A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,60

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