A Masquerade in the Moonlight(130)

He’d always believed Victoria had succumbed without ever speaking again. Had he been wrong? Had she whispered something into her daughter’s ear, there at the last? Was The Club to be brought low by a revenge-seeking near child, and Donovan had nothing to do with it? Could their deal with the American still be salvaged?

Laleham took out his handkerchief and patted his coldly damp forehead. He was overset, thinking irrationally, even in circles. He had to get out of here, distance himself from this place. The odor from Ralph’s released bowels and bladder was making him nauseous.

But he couldn’t return home. What if he was right? What if someone was out to get them all, ruin them all? What instrument would that person believe held the power to bring him down? Him, William Renfrew, Earl of Laleham—the Earl of Laleham, damn it!

Ralph’s confession? Of course, it was obvious. But how? How? Blackmail? Or would Ralph’s confession find its way to the prime minister?

He had to think... to think... to marshal his thoughts. He couldn’t return home. Not until he thought this thing out. Someone might be waiting for him.

He would order his driver to ride through the darkened streets of London. He was not a stupid man. He would not have come so far if he was a stupid man. But what was he to do? What was he to do?

What had he forgotten to do?

Something was niggling at him, some one thing that he felt he still had to do. The suicide note? No, he had decided against that. He had his hat, his cloak, his gloves. His wineglass was on the table, but Ralph hadn’t been drinking with him. It would be assumed that the glass had been his.

But there was something else. Something else. Something important. But what?

Surely, if he took a drive, gave himself up to the soothing motion of the coach, and cleared his mind, the answer would come to him.

All the answers would come to him.





CHAPTER 19



Another such victory over the Romans, and we are undone.

— Pyrrhus

The light from a single candle threw weird shadows on the wall as Marguerite paced her bedchamber in her dressing gown, wringing her hands, wishing the hours away, wishing for morning.

She couldn’t sleep. She had been living with her schemes and thoughts of revenge for so long she was finding it difficult to believe it was almost over. Yet if she felt no guilt for what she had done, what she had set in motion, she also felt no elation, no relief.

Only anxiety that it be over at last, that it be finished.

She was so tired, yet it was impossible to even think of resting when Marco surely now held the key to William’s destruction, her final revenge. She felt confident Ralph had followed Marco’s instructions to the letter, confessing every sin he’d committed from the time he was young until today—and every man with whom he’d committed those crimes. Ralph wouldn’t want anything to go wrong, and Marco had explained that absolute honesty was imperative, necessary for success.

He would have written down everything to do with whatever past dealings The Club had dabbled in with the French and their planned conspiracy with Donovan.

She would not include that part, any mention of this latest treasonable scheme, whatever it was, when she turned Sir Ralph’s confession over to the proper authorities. The litany of The Club’s crimes would be long enough without exposing Donovan and his president to embarrassment and censure, especially since Donovan had given up the idea of working with them. Besides, she had no intention of instigating a war—her goal was much more personal than that.

They’d go to prison, all five of them. Perhaps two or three of them would even be hanged. But they’d be hanged for their attempted treason, not for forcing her father into suicide. It wouldn’t be her vengeance that pronounced sentence on them or her guilt if they were to be executed. It would be justice, too long denied.

She could live with that. Her papa would rest easier for that. There was no need to bring her father’s name into the matter at all.

If only she could live through this night! She should have told Marco to come to her straight from Green Park and not wait until the morning. At this rate, morning would never come.

She continued to pace, wondering what Donovan would think when Ralph and William and the others were arrested and hauled to prison. Would he hate her for ruining his plans? He’d said he no longer wished to do business with The Club, but he might not have meant it. It was still sometimes difficult for her to be sure exactly what Donovan meant. He seemed so easy to read. Sometimes. But only sometimes. He had depths, parts of him she had not yet seen, or had only glimpsed for a moment. He might only have been trying to be nice to her.