A Masquerade in the Moonlight(116)
Or so he hoped. But, just in case he hadn’t, he promised himself either he or Dooley would stay as close as sticking plaster to Harewood and Laleham until it was over. Then, he thought fatalistically as he led Marguerite back down the path and toward her waiting chaperone, he and Dooley would be forced into action.
It was one thing for Marguerite to embarrass the men, to force them into at least temporary retirement from society. Her revenges would soothe some of her pain, her loss, and free her to get on with her life.
How long, he wondered, would it take for his beautiful, intelligent Marguerite to see what he saw, what he had hinted without saying? Would she realize, as he already knew, that his country’s release from Harewood’s and Laleham’s treasonous schemes required a much more permanent resolution than mere banishment from society?
“Donovan,” he heard Marguerite say just as Mrs. Billings waved to them from the rented box where she sat sipping ratafia, “a word of advice. When you meet with Ralph, address him as ‘my friend.’ Say it several times, softly, as you look deeply into his eyes. And when you’re leaving him, please make certain to say good-bye.”
He looked down at her, puzzled by both her words and her smile. “Why?”
She shrugged. “As Oliver Goldsmith once wrote, ‘Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs.’ Strange—that line appears in She Stoops to Conquer. How fitting.” She squeezed Thomas’s forearm. “Just do it, Donovan. It will ease any tensions in your meeting with Sir Ralph considerably, I promise.”
Sir Ralph chafed at the notion he, a man of importance and social standing, had been reduced to skulking through the darkness in a mask and domino, hunting for an elusive American. He didn’t have time for such foolishness.
He’d been working on his confession all that afternoon, reluctant to leave it until he had finished at least two rough drafts. Writing it all down, seeing his life flow from his pen, condemning him, condemning William and the others, had freed him in some ways, but had reminded him yet again of Geoffrey Balfour’s terrifying final agonies.
Tomorrow evening couldn’t come soon enough. He had to expunge the guilt, the memories, and be, as Maxwell had so enticingly put it, reborn. The rest of it would be easy. He would most certainly shun his comrades in intrigue and crime. Perry and Stinky would be easily ignored, as they were now beyond the pale, disgraced and most probably banished. Arthur, the fool, would not even notice that he no longer sought him out, for the man was completely engrossed in making a mockery of himself with that Rollins chit in order to gain her fortune.
Leaving William. Sir Ralph put his fist to his mouth, wondering not for the first time how he would deal with William. He didn’t need him—that was certain. William had never soiled his hands by working in any lowly government office. No, he had stood back, kept to the shadows, pulling the strings but never exposing himself. His only power had been personal—his eloquence in Parliament, his persuasive manner, his quick brain, his penchant for money-making schemes.
But not anymore. Not after tonight! Sir Ralph was going to make his own deal with the American, circumventing William. He had to, for he was going to be reborn to a new and eternal life, and living forever took money. Lots of money. And power. The crown would sit his head just as well as it would sit William’s. Maybe better. What a king he would make, he and his Shield of Invincibility!
Sir Ralph was pulled from his musings as he saw the American approach, his arrogant, lengthy strides separating him from the Englishmen who leisurely strolled the pathways, always careful to be seen and admired.
“There you are, Harewood,” Donovan greeted him, grinning, Sir Ralph thought, like the cat with canary feathers sticking from the corners of his mouth. “So glad you suggested we meet here. The scenery is wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Country bumpkins with manure still sticking to their boots seem to believe so,” Sir Ralph answered coldly, steering Donovan into the shadows and out of the way of the endless stream of party-goers bent on shamelessly debauching themselves without worrying about being recognized. “Have you brought the letter from your president?”
“Such haste, Harewood. Do you have an appointment in the shrubberies yourself? I’ve been tripping over amorous couples all evening long. Ah, but I have a better question. Two, actually. Have you begun shipping goods to my warehouse? Are the agreed-upon number of ships—fifteen, I believe the number was—already loaded to the bulkheads with goods and on their way west?”