A Masquerade in the Moonlight(27)
Sir Ralph was the optimal second-in-command, the ideal agent and, if necessary, the perfect dupe. He was an able conspirator, capable of issuing orders and outwardly playing the part of the leader of their little coterie, but he was as expendable as any of the others. He didn’t know that, but William did. Everyone was expendable. Everyone was replaceable.
Everyone, that is, save for his consort. Except for Marguerite, who would give him fine, strong sons who would insure the new monarchy.
William steepled his long fingers in front of his face and looked over his fingertips at Sir Ralph. Apparently the man had said all he was going to say on the subject of Thomas Donovan. “That’s it, Ralph? You’re into making pronouncements this morning and no more? Perhaps you are fatigued and feel unable to expound on your words without some sort of impetus from me. All right then. I shall put it to you directly. Why is the American useless?”
“Because he’s an ignorant ass, I suppose,” Sir Ralph returned, shrugging. “I can’t imagine why Madison sent him, unless the American president is only toying with us and doesn’t truly mean to involve himself in what could be viewed in some quarters as questionable covert operations. I mean, diverting arms and money from our own war effort to America, purposely weakening our own troops when we are at war with France—why, even Bonaparte might not consider that sporting. Only remember what happened to Benedict Arnold, William. He was universally despised, even here, once he’d attempted to turn West Point over to Clinton. Stinky bragged to me just last week how he and some of his cronies had been drinking heavily one night a few years ago, gotten themselves fairly well into their cups, and then ridden out to piss on Arnold’s grave.”
Laleham delicately adjusted the lapels of his morning coat. “Don’t be vulgar, Ralph,” he said, sighing. “Be specific. What about this American has led you to believe that he is—in your words—an ignorant ass?”
Sir Ralph stood and began pacing the Oriental carpet laid in front of the couch. “Perry says ignorance is a failing all Irishmen subscribe to in the womb but, although Donovan is definitely not far removed from his Irish roots, I don’t believe the answer is that simple.” He stopped pacing and looked piercingly at the earl. “You see, I really don’t think the man is stupid. On the contrary, I believe him to be quite bright. But he’s approaching this entire business as if it is all a game, some sort of amusing lark—which shows his ignorance. Do you understand, William?”
“I understand this Donovan person has recognized what you still do not see. He has nothing to lose, Ralph. Once we have set our plan in motion, once we’ve concluded our business with him, our Irish-American conspirator will return to Philadelphia, safely away from any of the consequences if our plan is discovered. And, by the simple act of approaching Madison, we have shown that England is already facing trouble from within. The Americans can’t lose no matter how it all falls out.”
The earl slowly rose to his feet and walked over to the Sheraton mirror that hung above the sideboard, to stare at his own reflection. “I had rather hoped they wouldn’t realize our vulnerability. This will make things more difficult.”
“That,” Sir Ralph conceded in his usual flat tone, so that the earl did not know if he should interpret it as fearful or triumphant, “and the fact our wily Mr. Donovan has arrogantly declared he’s bent on seducing Marguerite Balfour before the week is out. Cheeky bastard. I have it on good authority he has all but tipped more than one of this season’s crop of debutantes over on her heels since he arrived in England, so I imagine it isn’t an idle boast. William? William—did you hear me?”
William Renfrew didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He refused to react. He only watched his reflection as, in spite of years spent learning never to betray himself, a small muscle began spasmodically contracting just below his left eye.
“Good morning, Grandfather. You’re up and about early this morning, aren’t you? And don’t you look fine as nine pence in your new waistcoat.” Marguerite dropped a kiss on Sir Gilbert Selkirk’s bald pate, then turned to the buffet and began filling her plate with a selection of the foods nestled inside various silver serving pieces. Clamping a piece of toast between her teeth after ladling out a generous mound of coddled eggs and stabbing a double rasher of bacon and placing it on her plate, she slid onto a chair across from Sir Gilbert, grinning at him around the still warm bread.