Pindar started to say something, but Cork waved him down. He'd handle this himself, since Sir Paul's temper was obviously still up.
"And what if they do, Francis? They're in the Tower. In the middle of London. Separated by the English Channel from any aid."
"Separated by the North Sea, it would be better to say," interjected Pindar. "They'll certainly get no aid from France."
"But—"
"And on the other side of the coin," Cork continued, driving over Windebank, "we stand to lose far more if we create any further incidents with the American embassy here. I remind you of two things."
He held up his thumb. "Included in that embassy is the sister of their prime minister."
He raised his left hand, and that thumb came up. "And the war on the continent is not looking well. Let us please not forget that we didn't start this idiotic war—this highly unpopular war, which we're placing the blame for on Wentworth—and we have every desire to see it end as soon as possible."
Wentworth hadn't actually been responsible for enlisting England in the League of Ostend. That had been done before he arrived in London at the king's summons. But that fact was not generally known—and, in any event, once he did assume the post of His Majesty's chief minister Wentworth had certainly not opposed the war. Here as in many things, he made a convenient catch-all scapegoat.
"It's not the least of the reasons for our popularity in Parliament at the moment," added Pindar. "The mob will be angry enough, once they realize we have no intention of removing the mercenary companies. But many of the better sort aren't disturbed by that, because we don't carry with us any suggestive taint of being Spanish sympathizers. The populace doesn't call this the war with the United States of Europe, as you well know. They call it 'the King's Spanish War.' "
" 'Wentworth's Spanish War,' more and more," said Cork, "as our influence prevails. We need to remove the king from suspicion, of course."
Windebank's expression was sour. Boyle spread his hands in a placating gesture. "Just let it be, Francis. A few months from now, there'll be some sort of peace settlement and we'll be letting the American embassy return to the continent, in any event. It would be sheer folly to do anything that might infuriate them enough to want to continue the war against England. As it stands, beyond the fact that they were held in captivity against diplomatic custom—which is hardly unheard of, after all—they were treated perfectly well and subjected to no indignities."
"Then why not just let them go now?" demanded Sir Francis petulantly.
Cork tightened his jaws with exasperation. He was really getting tired of this fellow. "Because," he explained, his own tone now bordering on incivility, "we still need a peace settlement—and having them in the Tower will be helpful for that purpose." He felt like adding, you ass, but manfully restrained himself.
"So far as I can tell, they haven't spied upon us at all since we made the agreement," said Patrick Welch quietly, sipping at the broth Liz had given him. "So we can still return to our original plan, Anthony. It's not as if breaking an alliance that was forced upon us under duress is dishonorable."
It was clear enough from the Irishman's tone that he wasn't advocating a course of action; he was simply laying out all the alternatives, for his commander to choose between.
Towson made a face. "It'd certainly feel like treachery, though. I've grown rather fond of those fellows over the past few weeks."
Welch shrugged. "So have I, when you come down to it. But that's neither here nor there. We have to look to our own interests. With the money we have, there's nothing that prevents us from returning to the plan we'd adopted a month ago. The hunt's died down, quite clearly. And those reward posters pose no danger at all, the portraits are so inaccurate. We simply slip away of an evening, make our way to the coast, and sail across the channel. Three men and a woman are a bit of an unusual party, but not enough to cause any real notice. Leaving aside the fact that Harry and his men would almost certainly not launch a pursuit anyway. They've got their own business here to complete."
As he'd listened, Leebrick had kept blowing on his own broth. Judging it cool enough by now, he took a deep swallow. Then, after setting down the cup, he shook his head. "And then what, Patrick? Even that fat purse of Porter's won't last forever. We'd be three mercenary officers without a company. And none of us has ever served under French colors, so we have no friends to intercede for us. I've had quite enough of serving the Spanish throne, thank you. Between the oversupply of inquisitors and the shortage of paymasters, it's a miserable experience. That leaves the Germanies—which are now mostly controlled by the king of Sweden. True, he's hiring officers without companies for that new continental army of his, but . . ."