A Masquerade in the Moonlight(125)
As for Stinky? Merely a minor adjustment was needed there. William knew he could always find another of Prinny’s fawning sycophants who needed his debts paid in exchange for whispering a word or two into His Royal Highness’s ear if one was needed. But not for long. Soon Prinny would only be a faint, forgettable blot on the pages of history—even without Stinky personally assisting the man into oblivion.
The only real problem lay with Donovan, who had yet to turn over the letter from Madison—that vital communication that would keep the earl safe from any sort of double dealing. If the replacements at the War Ministry and the Treasury were to be too efficient, and forward Perry’s and Arthur’s orders too expeditiously, Donovan would have everything his president wanted without having to turn over the paper.
And that, William Renfrew knew, just wouldn’t be sporting.
Laleham clenched his teeth before remembering the action inevitably set a sharp pain running from his jawbone straight into his ear.
He thought once more of Ralph. Perhaps Ralph had also considered the benefits to be derived by this strange elimination of the three bunglers, although he would then have most naturally supposed he, as the sole remaining contact inside the government, had doubled—nay, trebled —in worth.
Yes, that would be the way Ralph saw it—and it certainly would explain his new air of command. Hadn’t it also occurred to him that if Grouse could be bought without Perry’s knowledge, and Arthur’s man, Peeler, could be bought, then it merely followed that Ralph’s assistant had also been neatly purchased and sat in his pocket?
Did Ralph, did any of them, really believe that he, William Renfrew, would leave the chances for success of such important dealings resting solely with such unreliable men as themselves?
A simple, superstitious, easily led fool—that was his dear friend Ralph. It also would never occur to him that if three members of their little group could be done without, so could four. After all, why settle for half a loaf when it was possible to have it all? More for himself, more for his consort, more because more was better. Always better.
But he was worrying too much, like an old woman. The three had been destroyed by their own weaknesses, and not beforetimes either! It had been coincidence—nothing more. Yet these coincidences had given birth to an idea. He might as well dispose of Ralph now as well, and make a clean break with these anchors from his past who could only drag him down.
His coachman pulled up in front of Harewood’s residence and Laleham, smiling thinly as he considered his latest brilliance, descended to the flagway. He motioned for his man to take the coach to the end of the street and wait there.
Yes, eliminating dear Ralph now rather than later just might be the next logical step. He had halfway assigned that job to Perry, but Perry was gone—and probably would have bungled the thing anyway. Oh, well—it wasn’t as if he were a stranger to killing. After the first one, how difficult could it be to kill again? Not very. For if truth be told, he had rather enjoyed it the first time. Not like Ralph, who had cried like a puling infant the whole time, and for days afterward.
Laleham rapped a single time on the knocker, unsurprised to see Sir Ralph open the door himself a moment later. “You’re late,” Harewood said, his tone harsh, as if he, rather than William, were in charge of the earl’s comings and goings.
“And you’re impertinent, Ralph, which shouldn’t be surprising, seeing as how you have at times put me in mind of a creature raised by wolves. This had best be good,” Laleham said coldly as he stepped inside and walked straight past Harewood and into the small drawing room that was unaccustomedly brilliant with candles. He removed his hat and cloak and laid them over a chair. “Where are your servants?”
“I sent them away until tomorrow afternoon,” Sir Ralph answered shortly as he, too, entered the drawing room. “I felt we should be alone, and undisturbed.”
Laleham helped himself to a glass of wine, although Ralph was not drinking and hadn’t offered anything to his guest. “Really? And why would such privacy be important to you, Ralph?” He turned to look at the man, really look at him, and saw that Harewood was smiling. He tried not to wince. Sir Ralph Harewood and smiles did not match. It was rather like seeing a toothy grin on a three-days-dead corpse.
“I see. Something has happened,” Harewood said, walking over to his desk, keeping his back to William.
“Yes, indeed it has. Perry has taken ship rather than face the titters each time he shows his face in public. Stinky is even now ensconced in the Fleet, weeping into his stylishly tied cravat and cursing Prinny for having deserted him. And Arthur? Ah, Arthur. I believe he has retired to his bed, the covers pulled up tight around his several weak chins, trying to convince himself anyone could have been taken in by a gangly, downy-cheeked youth dressed as a rich debutante. I had wondered how any young woman, even an importuning Cit with deep pockets and an eye to a title, could have found Arthur so intriguing. Now I understand. Someone was out to play a whopping great joke on our dearest buffoon—and it worked beautifully, as playing to the man’s weakness for any wealthy, willing woman was bound to do. At his age, I imagine it would be enough that she merely be willing.”