A Masquerade in the Moonlight - By Kasey Michaels Page 0,54
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.”
Paddy toppled backward, into the chair. “The devil you say! Laleham? I thought you said he took up against you because you’ve been sniffing around that Balfour woman. What does that Satan’s spawn have to do with any of this?”
Thomas took the cheroot from his mouth and looked at its cool tip. “That’s simple enough, Paddy. For reasons too crazy to repeat out loud, I’ve decided the Earl of Laleham—wealthy, powerful, eloquent, respected, and momentarily sidelined with his injury—is the true leader of our little group of adventurers. Now, if I could only figure out what they’ve done to have Marguerite chasing after them as well, I’d be a happy man. Because she’s up to something, my little aingeal is—I’m convinced of it. Nothing else could explain why such a beautiful young woman is spending all her time hanging around five old men.”
Dooley shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Thomas Joseph Donovan, do you know that?” he asked, suddenly looking as tired as Thomas felt. “We were sent here to do a bit of business. That’s all. Nothing more. But could you let it go at that? No, not Thomas Joseph Donovan. No, no. Serving his country isn’t enough. Not for our Thomas. He has to go looking for intrigues, for puzzles to solve and—because he is Thomas Joseph Donovan—there has to be a woman involved. Of course. There must be a woman. He wouldn’t have it any other way. God’s footstool, Tommie,” he ended, his voice rising even as he stood up, grabbed at one of Thomas’s clean shirts, and threw it at him, “but you’re a real piece of work!”