A Masquerade in the Moonlight(122)

It was William’s fault—all William’s fault. I didn’t know how much he wanted her, how he had always coveted her. This wasn’t just another profitable bubble, this was out-and-out destruction. William wanted Geoffrey destroyed. He reeled him in with the bubble, then offered him a way out of his dilemma by inviting him to join our scheme to deal with the French. Our scheme? No. William’s scheme. Always William’s schemes.

It was a mad plan from the outset, with little hope of success. Murder Pitt? The man was close to cocking up his toes anyway. Although, in the end, he lived long enough to keep the empire afloat. But that is of no moment. William wanted Geoffrey out of the way so he could have Victoria. Victoria was to be his queen, his consort. A ridiculous obsession, but well hidden! It took me years to figure it out.

William never meant for Geoffrey to become one of us. He may have never seriously meant to do treason—not then. He only wanted Geoffrey to become a danger to us when he refused to join us. He needed us to fear Geoffrey, fear his knowledge of our plans. He wanted him dead. That way we would all have no choice but to help him, and keep our silence afterward. I see it now. I see it all now—so clearly!

But I was the only one there when Geoffrey came to confront William. Not Stinky, not Perry, not that fool, Arthur. They weren’t there, curse them. Not until it was over.

William let Geoffrey rant and rave, declare he would go to the Crown, turn us in for our intent to do treason, and be damned to his own reputation, the devil with his lost funds, his neighbor’s lost funds. He had been the outcast before, he would suffer their censure again. It didn’t matter. Not as long as he could look his Marguerite in the eye. Not as long as he could keep her love. Keep Victoria’s love.

That’s when William pounced. He hated the thought that Victoria had ever belonged to another man. I’m convinced that explains why he’s so consumed with Marguerite now. Not only is she a part of Victoria, but he believes she is unsullied. Pure. He plans to make her his wife, perhaps his consort. God only knows his reasoning.

I always wanted the money, only the money. William has always wanted more. If he was spinning a lie to Geoffrey all those years ago, he has come to believe his own lies now. King? It’s madness, at least for William.

But this is not William’s story. It is my confession, all the sins I have listed on these pages. I conclude with this, the sin that is the worst, the one that haunts me night and day without ceasing. The sin of watching Geoffrey Balfour die.

William—always so strong, so fit—struck at Geoffrey that night, throwing him to the floor, half stunned, and straddled him, sitting heavily on his chest. He lifted Geoffrey’s cravat and began stuffing the ends into his mouth, shoving the cloth down his gullet, instantly robbing him of any remaining breath, of strength. But Geoffrey’s legs! Oh, how they still bucked, and quivered, and jerked. I could do nothing.

No! I could have done something. Anything. But I didn’t. I stood to one side, terrified, and watched. I could see his eyes growing more frightened by the moment as he looked death in the face and knew it would soon be over for him.

But not soon enough. An eternity of horror came before, at last, it was over. Geoffrey’s legs stopped twitching, and I saw his eyes go flat and lifeless. I don’t want to look like that. I never, ever want to look like that, or feel the fear Geoffrey felt.

It didn’t begin then, my fear of death. It began with that old crone in Italy, that miserable fortune-teller who laughed and prophesized that I would come to an early end. A messy end.

My fear doubled and redoubled that night, in the moment Geoffrey Balfour died. My dread of dying. Don’t we, all of us, think of death, of our death? Yes. We don’t believe it. Not really. No, we cannot imagine it. But we fear it. I fear it now, but soon, blessedly soon, I will fear it no more.

But I am ahead of myself. The three bunglers showed up then, late, always late, and William bullied them into becoming a part of it. He told us all Geoffrey had been sacrificed to save our group. We believed him. It was, after all, too late for anything else.

We took Geoffrey back to Chertsey, all five of us, and slid a noose around his neck, hanging his lifeless body from the trellis in the gardens. William wouldn’t even allow Stinky to close Geoffrey’s eyes.

Victoria found him the next morning and collapsed. William gave up his plans of treason—did he ever really plan to throw in with the French, or was it all, all of it, just to gain him Victoria?—and we went our own ways. But there is some justice. Victoria was lost to William, for she never fully recovered her strength, although I believe he attempted one last time to propose marriage last year, just days before she died. Now his obsession is Marguerite, and once more he has called us to do treason.