A Masquerade in the Moonlight(15)
“Grouse is completely loyal, if none too bright,” Sir Peregrine countered, snatching up the bust and placing it beside one of Homer. “And what do you think you’re going to accomplish coming here in the first place? I knew nothing about meeting with you here. Can’t you follow the simplest instructions? We are all supposed to gather Saturday, at Richmond.”
“Oh, we are, Totton, and we will,” Thomas told him, reaching into his jacket and extracting a cheroot, placing it, unlit, between his straight white teeth. “I’m here today, suffering the insult of being kept waiting in your antechamber, in order to maintain the outward reason for my presence on this damp island. And I must say, old fellow, you’ve been most cooperative. Four whole hours. Was it difficult, hiding in here, wondering how I’d react to being kept waiting? But then, it wouldn’t do if I were seen to be treated better than you’ve treated the rest of my countrymen who have come begging for audiences.”
“Then this is all for show? We have nothing to discuss privately?”
Thomas took up the small tinderbox that sat on the desktop and struck it, holding the flame to the end of the cheroot until the tip glowed red. He inhaled deeply, then blew a blue-gray stream of smoke directly in Sir Peregrine’s pinched face. “Only one small item, Totton, and then I’ll be off and you can soothe your jangled nerves by beating on Grouse with one of these ancient philosophers. One small question that begs an answer. Tell me—are you and your treasonous cohorts negotiating with the French as well? Hedging your bets, as some might call it?”
Sir Peregrine waved the smoke away from his face, coughing as he looked from Thomas to Dooley and back again. Thomas watched him closely, searching for any outward sign of alarm, and saw nothing but confusion. “Deal with the French? Are you mad? Why would any of us even entertain such a thought? Perhaps you need to be reminded of something, sir. We English are at war with the French.”
“Don’t be an ass, Totton,” Thomas bit out, pushing himself away from the desk, beginning to relax but not about to allow Sir Peregrine to see anything but his anger. It had only been a thought, a vague niggling notion, and hardly worth the four-hour wait it had taken to prove himself wrong. But that didn’t mean the afternoon should be a total loss. As long as he was here, he might as well have some sport with the nervously belligerent Sir Peregrine.
“At war with France, you say? What a curious notion of honor you have. Your countrymen are at war with France. You, however, are at war with England,” Thomas pointed out quietly. “Why else would you want to help America, if not that a strong America will help to foment disenchantment among the masses and pull down your own monarchy? Tell me, which of you is to step forward and take the reins of government? Harewood? Chorley? No? Not Mappleton, surely. Then it must be you, Totton. Yes, I believe I can imagine you enjoying crowing over your fellow man. Dooley—can you see our dear friend draped in royal purple? Or am I wrong, and you and your fellows wish to emulate America and throw open the British Empire to the glories of democracy?”
Dooley snorted. “Now there’s something none of us will ever live to see. They’d have to free Ireland, boyo, remember? And what would these Bugs do for fun, I be asking you, iffen they couldn’t rape the Auld Sod whenever the mood took them?”
“You’re being impertinent—the pair of you!” Sir Peregrine objected, bringing his closed fists smashing down on the desktop, so that the busts of Socrates and Homer rattled. “Our aspirations are none of your concern. I have not asked why you’ve taken on this commission. And what do you covet as reward for your patriotism, Donovan? An ambassadorship? A Cabinet post?”
Donovan smiled around the cheroot. It was best to smile, he’d found, when he felt most like pounding a fellow into flinders. There was always time for violence, but a person stood to win more than a single battle by dueling with his wits. “Me? A simple newspaper publisher and landowner from Philadelphia? Sir, you must have confused me with the late, greatly missed, Benjamin Franklin, another humble journalist from Philadelphia, but one whole worlds more talented than I. Let me assure you, Sir Peregrine, I have absolutely no political ambitions. None whatsoever. Isn’t that correct, Dooley?”
“Not the way I heard it,” Dooley grumbled rather loudly into his haphazardly tied cravat—the clearly disgruntled assistant getting a little of his own back by letting slip information that his superior obviously did not wish made public.
Dear Dooley. Thomas had banked on the fact the Irishman was never slow to pick up on a hint, and he hadn’t been disappointed. Dooley had sensed that Thomas wished Sir Peregrine to think he had found a soul mate, a fellow as greedy and ambitious as himself. Let Sir Peregrine think he “understood” him. Thomas felt sure it would serve to lower Sir Peregrine’s guard if the man were to believe he could measure the American co-conspirator with his own yardstick.