A Masquerade in the Moonlight(108)

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!