A Masquerade in the Moonlight (39 page)

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

— Madame du Deffand

S
ir 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.”