A Masquerade in the Moonlight

Chapter 8

There is a strength in the union even of very sorry men.

— Homer

The Star and Garter was sufficiently out of the way, the large inn occupying a spectacular vantage at the top of Richmond Hill, so that it made a favorable site for a meeting that would not hold up well to much scrutiny.

Sir Ralph Harewood stood in the courtyard outside the inn doors, not to admire the spectacular view as the sun slid toward the horizon, but to watch for Thomas Donovan and his companion—Dugan, or Dudley, or whatever the man’s name was. It mattered little. Donovan was the one to watch, the one to fear. The one to eliminate.

Not that William saw it that way, Sir Ralph thought, tossing his cheroot to the ground and dispassionately grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. Oh, no. William saw Donovan as a challenge, as a man he could and would outwit, and use, and then deal with later, when he, William, ruled the world. The cheek of the man—the audacity, the overweening arrogance! It had been all Sir Ralph could do not to laugh out loud when William dropped to the floor under the American’s crushing blows.

William was getting out of hand, getting older rather than wiser, and greedy into the bargain. Plots and plans and ploys had served them all well enough when they were younger, but they were getting past their prime now, and should be more cautious than daring. Hadn’t the affair of Geoffrey Balfour taught William anything? Taught any of them anything?

Sir Ralph knew why Stinky had agreed to this mad scheme. The fool needed money—needed it badly—and if he couldn’t pay off his creditors, what better way to deal with them than to become their ruler, and then banish both them and his debts forever? Stinky would gamble on anything—the length of a whisker on an old crone’s chin, the day of the week Beau Brummell would cut a peer dead on Bond Street, the outcome of a race between a cockroach and a spider—just as he was now gambling on the possible success of William’s convoluted plan to bring down the monarchy.

And Perry. His motives in the business were laughably transparent. His was an intellectual pursuit, one that would leave him as the Premier Authority of all that was taught and touted throughout the entire British Empire. His greatest dream was to become England’s self-proclaimed Socrates, England’s greatest philosopher and teacher—England’s greatest bore on any and all subjects—never realizing he was nothing but William’s usable, disposable tool.

Sir Ralph looked out across the countryside and considered yet again William’s insistence Arthur be a part of their scheme. The fellow was a dead waste, a true aging Lothario, and criminally stupid into the bargain. Surely they could have recruited someone else, then had Stinky whisper the man’s name in Prinny’s ear, so that their man could be inserted into the Treasury? But Arthur had been an original member of The Club, and he knew too much not to be included. Although if he were to have a carriage accident, or some such unfortunate, fatal mishap it would be no great loss to anyone.

Sir Ralph sighed, leaning back against the outside wall of the inn, wondering yet again why he had submitted to William’s scheme, then just as quickly dismissing the thought. William wouldn’t have hesitated to remove him if he had refused, and Sir Ralph didn’t much like the idea of dying before his time. He didn’t like the idea of dying at all.

He saw road dust rising in the air from somewhere down the hill and pushed himself away from the wall to see two riders cantering up the drive. He didn’t pay too much attention until they had nearly entered the courtyard, for he had been waiting for a hired coach bearing Donovan and his friend and hadn’t expected them to travel down from London on horseback.

But it was Thomas Donovan’s grinning face that assaulted his senses a few moments later, the man pulling an ugly mud-brown horse to a stop not three feet away from him, his companion, red-faced with exertion, bringing up the rear on a gray mare. Gray horses were bad luck, Sir Ralph knew, and quickly inserted a hand into his pocket to finger the hag stone meant to fend off ill fortune he carried with him at all times.

“The top of the evening to you, Sir Ralph,” Donovan said cheerily, dismounting in a fluid movement that was as unorthodox as it was graceful. “You don’t look pleased to see me although, then again, it’s difficult to tell. Do you ever smile, Sir Ralph? No, don’t bother to answer—merely leave me my illusions. I suppose you’d much rather I were Lady Godiva riding in on her great horse, a stiff breeze accommodatingly blowing her lovely long hair away from all her most appealing places. It’s a sight I might enjoy myself. Please excuse my travel dirt, but I’ve an important meeting back in town later and needed the quickest transport I could find. Dooley,” he said, turning to his friend, “see if you can have these beasts taken care of. Sir Ralph and I will meet you inside.”

Clearly the American was in rare form tonight, and out to make everyone around him as uncomfortable as possible. Sir Ralph heard but did not even try to understand Dooley’s angry mutterings as he took hold of both horses’ bridles and guided them toward the ostler who had belatedly appeared from the stable. “Another meeting, Donovan?” he prompted, signifying with a wave of his hand that Donovan should precede him through the doorway, the tall, well-built American bowing his head to make it safely under the low lintel. “You are a busy man, aren’t you?”

“Busier than the devil in a high wind.” Donovan stopped on the flagstone just inside the door and turned, grinning, so that his mustache lifted at the corners and all his top front teeth glinted in the dim light. “You wouldn’t be prying now, Sir Ralph, would you? No, of course not. But I’ll tell you anyway. You English play all day, every day, so one night is much the same as the other. However, you see, in America, where most of us must work for our daily bread, Saturday night is a time for fun and frolicking. I’ll be frolicking later, Sir Ralph. It’s to be my reward to myself for working so diligently on my president’s unofficial business all week long.”

The American was deliberating baiting him, but he refused to respond. “I see,” Sir Ralph said, indicating Donovan should follow him up the stairs and into the private dining room William had rented for the evening. “We shall endeavor not to detain you then, as it would be impolite for you to keep the young lady waiting. Is she anyone I know?”

“You might have met her, Sir Ralph, but I’d wager my lovely new horse outside you don’t know her.” Donovan walked past Sir Ralph and into the private dining room. “Ah, I’m not the first to arrive, I see,” he said, tossing his hat onto a small side table, the curly brimmed beaver almost immediately buried by his carelessly flung greatcoat.

The men sitting around the long, rectangular table nodded as one.

“Lord Chorley,” Donovan said, “good to see you. You’re looking in plump currant tonight. The world, and the cards, must be treating you kindly.”

“Mr. Donovan,” Lord Chorley responded, his smile well pleased.

Donovan turned to his left. “Sir Peregrine—delighted to see you again as well. You know, my sainted mother always told me not to frown so. The devil might just sneak up behind you, she always warned, deal you a great whack on your head, and presto!—your face will stay like that forever.”

“That’s nothing but an ignorant superstition, Mr. Donovan,” Sir Peregrine asserted, looking down his nose at Donovan. “Just the sort of foolishness the simple Irish peasantry is prone to uttering. Don’t be offended, Mr. Donovan, for I am merely stating facts.”

Donovan inclined his head respectfully—or at least it would have seemed so, if Sir Ralph hadn’t noticed the devilish twinkle in the man’s eyes. “If you say so, Sir Peregrine,” Donovan agreed. “Heaven knows I wouldn’t wish to tug caps with you, for I’m quite convinced you’ve never lost an argument in your life. Lord Mappleton, hullo! That’s the smile of a man in love if ever I saw one! I take it the fair Miss Rollins proved an enjoyable companion last evening at the theater? Well, we’re all here—all except one, that is.”

Sir Ralph shot a quick, involuntary look toward the curtain in the shadows, then recovered his composure. Donovan couldn’t know William was behind the curtain. Just because he was leery of this man, leery of this scheme, he should not invest the American with powers he couldn’t possibly possess. “Missing, Donovan?” he asked, turning a quelling glare toward Lord Mappleton, who was on the point of saying something—something he shouldn’t say, or else Sir Ralph really didn’t know the man. “I fear I don’t understand.”

“Paddy, man. Patrick Dooley, my comrade in intrigue,” Donovan replied, helping himself to a glass of wine and then seating himself at the head of the table—in Sir Ralph’s seat. “I thought that would be obvious. He’ll be here in a moment, I’m sure, unless he was waylaid by the smell of strong ale coming from the barroom. Ah—here he is. Paddy, take a seat. We’re about to talk treason. It should be jolly good fun.”

“Would you kindly lower your voice?” Sir Peregrine Totton whispered through clenched teeth from his chair at Donovan’s left hand. “This is serious business, young man, with serious consequences for failure.”

Donovan winked at Totton. “Not for me, Sir Peregrine. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Lord Chorley, who had been admiring the new gold watch and fob he had bought and not yet paid for, looked across the table to Sir Peregrine. “He’s got you there, Perry. We’re not officially at war. All they’ll do to him if we’re discovered is toss him out of the country. We’re the ones who’ll hang.”

“What? What? Hang, you say?” Lord Mappleton sat forward with a lurch, his chair creaking as his weight shifted. “Stinky—we’d hang? Oh, no. Can’t do that. Not when I’m finally within Ames Ace of getting myself bracketed to a most healthy fortune. Miss Georgianna Rollins. Lovely diamonds. You remember, Donovan. You met them —er, I mean her. No, I can’t hang. Not now.”

“Married?” Donovan stood, holding his glass high. “Gentlemen, a toast to our good and most industrious friend, Lord Mappleton. You move quickly, your lordship. Sir Peregrine, you’re not drinking. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing a lowborn creature such as yourself would comprehend, Donovan,” Totton shot back, looking to Sir Ralph even as Lord Chorley drank deep to his friend Arthur’s good fortune, showing he saw nothing wrong with marrying for money. “Can we get on with this? I don’t have all night to sit here listening to foolishness. I have just today experienced a major breakthrough with an ancient coded manuscript I was fortunate enough to stumble over the other day while perusing the bookstalls. It’s a rare find, possibly detailing the location of some early Roman works that could prove invaluable for their artistic and educational contributions to society.”

Lord Chorley rolled his eyes. “Still looking to be named head of the Royal Society of Insufferably Pretentious Twits, are you, Perry? What’s it this time—statues? Rare coins? An ages-dead, stuffed Roman? They’ll never take you in, for all your knocking at the door. I have about as much chance of breaking the faro bank at Boodle’s. But I suppose you won’t give it up any more than I will, heh, Perry? Old dogs, you know, and all that sort of rot.”

Sir Ralph turned to stare down Patrick Dooley, who was sitting in a corner, chuckling at what he must have seen to be a huge joke. “That will be enough, gentlemen,” Sir Ralph cut in when it appeared that Sir Peregrine was about to reply to Lord Chorley’s remarks. “I could ring for supper, but I don’t believe any of us is prepared to break bread like bosom chums. Especially Mr. Donovan here, who has told me he’s in a great rush to return to London, to frolic with a willing female.”

“Now, Sir Ralph, don’t go putting words in my mouth,” Donovan cut in, reaching into his frock coat pocket. “I never said she was willing. After all, I’m not there yet, am I, to convince her? But I agree—let’s get on with it. Lord Mappleton, I understand you are to direct payments for services and goods rendered—goods and services that, as you know, will never be rendered to anyone—to an office and warehouse I am to set up for business. I have dutifully rented just such a building near the wharfs—the company named Phillips and Delphia Stores and Armaments—and even now a clerk is waiting there to receive checks and forward cash by ship to another Phillips, etc., etc., office in the West Indies, which shall then forward that same money to Washington. Both the new company’s name and location are listed on this paper.”

Sir Peregrine snatched the paper before it could be passed to Lord Mappleton. “Phillips and Delphia Stores and Armaments?” He looked to Sir Ralph. “What sort of name is that?”

Sir Ralph kept his silence, hating Thomas Donovan more with every passing moment.

“As good as any other, I should imagine, Sir Peregrine, if a trifle sentimental. There is no rule that says we can’t enjoy ourselves, as far as Mr. Dooley and I see the thing,” Donovan answered, taking another drink of his wine. “Now, Sir Peregrine—you’re next. As I understand it, you will be diverting shipments of the real armaments from the royal warehouses to this same Phillips and Delphia Stores and Armaments, so that they can follow much the identical route by private carriers you shall engage, also ending their journey in Washington rather than in the hands of His Majesty’s loyal troops. It’s an ingenious plan, actually, and I compliment you, Sir Ralph. England will be paying for arms it doesn’t get and America will be receiving both. I commend you.”

“I am neither interested in nor needful of your compliments, Donovan,” Sir Ralph shot back, refusing to take up the empty chair beside Stinky’s, the lopsided one that had been set aside for the American. “I should be able to arrange the full fitting out of three top-of-the-line supply ships by the end of the month. They will carry foodstuffs, blankets, medicines, and other supplies necessary to our troops. The captains, three of our best, will be told they are under orders to sail for the West Indies on a highly secret mission of the gravest importance, where they will then report to an official of the company whose name you have just given us. It will be up to your agents to commandeer the ships and crews for your own use once they’ve arrived. As far as my government will be concerned, the ships will have been lost in storms as they made for the Peninsula.”

“I don’t care if your government thinks the ships were chewed up by hulking great sea monsters on their way to China, Sir Ralph,” Donovan said cheerily, rising and motioning for Dooley to gather up his hat and greatcoat. “I think you’re wasting my time. Three fully loaded ships is less than a quarter of the number you originally promised.”

“True, Mr. Donovan,” Sir Ralph answered, slipping into the chair the American had just vacated. He felt better now, more in control. “However, it’s also three ships more than you will receive, unless I have something more concrete than your assurances your president will not simply take what we are offering and declare war anyway. It’s imperative your government merely show its teeth, and not bite. We want you to have enough well-equipped ships to harass ours and make us look foolish, while at the same time our soldiers lose battles on the Peninsula because they are badly supplied. When England is forced to sue for peace with France, we need to know we will not be threatened by you colonials as we go about the business of removing the imbecilic Farmer George from the throne and his parasitical, spendthrift sons from the succession. It is imperative England be rescued from its warlike folly before she destroys herself. We want, need, nothing more than we do peace with the rest of the world. If we are all equally strong, no one will seek war, and England and your so-called United States will be free to trade with each other once more.”

“Fancy that, Tommie!” Dooley exclaimed, helping Donovan into his greatcoat. “It’s just like you said it would be. Well, almost, except for that last bit. Shame on me, for doubting you. Oh—sorry about interrupting you, your lordship. Go on. I’m listening.”

“I think not. You’ve said too much already, Ralph,” Sir Peregrine said forcefully. “As I already warned you, this man has ambitions of his own, and I think he acts more from personal greed than patriotism. He’s Irish first, remember, and we all know they’re not the sort to be trusted.”

Lord Chorley, who had been busying himself throwing a pair of dice, one hand against the other, tugged on Sir Peregrine’s sleeve. “Don’t go casting aspersions on the fellow’s ancestors, Perry. It’s not nice. What do we care what the American wants? I just want my debts gone.”

“I think my sweet Georgie would like some of Prinny’s jewels,” Lord Mappleton said consideringly, stuffing a handful of grapes into his mouth. “And maybe that monstrosity he’s building in Brighton. We could use it as our summer home.”

“You’re paper-witted, shortsighted buffoons, the pair of you,” Sir Peregrine stated firmly. “Debts! Jewels! You have absolutely no understanding of the benefits to be accrued from the power we shall wield, the monies we could direct toward studies of the sciences and literature and art.”

Sir Ralph looked to each man in turn. The meeting was getting out of hand. His cohorts were wallowing in their own blockheadedness and greed and the American was preparing to leave, just as if he had been the one to call for the gathering in the first place and had now motioned for adjournment. He slapped his palms against the bare wood of the table, to bring everyone back to attention. “I will not act—not on three ships, not on the agreed-upon fifteen—nor will I allow Arthur or Perry to act, until I have written assurance from President Madison that he will not declare war on us, now or once the king is removed and we reestablish open trade between our two countries. Without that letter to protect us, we cannot and will not proceed with any part of the agreement. If we are to go down, Mr. Donovan, we go down together, we and your president.”

Donovan’s smile was maddening, infuriating, unsettling. “And now, Sir Ralph, I believe we have a problem. I have the paper you requested in my possession—but I have orders not to turn it over to you until the full shipments of arms and money are on their way to the West Indies.” He spread his hands wide, palms up. “What to do, Sir Ralph, what to do? Paddy—the time, if you please.”

“Almost nine, Tommie,” Dooley responded, slapping his own hat on his head. “Time we were heading back. I have to get up and seek out a Mass tomorrow morning, don’t you know. We aren’t all heathens like you, sleeping till noon on the Lord’s day.”

“You heard my friend, gentlemen,” Donovan said, holding on to the door latch as he turned to face the room. “I can’t keep a man from his religion, now can I? Sir Ralph? I do hope you can work things out among you. As you said, we are all peace-loving people. You don’t want war. We don’t want war—having beaten you so soundly already. We both, I believe, also admire money and power very much. So much alike, we patriots. Do let me know what you decide.”

A moment later, Donovan and Dooley were gone and the room was deathly quiet.

But not for long.

“You said too much, Ralph,” Sir Peregrine began.

“You’re too suspicious,” Lord Chorley interrupted. “He seems pleasant enough—”

“What? What? Can we go now? Georgie, dear girl. Promised to wait for me. I have to strike while the iron is hot, if you take my meaning, before some fortune-hunting snip cuts me out.”

“Oh, go on, the lot of you!” Sir Ralph exploded, waving his hands in dismissal. “We’ll meet again on Monday. Just get out of my sight. I have more important things to do than listen to a roomful of old women!”

They were gone within a minute, leaving Sir. Ralph alone in the dining room, his wine untouched, his supper still in the inn’s kitchens, uncalled for. He looked toward the curtain, waiting for the Earl of Laleham to show himself.

He appeared a moment later, dressed in his impeccable black, his head tied up with a black silk handkerchief, a square of white linen pressed to the corner of his mouth to catch the drool that persisted in slipping from between his lips.

“Well? Happy now, William? I told him everything you said for me to, and still he acts as if this is all some lark. I say we abandon the entire scheme. We could just as easily pocket the money and sell the goods and ships to the French.”

“Who would end by ruling England,” the earl whispered from between handkerchief compressed teeth. “The Americans consider themselves to be honorable. They’ll take what we offer and then believe themselves our allies once we come to power. It’s Donovan who’s out for himself, don’t you see that? He’s no fool, no matter how much he delights in playing the buffoon. He could be dangerous, unless—”

Sir Ralph sat forward, leaning his elbows, on the table. “Unless?”

“Offer him something.”

“What?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, Ralph. Ask him. Must I do the thinking for all of us? As you and I both know—and as those doltish idiots Stinky and Perry and Arthur proved tonight—everyone wants something.”

Sir Ralph slid his hands beneath the table, where he could ball them into fists unobserved. He was becoming very weary of taking orders. “I told you, William. He wants Marguerite.”

The earl’s cheeks went very white against the black silk handkerchief. “Then it is up to you, Ralph, to convince him otherwise. If you fail, he’ll have to die, and he’s of no use to us dead. Follow after him tonight, Ralph. Learn all about him. See where he ‘frolics.’”

“And then?”

Sir Ralph looked away as William smiled, the constricting black silk turning that smile into an unappealing grimace. “And then you will report back to me, Ralph. I am in charge, you know, and not you. Don’t take your role too seriously, for it is just that—a role.”

Sir Ralph’s fingernails bit into his palms. But he said nothing. Like it or not, he had to follow where William led. They all had to, for they all shared a secret that could destroy them. They needed each other, could not trust each other, and were bound to any insanity in order to believe they were still all powerful, invulnerable—the omnipotent members of their own secret society. It was the way it had been for almost twenty years.

These last seven long years.

Too many years.

Sir Ralph stood, his nondescript features impassive, took up his greatcoat and hat, and quit the room, knowing he’d have to hurry if he was to catch up with Donovan. He would follow orders.

For now.