A Masquerade in the Moonlight(50)
“Maybe he drinks,” Dooley suggested, seating himself in Thomas’s chair. “My Uncle Finney, Lord rest his soul, sopped up gin like a sponge, but you wouldn’t have known it. Stood straight and sober as a judge, never cracking a smile or losing his temper. Couldn’t. He was too busy trying not to fall flat on his face.” He shifted on the chair when Thomas looked at him owlishly. “Well—it’s possible! Besides, if it ain’t Harewood, and it ain’t Totton—and not even you could make me believe that it’s Mappleton—who is in charge, Tommie? Lord Chorley? There’s only the four of them.”
Thomas swept the newspapers from the striped satin couch and laid himself down on it, his stockinged feet dangling off one end, his arms crossed behind him to pillow his head. Maybe he’d think better on his back. “Chorley is interesting, Paddy. He isn’t involved with any of the ministries, like the other three. But he is a bosom chum to the Prince of Wales—or so I’ve heard. I understand the prince even calls him Stinky, which has to be a measure of his affection for the man. Friends can be very influential, Paddy, dropping hints as to who might best serve the Crown—or Chorley’s private treason. But, no. It can’t be him. Chorley is just another cog in the wheel.”
Dooley clapped his hands together once, then hauled his short, squat frame to his feet and began to pace. “Well, now, Tommie—you’ve gone and done it this time. I can see why you say you’re the one in charge. Congratulations, boyo—you’ve just eliminated every last one of them. According to you—and I’d be the last man to think you’ve muddled your brains with this Balfour creature—there is no leader. All we’ve got are four men trying their best to ruin their country. Four none-too-young men, left with nothing to do one night but gaze at their own shoetops, who decided to commit treason. Makes sense to me. And now that I think on it—so what? We’re only here to help ourselves to whatever they’re stupid enough to offer us. What does it matter if we don’t understand why they’re doing it?”
Thomas pulled his hands from behind his head and pushed them out behind him, arching and stretching his long frame like a cat waking from a nap, making Dooley wait for his answer while he gathered his own thoughts.
“All right,” he said at last, jackknifing to a sitting position as he came to the decision that had first occurred to him at three that morning. “Consider this, Paddy. These men—Totton, Harewood, and the other two—they succeed in diverting arms and money to us. England is weakened and our country shows enough strength to keep itself from attack, especially since the British will most probably still be too busy with Napoleon to bother about us. France wins the war against England without America ever having to fire a shot or—as I see it—England and her allies sue for peace, leaving everyone bruised and battered, but the countries all still pretty much the way they were before the war ever started. The war is finally ended—but not quite honorably. Dotty King George and his government fall under the weight of the sure censure of the citizenry—helped along by Harewood and the rest of them pointing out the flaws of the current government. I got that idea from seeing Totton the other day, remember? The man, like Caesar’s Cassius, is ambitious. Then what, Paddy? What is America left with—worrying about an eventual new attack from Totton and Harewood and their dreams of power and glory? I don’t think Madison had any such thing in mind when he sent us over here to listen to what they had to say.”
Dooley frowned, rubbing at his forehead as if he had a headache. “Better the devil you know—is that what you’re getting at, Tommie? We might fare worse with a new England with Totton and Harewood in charge than we would going on as we are, even if that means war?” He raised his hands, squeezing his fingers into his palms, as if trying to grasp at something too nebulous to feel. “But, Tommie—we’re on the brink of open hostilities now. Could it really be worse to take what they’re offering us than to wait and see which way the wind blows? Either way, to hear you tell it, America is facing a war.”
Thomas took a cheroot from the table and stuck it, unlit, into his mouth. Dooley wasn’t going to believe him, but it had to be said. “I’m afraid so, Paddy. There’s no way to avoid a battle. It’s inevitable—only a matter of time. Madison has to be made to believe that or it’ll be a fine mess. But do we want to wage war now with an England that will be simultaneously fighting on two fronts—American and French—or do we want to wait another five years and then have to defend against a new England, an England ruled by someone as ambitious for conquest as the Earl of Laleham? You remember the earl, Paddy—you said he was Death.”