A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,137

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