A Masquerade in the Moonlight(127)
“Aren’t you waxing fairly ferocious for a man looking down the barrel of a pistol, Willie?” Ralph asked, leaning against the back of a small wooden chair, appearing relaxed and at his ease. Too at his ease. Too relaxed.
William looked down and noticed Ralph was standing on a small rug. He cocked his head to one side. “True enough. I don’t know what came over me. Let’s talk about this, Ralph,” he crooned smoothly, deliberately trading belligerence for a compromising attitude. “We’ve been friends for too long to argue. What do you want? You want to have more power? It can be arranged, now that it’s just the two of us. You know I’ve always planned it that way. The others—they became superfluous the moment their clerks wrote the orders to transfer the goods, the money. And you’ve already signed the orders for your ship captains, haven’t you, so that everything is ready to go once we have the letter from the American? Of course. I shouldn’t have had to ask. Good man, so handy with details. With my ideas and your ability to organize, we have all but won already. There’s more than enough for us to share once the empire begins to crack and I step forward to save it. Remember, Ralph. I’m the one with the claim to the throne. I’m the one with royal blood.”
“Ha! From the wrong side of the blanket. You’ve no more claim to any throne than I do.”
“Again, true enough,” William conceded with some effort, watching Ralph closely. It was important to keep him talking. He had never respected Ralph, and now he despised him. He couldn’t let his hate cloud his judgment, for his clear head was what had kept him above the rest of them for so long. “That, too, was said only to impress our three departed idiots. But I am the one with the largest fortune in hand now—not in some nebulous future. I’m the one with the skills necessary to eloquently state our case in Parliament for George’s forced abdication. I’m the one who can rally the people with my eloquent speeches, my considerable consequence—my private army, if need be. Cromwell did it with less. But you can’t do that, Ralph, it simply isn’t in you. You’re a good man, but slow, and plodding, and eminently forgettable. Those are your charms, Ralph, and they have served us both well, but they will not raise you up to power. No one will listen to you.”
The pistol wavered slightly. “I’m different now. Changed. I’ve been like a dead man all these years—since you forced me to be your accomplice the night you killed Geoffrey.”
“Forced you, Ralph?” Laleham raised one eyebrow in mock surprise. “Hardly. You knew it had to be done. He was going to inform on us, condemn us as traitors. We couldn’t have let him go, now could we?”
“Royal blood, now Cromwell—anything at all that ends with you ruling all of Great Britain, eh, Willie? You can’t even keep your lies straight anymore. Here’s the real truth. One way or another, you wanted Geoffrey dead so you could have Victoria for yourself. You never gave up that dream, did you, but have now just substituted the daughter instead? Madness! Cold, cruel, so insane you somehow appear as the sanest among us.” Ralph had the pistol once more firmly pointed at the earl’s chest even as he’d continued to recline against the back of the chair. “You used Geoffrey, you used me—all of us! For what? Victoria’s dead, and her daughter’s a slut. A slut! All these years, serving your twisted dreams, your mad schemes for fortune and glory until you’ve actually begun to believe them. You’re mad, Willie, Bedlam bait. But what would never work for you will work for me, so thank you very much. It’s my turn now, all the way to eternity.”
William dropped to his knees and yanked at the carpet, sending Ralph crashing to the floor, the pistol skittering off across the highly polished wood, out of reach. He was on top of Ralph within a heartbeat, his fingers buried in the smaller man’s hair, pounding his head repeatedly against the parquet floor as he knelt on his chest.
He didn’t stop until Ralph went limp beneath him, beaten into unconsciousness, then stood, wiping his hand across his mouth, looking around him for something, some weapon that would finish the job. Not the pistol. It was too noisy for one thing—too messy, for another. And it shouldn’t look like murder. He didn’t wish there to be an investigation of the death. The way there had been no investigation into Geoffrey’s death.
That thought brought a smile to Laleham’s face and, as he adjusted his cuffs, not liking that he might have wrinkled his sleeves in his exertion, he looked about the room until he saw the stout silken cords holding the draperies.