A Masquerade in the Moonlight(129)

He gathered up all of the papers, then threw them into the fireplace, raising the flames with a poker. Every plan. Every scheme. Everything they had done over all the years. Written down, but not cast in stone.

Except these were rough drafts, filled with scratchings and rewritten sentences. He knew Ralph—had thought he knew Ralph—and the man was meticulous. There was also a finished copy, the copy he had already handed over to this man, this charlatan—this Maxwell. He had to have already handed it over, and believed himself protected by his asinine Shield of Invincibility, or else he would never have had the temerity to face his betters with a pistol in his hand.

“Who’s Maxwell?” he asked, pacing the length of the room, pausing only to hit at Harewood’s body, wishing the man back to life just long enough to tell him what he’d done, wishing him alive again so he could kill him again for his superstitions, his gullibility—his ridiculous, dangerous, obsession with death. “Couldn’t die, huh? Invincible, were you?” he jibed, giving Harewood’s legs a kick. “Stupid, sorry bastard!”

William quickly ransacked the desk, careful not to disturb anything, just to be sure there weren’t any other copies of the confession, retrieved his belongings, then stood at the doorway, surveying the room one last time, not caring there would be no suicide note for Ralph’s servants to discover along with the body.

Lord knew there had been more than enough notes already. Most important was the original confession Ralph had turned over to this man, this Maxwell, a clever trickster who undoubtedly now knew all Ralph’s secrets, all of William Renfrew’s secrets. Ralph’s association with Maxwell hadn’t been accidental; William knew it in his bones. Someone had wanted Ralph to write that confession. Someone had wanted Ralph to tumble. Wanted him, William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham, to tumble along with him.

Oh, yes. He was convinced of it now.

Two might be considered coincidence.

Three could only be seen as highly questionable.

But four—with the chance of snaring a fifth?

That is a plot.

Then he thought of Marguerite, thought about what Ralph had said about Marguerite. Was it true? Could she have betrayed him—and with that arrogant, uncouth American!

It was falling apart. Just as everything should be falling into place, it was all falling apart.

Perry had run away. Stinky was in prison. Arthur was in disgrace. Ralph—Ralph was dead.

He, William, was the only one left.

Donovan? No, there would be no reason for the American to do this. He had nothing to gain. Besides, whoever had done this, planned this, executed this, had to have known those four men well enough to have pinpointed their weaknesses, then preyed on them successfully.

Then who? Who knew them all so well? Who else could possibly want to see them destroyed? Who else had been with all four men, talked with them, then watched, laughing, as they came to grief? Because the person had watched, and not from a distance. No one plans such public humiliations and is not there to watch.

Was that someone already reading about all of Ralph’s secrets? All of his secrets?

Who had a reason to bring them all down?

Marguerite?

Now why had her name popped into his head again? That was ludicrous. He had to gather his thoughts, regain his composure. Marguerite couldn’t be involved. She was his flawless vessel, his chosen consort, the replacement for Victoria that corrected an old mistake and made his plans so perfect. Besides, she was all but a child, and female at that. Females didn’t possess the brainpower to be so cunning, so devious. They didn’t have the nerve necessary to plot so behind their enemies’ backs, and still smile into their faces.

But wait! He must remember what Ralph had said about her. Could he really afford to forget anything, neglect any avenue, no matter how distasteful? Marguerite knew them all, knew them very well. Ralph had called her a slut. He said she’d been with Donovan. Believing herself in love, the chit might have answered any question he’d asked. Perhaps Donovan had decided against the deal, and was now following orders to dispose of anyone who could say Madison had been involved in nefarious dealings? Had Marguerite stupidly handed him the ammunition with which to load his pistols?

He should have remembered—Marguerite was her mother’s daughter, her father’s daughter. Gullibility was in her blood. And he’d thought her worthy? What sort of fool did that make him?

Or was attempting to keep her cast in the role of innocent the mistake? Need he remind himself of the Cleopatra’s of this world, the Medici, the Pompadours? No man could be as devious.