Thomas could hear mumblings, although he was too far away to make out any of the words.

After about fifteen minutes, time during which Maxwell’s voice rose and fell—still with none of his words intelligible —and he alternately stood and sat and waved his arms about like a windmill in a summer storm, he took out a tinderbox and struck it, setting afire one corner of the packet.

In the light of the small blaze, Thomas was able to see the sack sitting on the ground beside Maxwell. The man opened the sack and pulled out a white rooster, holding it by the feet and extending his arm hard Harewood, who pulled out a knife, its blade glinting dully in the moonlight.

Dooley quickly blessed himself. “We shouldn’t be seeing this, Tommie. I’ve heard tell about such doings. Black arts, that’s what they are. We’ll be going to hell, seeing this, sure as check.”

Thomas motioned for Dooley to be quiet and watched, fascinated, as Harewood dispatched the rooster, then stuffed it back in the bag. Maxwell scooped the ashes from the tin plate they had been on and poured them into the bag, tying it shut with a leather thong before lofting the entire bundle into the air. A moment later Thomas heard a splash and knew Maxwell’s aim had found the ornamental water behind them.

Harewood lifted his chin proudly. Even from this distance Thomas could feel the man’s pride—his relief?—and motioned for Dooley to fade toward their left as Harewood shook hands with Maxwell and headed toward them.

Once Harewood passed, his form melting into the darkness, Thomas waved his arm at Dooley once more, silently instructing him to circle to his left, to come up behind Maxwell, while he himself began moving forward and to his right.

“Hello there, Maxwell,” he said a moment later as the mysterious man with the single eyebrow cut through the trees and ended up directly in front of him. “I’ll take the packet, if you please.”

Dooley came up behind Maxwell, cutting off any notion of escape, although that fact didn’t appear to depress the man. “Packet? Surely you are mistaken. I burned it, which you must have seen, if you’ve been watching for any length of time.”

Thomas smiled. “I’ve watched you play cards as well, Maxwell,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ve seen your handiwork in the Tower garden. You are, in fact, a truly remarkable man, and Marguerite is lucky to have you. Oh, yes, my friend. You have many, many talents. However, Marguerite also has me, and I’m not a hired assistant, but the man who loves her beyond life and would cheerfully kill anyone who stands between me and my intention of protecting her from her folly. Do we understand each other, Maxwell? I devoutly hope so.”

“He means it, boyo,” Dooley piped up. “He smiles a lot, our Tommie does, and goes a mite too far sometimes trying to prove he’s none too smart, but he’s got a mean streak in him a mile wide. All in all, I’d say Thomas Joseph Donovan is as great a rogue as ever stood in shoe leather. And I’d do what he says.”

“Donovan, heh? All right. I’ve heard of you. She must have trusted you more than she let on, though, to tell you about that ‘my friend’ business.” He shrugged. “But I promised Marguerite I’d bring Harewood’s confession to her,” Maxwell said, reaching beneath his jacket and pulling out the packet. “She thinks there should be enough evidence inside it to tuck up Harewood and Laleham in prison forever. Something about a long-ago try at treason, to hear her tell it. He played right into our hands, Harewood did, with his superstitions, his love of fortune-tellers, and his convenient horror of death. The Shield of Invincibility—as if it really exists! The man now believes he cannot die. The others were almost for fun, but Harewood is a bad man. Almost as bad as Laleham—though he’s worse. She loves you, you know. Do you love her? I mean, do you really love her?”

“Well enough to turn her over my knee and spank her darling sweet bottom once this is over, for scaring me out of seven years’ growth,” Thomas said absently, taking hold of the packet and raising his eyebrows appreciatively when he felt its thickness. Harewood seemed to have been a busy sinner. Then he looked directly into Maxwell’s eyes. “Tell me, do you love her?”

Maxwell smiled and shook his head. “Only as I would love a sister, which she is—if only in my heart. Giorgio and me, we’ve known her all our lives. I’m Marco, by the way, and not Maxwell. We weren’t sure Harewood would trust a Marco so easily, you understand. Marguerite came to our camp last spring with a world of hurt in her heart and an idea or two festering in that pretty little head. We’ve been with her ever since. It’s the least we could do for our sister. For our sister’s father. Although Giorgio says he hasn’t had so much fun, playing the lady.”

“Gypsies,” Dooley piped up, blessing himself yet again. “Wait till Bridget hears I’m trucking with Gypsies. She’ll never let me out of her sight again, even to go to the corner pub for a pint. And she won’t let me within ten feet of you, Tommie, for leading me into occasions of sin.”

Thomas ignored Dooley, who was probably enjoying himself more than he’d ever admit, and slung an arm around Marco’s shoulders as they headed back toward the rented coach. “We have to talk, Marco, wouldn’t you agree? Talk and do a bit of reading. Then we’ll decide just what you’re to show Marguerite and just what you won’t.”



It was William’s fault—all William’s fault. I didn’t know how much he wanted her, how he had always coveted her. This wasn’t just another profitable bubble, this was out-and-out destruction. William wanted Geoffrey destroyed. He reeled him in with the bubble, then offered him a way out of his dilemma by inviting him to join our scheme to deal with the French. Our scheme? No. William’s scheme. Always William’s schemes.

It was a mad plan from the outset, with little hope of success. Murder Pitt? The man was close to cocking up his toes anyway. Although, in the end, he lived long enough to keep the empire afloat. But that is of no moment. William wanted Geoffrey out of the way so he could have Victoria. Victoria was to be his queen, his consort. A ridiculous obsession, but well hidden! It took me years to figure it out.

William never meant for Geoffrey to become one of us. He may have never seriously meant to do treason—not then. He only wanted Geoffrey to become a danger to us when he refused to join us. He needed us to fear Geoffrey, fear his knowledge of our plans. He wanted him dead. That way we would all have no choice but to help him, and keep our silence afterward. I see it now. I see it all now—so clearly!

But I was the only one there when Geoffrey came to confront William. Not Stinky, not Perry, not that fool, Arthur. They weren’t there, curse them. Not until it was over.

William let Geoffrey rant and rave, declare he would go to the Crown, turn us in for our intent to do treason, and be damned to his own reputation, the devil with his lost funds, his neighbor’s lost funds. He had been the outcast before, he would suffer their censure again. It didn’t matter. Not as long as he could look his Marguerite in the eye. Not as long as he could keep her love. Keep Victoria’s love.

That’s when William pounced. He hated the thought that Victoria had ever belonged to another man. I’m convinced that explains why he’s so consumed with Marguerite now. Not only is she a part of Victoria, but he believes she is unsullied. Pure. He plans to make her his wife, perhaps his consort. God only knows his reasoning.

I always wanted the money, only the money. William has always wanted more. If he was spinning a lie to Geoffrey all those years ago, he has come to believe his own lies now. King? It’s madness, at least for William.

But this is not William’s story. It is my confession, all the sins I have listed on these pages. I conclude with this, the sin that is the worst, the one that haunts me night and day without ceasing. The sin of watching Geoffrey Balfour die.

William—always so strong, so fit—struck at Geoffrey that night, throwing him to the floor, half stunned, and straddled him, sitting heavily on his chest. He lifted Geoffrey’s cravat and began stuffing the ends into his mouth, shoving the cloth down his gullet, instantly robbing him of any remaining breath, of strength. But Geoffrey’s legs! Oh, how they still bucked, and quivered, and jerked. I could do nothing.

No! I could have done something. Anything. But I didn’t. I stood to one side, terrified, and watched. I could see his eyes growing more frightened by the moment as he looked death in the face and knew it would soon be over for him.

But not soon enough. An eternity of horror came before, at last, it was over. Geoffrey’s legs stopped twitching, and I saw his eyes go flat and lifeless. I don’t want to look like that. I never, ever want to look like that, or feel the fear Geoffrey felt.

It didn’t begin then, my fear of death. It began with that old crone in Italy, that miserable fortune-teller who laughed and prophesized that I would come to an early end. A messy end.

My fear doubled and redoubled that night, in the moment Geoffrey Balfour died. My dread of dying. Don’t we, all of us, think of death, of our death? Yes. We don’t believe it. Not really. No, we cannot imagine it. But we fear it. I fear it now, but soon, blessedly soon, I will fear it no more.

But I am ahead of myself. The three bunglers showed up then, late, always late, and William bullied them into becoming a part of it. He told us all Geoffrey had been sacrificed to save our group. We believed him. It was, after all, too late for anything else.

We took Geoffrey back to Chertsey, all five of us, and slid a noose around his neck, hanging his lifeless body from the trellis in the gardens. William wouldn’t even allow Stinky to close Geoffrey’s eyes.

Victoria found him the next morning and collapsed. William gave up his plans of treason—did he ever really plan to throw in with the French, or was it all, all of it, just to gain him Victoria?—and we went our own ways. But there is some justice. Victoria was lost to William, for she never fully recovered her strength, although I believe he attempted one last time to propose marriage last year, just days before she died. Now his obsession is Marguerite, and once more he has called us to do treason.

But he won’t win this time either. He won’t have Marguerite. He won’t have anything. I’ll see to that. Once Maxwell has worked his magic, I will have my revenge on William. I confess that sin now, to lump it with the others. Geoffrey deserves at least that—that his Marguerite will be saved from William. For if he ever learned about the American, about the way he tumbled her, he’d kill her, that’s what William would do. I will be doing a good deed, won’t I, saving Balfour’s daughter? I’m not a bad man.

And so I vow, on my most sacred oath, that this is my full confession, given freely, as Maxwell says it must be. I am now released from my old life and ready to enter into the world of the reborn, the world of eternal life, and I will accomplish what William could only dream and scheme of, for nothing will be impossible for me. I will rule fairly—

“The rest is drivel,” Thomas said, throwing the pages on the table and looking at Dooley, who was shaking his head in mingled horror and disbelief.

“Marguerite can’t be allowed to read all of this, read these horrible details of dear Geoffrey’s final agonies,” Marco said, flicking at the pages with the back of his hand. “She’d never be content to turn it over to the authorities and let them punish Laleham and Harewood. Not the Marguerite I know. No, she’ll take up her pistols and go after them herself. She can do it, you understand. I’ve seen her shoot, and she can do it. And then, because her heart is good, she will fall into very little pieces not even you, my new friend, will be able to put together again.”

Thomas picked up the pages and began reading through them again rapidly, trying to think. According to the dates mentioned in Harewood’s confession, Geoffrey Balfour had been murdered when Marguerite had been no more than eleven or twelve. She’d admitted to Thomas she hadn’t known immediately that her father’s death had been a suicide. And no wonder. Who would tell a child her beloved father had hanged himself?

“Oh, sweet Jesus, I ought to be horsewhipped,” he breathed quietly, remembering how harshly he had judged Geoffrey Balfour, and then opened his big mouth and said as much to Marguerite. It was a wonder she hadn’t skewered him on the spot! She had to know some of what Harewood had confessed, some inkling of The Club’s involvement with her father’s death, or she never would have acted. How had she learned any of it? And did it matter? No. It didn’t. It was enough that she knew. But Marco was right—she didn’t know it all. If she did, those five men would already be dead. She didn’t know it all—and she could never know it all!

“What are you going to do, boyo?” Dooley asked, returning to the table after getting them all fresh drinks. “You have to let her know her father died a hero. She deserves to know that.”

Thomas took a long drink, then came to a decision. “Paddy—get yourself pen and ink and some paper. Marguerite won’t know Harewood’s handwriting, I hope, and if she does, the words she’ll be reading will keep her from questioning it. Copy down the confession, all that information about bubbles and business ventures. That and the very end. Marco—help him rework the middle pages, where Harewood talks about the details of Balfour’s death, and that business about her mother as well. Say that Geoffrey fought like a man possessed, but William threw him down and he—he hit his head on an andiron or something, killing him instantly. They strung up the body so no one would know it was murder. Marguerite can read that. She can handle that. She has to know her father never planned to leave her without saying good-bye. But that’s all she has to know. Understand?”

Paddy nodded, already writing. It was after one in the morning, and they all knew Marguerite expected Marco at the kitchen door before ten. Harewood was a wordy man, his confession running to ten close-written pages. They didn’t have much time. “What will you be doing, Tommie?” he asked, looking up at him.

“First,” Thomas answered, shrugging into his jacket, then fitting a knife, his favorite knife, up one sleeve, “I’m going to climb a Portman Square drainpipe and love that brave, courageous, wonderful aingeal to within an inch of exhaustion—because she deserves it and because I’d like to think she’ll sleep late tomorrow after I leave her.”

“And then?” Dooley was looking at him strangely, as if there was something visible in his eyes the Irishman had seen once or twice before. “There’s more. And not just because I saw you slip that fancy sticker up your sleeve. I know it in my bones. What will you be doing while your Marguerite is sleeping, a smile still on her pretty face?”

Thomas headed for the door, stopping only when he had his hand on the handle. “Marco, you deliver the packet, but not until eleven. Stay with her while she reads the confession, then sit on her if you have to, but don’t let her out of your sight until I come for her. Paddy, you go with him, to make sure he gets in to see her, then come back here and pack, for we’ll be leaving for Chertsey tomorrow afternoon—and most probably Philadelphia soon after that.”

“Always the valet,” Dooley muttered, sighing. “I’d much rather go around town banging heads with you. You can’t count on that fool Harewood to do any of the work for you, even if he does hint in that sorry confession of his that he plans to murder Laleham. Precious lot of courage the man’s gotten, now that he has Marco’s Shield of Invincibility. Immortal, is it? Bloody fool! Even the leprechauns can’t promise that. So that’s what you’ll be doing early tomorrow morning, isn’t it, Tommie? Having some of your own back on Harewood and the earl before we’re on our way? Marguerite would want that.”

“No, Paddy,” Marco said, his head cocked to one side as he regarded Thomas solemnly. “He’ll not be beating on them. He’ll be killing them. Killing them dead. Won’t you, my friend?”

Thomas smiled, although his heart wasn’t in it. “I didn’t hear that, Marco, because you didn’t say it. You’re welcome to come to Philadelphia with us—you and Giorgio both. If anything goes wrong, Marguerite and I won’t be the only ones to have worn out our welcomes in England.”

“Many thanks, but we’re late joining the others for our summer trek. I’ve a taste for pilfered chicken that must be satisfied. We’ll be leaving London tomorrow, once we know Marguerite is safely with you.”

Thomas nodded, silently agreeing to the plan. “My thanks to you, Marco. Marguerite couldn’t have been half so brilliant without you, although I like my head too much to ever say such a thing to her face.”

“The plans were hers, my friend. Giorgio and I were only her instruments. Good luck to you.”

“Tommie—have a care.”

Thomas looked to Dooley. “Do you worry I can’t handle them?” he asked, already thinking ahead to his confrontations with Harewood and the earl.

“Not those bastards, boyo,” Dooley shot back. “Marguerite. She might not take kindly to you climbing into her window in the middle of the night.”

“Perhaps, Paddy,” Thomas said, opening the door. “But I think you can trust your Tommie to change her mind.”



Laleham didn’t care for late-night assignations, but Ralph had been insistent they meet two hours after midnight. Ralph had been acting strangely these last days, nearly daring to contradict him on more than one occasion, so that the earl was thoroughly out of patience with him. Which partially explained his foul humor as his man drove him away from the ball he had been attending and through the still busy streets to Harewood’s lodgings.

The remainder of Laleham’s black mood was due to the steady aching in his jaw that, no matter how much better his physicians swore the cracked bone to be, still pained him like the devil. The pain kept his hatred for Thomas Donovan alive—so much so that he had begun to believe he could find a way to dispose of the man and deal only with his minion, Patrick Dooley.

But that had to wait. Everything had to wait until this business with Arthur and Perry and Stinky was straightened out. How could one of them, yet alone all three, be so monstrously inept, so perilously stupid?

And why now? One or two of them falling from grace could be looked upon as coincidence. But three? And so quickly, one directly after the other, within a space of days? That smacked of some sort of intrigue meant to bring them down. But only the five of them knew they were connected in any way other than simple friendship.

Yet all wasn’t lost. The groundwork for the deal with the Americans had been well laid, and Perry’s and Arthur’s liberally bribed—and decidedly more competent—assistants were still in place, so that neither of the two blockheads were needed anymore. Not really. Perry’s replacement at the War Ministry and Arthur’s at the Treasury would only continue on the way things had been set up for them by their predecessors, for originality—and brainpower—never had been requirements for government service. Assistants and secretaries had always run the offices, and always would. No one had any reason to believe this first shipment and those to follow, neatly delivered to Phillips and Delphia, would be anything but customary.

As for Stinky? Merely a minor adjustment was needed there. William knew he could always find another of Prinny’s fawning sycophants who needed his debts paid in exchange for whispering a word or two into His Royal Highness’s ear if one was needed. But not for long. Soon Prinny would only be a faint, forgettable blot on the pages of history—even without Stinky personally assisting the man into oblivion.

The only real problem lay with Donovan, who had yet to turn over the letter from Madison—that vital communication that would keep the earl safe from any sort of double dealing. If the replacements at the War Ministry and the Treasury were to be too efficient, and forward Perry’s and Arthur’s orders too expeditiously, Donovan would have everything his president wanted without having to turn over the paper.

And that, William Renfrew knew, just wouldn’t be sporting.

Laleham clenched his teeth before remembering the action inevitably set a sharp pain running from his jawbone straight into his ear.

He thought once more of Ralph. Perhaps Ralph had also considered the benefits to be derived by this strange elimination of the three bunglers, although he would then have most naturally supposed he, as the sole remaining contact inside the government, had doubled—nay, trebled —in worth.

Yes, that would be the way Ralph saw it—and it certainly would explain his new air of command. Hadn’t it also occurred to him that if Grouse could be bought without Perry’s knowledge, and Arthur’s man, Peeler, could be bought, then it merely followed that Ralph’s assistant had also been neatly purchased and sat in his pocket?

Did Ralph, did any of them, really believe that he, William Renfrew, would leave the chances for success of such important dealings resting solely with such unreliable men as themselves?

A simple, superstitious, easily led fool—that was his dear friend Ralph. It also would never occur to him that if three members of their little group could be done without, so could four. After all, why settle for half a loaf when it was possible to have it all? More for himself, more for his consort, more because more was better. Always better.

But he was worrying too much, like an old woman. The three had been destroyed by their own weaknesses, and not beforetimes either! It had been coincidence—nothing more. Yet these coincidences had given birth to an idea. He might as well dispose of Ralph now as well, and make a clean break with these anchors from his past who could only drag him down.

His coachman pulled up in front of Harewood’s residence and Laleham, smiling thinly as he considered his latest brilliance, descended to the flagway. He motioned for his man to take the coach to the end of the street and wait there.

Yes, eliminating dear Ralph now rather than later just might be the next logical step. He had halfway assigned that job to Perry, but Perry was gone—and probably would have bungled the thing anyway. Oh, well—it wasn’t as if he were a stranger to killing. After the first one, how difficult could it be to kill again? Not very. For if truth be told, he had rather enjoyed it the first time. Not like Ralph, who had cried like a puling infant the whole time, and for days afterward.

Laleham rapped a single time on the knocker, unsurprised to see Sir Ralph open the door himself a moment later. “You’re late,” Harewood said, his tone harsh, as if he, rather than William, were in charge of the earl’s comings and goings.

“And you’re impertinent, Ralph, which shouldn’t be surprising, seeing as how you have at times put me in mind of a creature raised by wolves. This had best be good,” Laleham said coldly as he stepped inside and walked straight past Harewood and into the small drawing room that was unaccustomedly brilliant with candles. He removed his hat and cloak and laid them over a chair. “Where are your servants?”

“I sent them away until tomorrow afternoon,” Sir Ralph answered shortly as he, too, entered the drawing room. “I felt we should be alone, and undisturbed.”

Laleham helped himself to a glass of wine, although Ralph was not drinking and hadn’t offered anything to his guest. “Really? And why would such privacy be important to you, Ralph?” He turned to look at the man, really look at him, and saw that Harewood was smiling. He tried not to wince. Sir Ralph Harewood and smiles did not match. It was rather like seeing a toothy grin on a three-days-dead corpse.

“I see. Something has happened,” Harewood said, walking over to his desk, keeping his back to William.

“Yes, indeed it has. Perry has taken ship rather than face the titters each time he shows his face in public. Stinky is even now ensconced in the Fleet, weeping into his stylishly tied cravat and cursing Prinny for having deserted him. And Arthur? Ah, Arthur. I believe he has retired to his bed, the covers pulled up tight around his several weak chins, trying to convince himself anyone could have been taken in by a gangly, downy-cheeked youth dressed as a rich debutante. I had wondered how any young woman, even an importuning Cit with deep pockets and an eye to a title, could have found Arthur so intriguing. Now I understand. Someone was out to play a whopping great joke on our dearest buffoon—and it worked beautifully, as playing to the man’s weakness for any wealthy, willing woman was bound to do. At his age, I imagine it would be enough that she merely be willing.”

He addressed Harewood’s back. “Is that it, Ralph, or are you going to tell me you’ve also disgraced yourself? Have you taken to running into the Serpentine in the buff, or perhaps you’ve decided to attempt a career on the stage? Please, Ralph, don’t tease me—I am waiting, heart in mouth, for you to tell me if you, too, have inexplicably descended to the level of village idiot.”

Ralph whirled around to face Laleham, his usually expressionless eyes glittering with what looked to be religious zeal. “I want that diary you found, William.”

“Diary? What diary would that be?” Laleham stepped back a pace, lowering his wineglass onto the drinks table with a steady hand as he kept his eyes trained on Harewood. Something was wrong here. Something was most seriously wrong.

“Don’t be obtuse, Willie! Geoffrey Balfour’s diary, the one detailing how we’d tricked him into getting his friends to invest in our bubble,” Harewood said, taking a single step in the earl’s direction. “The one he was forever scribbling in, the one you held over all our heads in order that we join this damn scheme of yours with the Americans. I want it. The rest are gone, and Geoffrey’s scribbles are the least of their problems, but my name is in it, too. You took great pains to show it to me, remember? If we’re to be partners, you and I—true partners—I need the thing destroyed.”

William smiled, happy to unbalance the man. “This is what all the fuss is about, all this heat, this dead of the night summons? Why, Ralph, you disappoint me. Surely you realized I was showing you all a forgery? The man was a dreamer and failed poet, a worthless waste of anyone’s concern. What on earth could any of us fear from his notations on the local flora and fauna and such nonsense? I wrote the diary you saw. It may have been unsporting of me, but I needed your help.”

The truth worked nicely, as unexpected truth invariably did, and William began to relax, for Ralph was behaving so totally out of character he had begun to worry.

“You—it was—where is it now?”

Now a lie might be best, especially since Ralph hadn’t seemed to notice that the forged diary had mentioned only four names, not all five; Laleham hadn’t been about to incriminate himself, after all, and one never knew when the diary might be useful in future. “I burned it, of course. It had served its purpose, and I couldn’t leave it lying about, now could I, to be discovered by just anybody? Ralph,” he added, sighing, “isn’t it silly of us to argue now, when we’re so close to our goal.”

Ralph took another step forward, and suddenly there was a pistol in his hand. “Not our goal, William—my goal. I don’t need you anymore. What good were you anyway? Keeping to the background, just so that you can step forward at the end and scoop up the lion’s share of the profits, not to mention all the glory? Just as it always was, William—you as the head and we the arms and legs, doing all the work, taking all the risks. Well, no more. You and your whore of a consort will have nothing—and I will have it all.” He smiled again, and this time his smile wasn’t simply distasteful, it was frighteningly triumphant. “And I’ll have it all forever.”

William’s hands balled into fists, but he kept his tone even. “Again with this strange obsession with Marguerite. I truly don’t know what you’re talking about. And lower that pistol, please, before you hurt yourself.”

Ralph moved even closer, the pistol looming large in his hand. “Marguerite. Your so pure, so innocent Marguerite. If she’s a virgin, I’m a Dutchman! God save me from the ravings of a man grown too old to recognize an obsession. She’s been tipped on her heels by our dear American friend Donovan. I saw them together, that night you sent me chasing after the American when he left Richmond. I just didn’t tell you, did I? Oh, you look surprised, William. But why? He as good as announced his intentions every time we met. He wanted her, and he got her. She’s Victoria’s daughter, remember. Balfour females seem to have a penchant for throwing themselves away on inferiors. It is not every woman who shares your high opinion of yourself.”

Laleham felt his head beginning to pound. “Liar. You’ve overstepped yourself this time, Ralph. I’ve put up with your foolishness, your dark moods, your endless line of soothsayers. Oh, yes, I know about them—your ridiculous superstitions, your womanish fear of death. I know everything about you, Ralph, about all of you. How else has it been so lamentably easy for me to use you? But now you’ve gone too far. You’ll pay for this insult. You’ll pay dearly.”

“Aren’t you waxing fairly ferocious for a man looking down the barrel of a pistol, Willie?” Ralph asked, leaning against the back of a small wooden chair, appearing relaxed and at his ease. Too at his ease. Too relaxed.

William looked down and noticed Ralph was standing on a small rug. He cocked his head to one side. “True enough. I don’t know what came over me. Let’s talk about this, Ralph,” he crooned smoothly, deliberately trading belligerence for a compromising attitude. “We’ve been friends for too long to argue. What do you want? You want to have more power? It can be arranged, now that it’s just the two of us. You know I’ve always planned it that way. The others—they became superfluous the moment their clerks wrote the orders to transfer the goods, the money. And you’ve already signed the orders for your ship captains, haven’t you, so that everything is ready to go once we have the letter from the American? Of course. I shouldn’t have had to ask. Good man, so handy with details. With my ideas and your ability to organize, we have all but won already. There’s more than enough for us to share once the empire begins to crack and I step forward to save it. Remember, Ralph. I’m the one with the claim to the throne. I’m the one with royal blood.”

“Ha! From the wrong side of the blanket. You’ve no more claim to any throne than I do.”

“Again, true enough,” William conceded with some effort, watching Ralph closely. It was important to keep him talking. He had never respected Ralph, and now he despised him. He couldn’t let his hate cloud his judgment, for his clear head was what had kept him above the rest of them for so long. “That, too, was said only to impress our three departed idiots. But I am the one with the largest fortune in hand now—not in some nebulous future. I’m the one with the skills necessary to eloquently state our case in Parliament for George’s forced abdication. I’m the one who can rally the people with my eloquent speeches, my considerable consequence—my private army, if need be. Cromwell did it with less. But you can’t do that, Ralph, it simply isn’t in you. You’re a good man, but slow, and plodding, and eminently forgettable. Those are your charms, Ralph, and they have served us both well, but they will not raise you up to power. No one will listen to you.”

The pistol wavered slightly. “I’m different now. Changed. I’ve been like a dead man all these years—since you forced me to be your accomplice the night you killed Geoffrey.”

“Forced you, Ralph?” Laleham raised one eyebrow in mock surprise. “Hardly. You knew it had to be done. He was going to inform on us, condemn us as traitors. We couldn’t have let him go, now could we?”

“Royal blood, now Cromwell—anything at all that ends with you ruling all of Great Britain, eh, Willie? You can’t even keep your lies straight anymore. Here’s the real truth. One way or another, you wanted Geoffrey dead so you could have Victoria for yourself. You never gave up that dream, did you, but have now just substituted the daughter instead? Madness! Cold, cruel, so insane you somehow appear as the sanest among us.” Ralph had the pistol once more firmly pointed at the earl’s chest even as he’d continued to recline against the back of the chair. “You used Geoffrey, you used me—all of us! For what? Victoria’s dead, and her daughter’s a slut. A slut! All these years, serving your twisted dreams, your mad schemes for fortune and glory until you’ve actually begun to believe them. You’re mad, Willie, Bedlam bait. But what would never work for you will work for me, so thank you very much. It’s my turn now, all the way to eternity.”

William dropped to his knees and yanked at the carpet, sending Ralph crashing to the floor, the pistol skittering off across the highly polished wood, out of reach. He was on top of Ralph within a heartbeat, his fingers buried in the smaller man’s hair, pounding his head repeatedly against the parquet floor as he knelt on his chest.

He didn’t stop until Ralph went limp beneath him, beaten into unconsciousness, then stood, wiping his hand across his mouth, looking around him for something, some weapon that would finish the job. Not the pistol. It was too noisy for one thing—too messy, for another. And it shouldn’t look like murder. He didn’t wish there to be an investigation of the death. The way there had been no investigation into Geoffrey’s death.

That thought brought a smile to Laleham’s face and, as he adjusted his cuffs, not liking that he might have wrinkled his sleeves in his exertion, he looked about the room until he saw the stout silken cords holding the draperies.

Working quickly, he took cords from three of the windows and knotted all but one of them together. Then, in lieu of an elaborate noose, he tied a large knot in the center of the end loop he had made for Ralph’s head. The pressure of Ralph’s hanging body pressing the knot into his windpipe should shorten the man’s final dance. The last cord secured Ralph’s hands tightly behind his back.

It took several attempts, but he finally managed to toss one end of the makeshift rope up and over one of the curved arms of the chandelier. Using the chair Ralph had been leaning against as a crude stepstool, he was then able to snare the dangling end and pull it down until he could hold onto to both ends. He kicked away the chair, to see if the chandelier could hold the weight of his body.

Perfect.

He hefted Ralph’s slighter, still unconscious body onto the up-righted chair, balancing it there with his knee pressed against his victim’s chest, and slipped the noose around his neck, positioning the knot just below Harewood’s prominent Adam’s apple.

Swiftly, his mind racing, he measured the distance between himself and the large, iron handle that operated the damper on the fireplace. That handle would be his goal. All he had to do was reach it.

Now came the difficult part. He rubbed his hands together briskly, trying to marshal all his strength, congratulating himself for all his care of his still strong and muscular body, then took hold of the other end of the rope, wrapped it twice around his left hand, and began to pull with all his might.

Slowly, the silken, slippery cord began to slide over the arm of the chandelier, lifting Ralph’s weight off the chair, which toppled most conveniently, jerking the knotted noose tight around the man’s neck.

He hadn’t realized an unconscious body could be so heavy, but with his back turned to Ralph and the knotted lengths of cording over his shoulder—like a peddler carrying his sack—William was able at last to take one step, then two, raising Ralph from his prayer-like position on his knees until only the tips of his shoes still remained on the floor.

And then Ralph came awake, and immediately realized his dilemma. “No! This can’t happen! He prom—”

Laleham gave another mighty tug on the drapery cord rope.

Ralph began to kick, reaching with all his might for the floor, garbled sounds coming from his mouth. But no more screams. He couldn’t scream. Not with the knot pushing into his gullet.

William turned around, bracing his feet against the floor and leaning backwards as he continued to pull on the cord, watching with considerable, if detached, interest as Ralph’s normally dim complexion turned first red, then blue, as the kicking increased before finally subsiding. Until all he saw were the man’s bulging eyes, stark with terror... then flat with death.

Only three inches separated Sir Ralph Harewood from the floor when his life ended. Three extraordinarily important inches.

The earl struggled forward, finally reaching the fireplace, and with his last strength tied the cord to the damper handle, then sat down on the floor, laboring to regain his breath.

It was over.

How considerate Ralph had been to send his servants away. That action smacked of a planned suicide. All that was missing was a farewell note—short and to the point.

Forcing himself to his feet, Laleham crossed to the desk and began searching it for a sheet of paper he could use to pen his dead friend’s suicide note. But every paper he picked up had already been written on and marked with yesterday’s date. Every one of them. Written on, and splotched with ink, and—what? tears?—and then written over again, on yet another sheet. What on earth could Ralph have been doing to have scribbled so much?

He took up the papers and headed for his wineglass, giving Ralph’s belly a playful nudge as he passed by it, setting the body to swinging, then sat down and began to read.

He read slowly at first, chuckling under his breath as he saw the words “Shield of Invincibility,” then more rapidly, his smile fading. He sat forward on the couch, one hand to his throat as he continued to read, never stopping until he came to the last paragraph:

And so I vow, on my most sacred oath, that this is my full confession, given freely, as Maxwell says it must be. I am now released from my old life and ready to enter into the world of the reborn, the world of eternal life, and I will deliver this confession to Maxwell tonight at midnight, and he will use it to expunge my sins. I feel so free, so full of life—and I will live forever! Now I cannot die!

Laleham looked up at Harewood’s lifeless, still slightly swinging body. “You fool,” he bit out through his clenched teeth. “You stupid, stupid fool!”

He gathered up all of the papers, then threw them into the fireplace, raising the flames with a poker. Every plan. Every scheme. Everything they had done over all the years. Written down, but not cast in stone.

Except these were rough drafts, filled with scratchings and rewritten sentences. He knew Ralph—had thought he knew Ralph—and the man was meticulous. There was also a finished copy, the copy he had already handed over to this man, this charlatan—this Maxwell. He had to have already handed it over, and believed himself protected by his asinine Shield of Invincibility, or else he would never have had the temerity to face his betters with a pistol in his hand.

“Who’s Maxwell?” he asked, pacing the length of the room, pausing only to hit at Harewood’s body, wishing the man back to life just long enough to tell him what he’d done, wishing him alive again so he could kill him again for his superstitions, his gullibility—his ridiculous, dangerous, obsession with death. “Couldn’t die, huh? Invincible, were you?” he jibed, giving Harewood’s legs a kick. “Stupid, sorry bastard!”

William quickly ransacked the desk, careful not to disturb anything, just to be sure there weren’t any other copies of the confession, retrieved his belongings, then stood at the doorway, surveying the room one last time, not caring there would be no suicide note for Ralph’s servants to discover along with the body.

Lord knew there had been more than enough notes already. Most important was the original confession Ralph had turned over to this man, this Maxwell, a clever trickster who undoubtedly now knew all Ralph’s secrets, all of William Renfrew’s secrets. Ralph’s association with Maxwell hadn’t been accidental; William knew it in his bones. Someone had wanted Ralph to write that confession. Someone had wanted Ralph to tumble. Wanted him, William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, to tumble along with him.

Oh, yes. He was convinced of it now.

Two might be considered coincidence.

Three could only be seen as highly questionable.

But four—with the chance of snaring a fifth?

That is a plot.

Then he thought of Marguerite, thought about what Ralph had said about Marguerite. Was it true? Could she have betrayed him—and with that arrogant, uncouth American!

It was falling apart. Just as everything should be falling into place, it was all falling apart.

Perry had run away. Stinky was in prison. Arthur was in disgrace. Ralph—Ralph was dead.

He, William, was the only one left.

Donovan? No, there would be no reason for the American to do this. He had nothing to gain. Besides, whoever had done this, planned this, executed this, had to have known those four men well enough to have pinpointed their weaknesses, then preyed on them successfully.

Then who? Who knew them all so well? Who else could possibly want to see them destroyed? Who else had been with all four men, talked with them, then watched, laughing, as they came to grief? Because the person had watched, and not from a distance. No one plans such public humiliations and is not there to watch.

Was that someone already reading about all of Ralph’s secrets? All of his secrets?

Who had a reason to bring them all down?

Marguerite?

Now why had her name popped into his head again? That was ludicrous. He had to gather his thoughts, regain his composure. Marguerite couldn’t be involved. She was his flawless vessel, his chosen consort, the replacement for Victoria that corrected an old mistake and made his plans so perfect. Besides, she was all but a child, and female at that. Females didn’t possess the brainpower to be so cunning, so devious. They didn’t have the nerve necessary to plot so behind their enemies’ backs, and still smile into their faces.

But wait! He must remember what Ralph had said about her. Could he really afford to forget anything, neglect any avenue, no matter how distasteful? Marguerite knew them all, knew them very well. Ralph had called her a slut. He said she’d been with Donovan. Believing herself in love, the chit might have answered any question he’d asked. Perhaps Donovan had decided against the deal, and was now following orders to dispose of anyone who could say Madison had been involved in nefarious dealings? Had Marguerite stupidly handed him the ammunition with which to load his pistols?

He should have remembered—Marguerite was her mother’s daughter, her father’s daughter. Gullibility was in her blood. And he’d thought her worthy? What sort of fool did that make him?

Or was attempting to keep her cast in the role of innocent the mistake? Need he remind himself of the Cleopatra’s of this world, the Medici, the Pompadours? No man could be as devious.

He’d always believed Victoria had succumbed without ever speaking again. Had he been wrong? Had she whispered something into her daughter’s ear, there at the last? Was The Club to be brought low by a revenge-seeking near child, and Donovan had nothing to do with it? Could their deal with the American still be salvaged?

Laleham took out his handkerchief and patted his coldly damp forehead. He was overset, thinking irrationally, even in circles. He had to get out of here, distance himself from this place. The odor from Ralph’s released bowels and bladder was making him nauseous.

But he couldn’t return home. What if he was right? What if someone was out to get them all, ruin them all? What instrument would that person believe held the power to bring him down? Him, William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham—the Earl of Laleham, damn it!

Ralph’s confession? Of course, it was obvious. But how? How? Blackmail? Or would Ralph’s confession find its way to the prime minister?

He had to think... to think... to marshal his thoughts. He couldn’t return home. Not until he thought this thing out. Someone might be waiting for him.

He would order his driver to ride through the darkened streets of London. He was not a stupid man. He would not have come so far if he was a stupid man. But what was he to do? What was he to do?

What had he forgotten to do?

Something was niggling at him, some one thing that he felt he still had to do. The suicide note? No, he had decided against that. He had his hat, his cloak, his gloves. His wineglass was on the table, but Ralph hadn’t been drinking with him. It would be assumed that the glass had been his.

But there was something else. Something else. Something important. But what?

Surely, if he took a drive, gave himself up to the soothing motion of the coach, and cleared his mind, the answer would come to him.

All the answers would come to him.