A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,103

be rich.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER 14

The ruling passion, be it what it will,

The ruling passion conquers reason still:

— Alexander Pope

Marguerite entered the room with her chin held high, a thoroughly cowed Mrs. Billings three paces behind her, and refused to look left or right at the ladies and gentlemen of the ton who had yet to make up their minds as to whether or not Miss Marguerite Balfour had reduced herself to the level of an Untouchable by her outrageous flaunting of correct dress the previous evening.

As if she cared a whit what they thought! She was Marguerite Balfour and not some dieaway miss who would rather take the veil than face a roomful of frowning busybodies with nothing better to do than judge people by the clothes they wore, the depth of their pockets, or which side of the blanket their parents had been on at the time of conception.

Besides, she was here this evening on a mission. Several missions. The note she had received that afternoon from Maxwell had gone a long way toward cheering her, for both Sir Ralph and Lord Mappleton were taking to the bait with delicious enthusiasm, and Lord Chorley had already begun his swift, humbling descent into public disgrace and—as soon as he realized how utter was his defeat—banishment.

But she needed to see William. She would have received him earlier in the day, if only her eyes hadn’t still been so red-rimmed and puffy. She could not let the interview go another day, much as she wished she never had to speak to him again. He was the only member of The Club who actually frightened her.

And then there was Donovan. She had sent a note to the Pulteney, informing him she would be attending Lady Southby’s musical evening, arriving at eleven, after a dinner in a private home. That last bit had been a fib, of course, but she didn’t want Donovan in the way before