A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,75
about the money. There’s more to it than a wish for a comfortable old age, isn’t there? You expect the money to keep you alive, don’t you?” he heard Maxwell asking, as if from a distance, his once more singsong tones calling Sir Ralph back from the edge of panic he had learned to hide so well. “Tell me, my friend, how will money keep you alive?”
Maxwell was so smart, so deep! He was all knowing, all seeing. And he wished to help him! Sir Ralph’s eyes widened as he wet his lips, suddenly eager to explain. “You will think me stupid, superstitious—but I have heard there are ways to prolong life, ancient secrets. I’ve spent thousands. Tens of thousands. For potions. For machines. I’ve nearly beggared myself time and again, but it will all be worth it if I can live another day, another decade more than that old woman said I—” He broke off, feeling slightly ashamed of himself. “Just tell me, Maxwell. Tell me what you see.”
Maxwell shook his head, releasing Sir Ralph’s hand. “You already know the answer, my friend. You have been seeking to purchase a long life, but have not succeeded, for you have been pouring your money away in all the wrong places.” He smiled. “Until now. Today, my friend, I know why I was sent to you. Today, my friend, we shall begin your journey to the Shield of Invincibility that will guarantee you more than longevity. I can offer you a return to innocence that in turn leads to the path of eternal life.”
“Immortality?” Sir Ralph whispered the word, then pressed both hands over his mouth, to stifle the tide of hysterical giggles rising in his throat. He knew it! He just knew it! Maxwell, who had come to him unbidden, this man of the dark eyes that burned like coals, was to be his salvation. “How much?” he asked... he begged... he bleated... not caring how desperate, how revealing his tone. “Christ, man, don’t leave me hanging—how much?”
“Twenty thousand pounds,” Maxwell answered, his tone suddenly very businesslike as he rose from the chair and headed for the door. “But the money is not for me. Half must be given to charity, and given freely, in order to cleanse your soul. The rest will be used in another way, one which you shall soon understand.”
“Charity? Good works? Yes, yes, that seems sensible.” Sir Ralph nodded furiously. “Yes, yes, I can do that. It will take some time to raise such a substantial amount—a few weeks, no more than a month—but I can do it.”
“Friday, my friend. Not a day later. I shall go away now, to prepare, but I will return on Friday. Remember, my friend. I have seen your palm. You haven’t much time. Good-bye.”
Sir Ralph turned his hands palm up, looking quickly from his left to his right, nervously comparing the lines, seeing that, indeed, they were different. It wasn’t fair! He had been destined for greatness—his left hand told the story. But life had not dealt him the cards he deserved. William had stolen his thunder, his will, even his courage. William, by drawing him into nefarious schemes, into murder, had even tried to steal his life!
But all that was soon to change. As the door closed behind Maxwell, Sir Ralph allowed the first giggle to escape his lips. He no longer felt in the least tired, but was reeling in exultation. Let William do the work. It was he, Sir Ralph Harewood, who would wear the crown. And he would wear it into eternity!
Paddy Dooley collapsed his rounded body into what was fast becoming his favorite chair and shook his head in disgust as he looked at his friend, who had been stretched out full length on the couch, in Dooley’s mind, long enough to have begun putting down roots. “Is it fixing to crawl into that bottle you’d be, Tommie, my boy? I’m not nosy, you know. I’m only wondering if I should be fetching the chamber pot in from the other room for when you drink enough to start casting up your accounts all over the carpet, for you’ve been pouring that stuff down your gullet since you got home last night. I like that little girl who comes in to tidy up after us, and I wouldn’t want to upset her.”
Thomas, who had been balancing a bottle on his chest, opened one eye to glare balefully at the Irishman. “You don’t understand. I’ve met