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disruption you cause to the English can only benefit me. More ports will be open to my ships.”
    The American’s eyes never left the Frenchman’s face. He had already classified him. All those books leering down, the majority of them probably never read. But they had all been carefully rebound in matching calf, titles blocked in gold leaf. The man was a collector. He surrounded himself with things for the sake of possessing them. Beautiful books, beautiful ships, and probably beautiful women too. How many mistresses did he have, to supplement the meager diet Therese must allow him? Did he now want to add an American captain to his army of employees?
    De Chaumont eyed him warily. “I take your silence as serious consideration of my offer. I will not press you for an answer at this exact moment. You may let me know your decision at your leisure.” He sat back, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
    â€œThat will not be necessary.” Jones had put it all together. It was another of Sartine’s ploys. Use de Chaumont to give him a privateer instead of the squadron he needed. All of them thought he would eventually accept any ship to be offered. In reality a privateer was little more than a pirate ship.
    â€œYou have reached a decision?” De Chaumont was eager.
    The American drained his burgundy glass then placed it on the edge of the big desk. He rose to his feet, drawing his shoulders back as he smoothed down his waistcoat.
    â€œSir, I am not my own master, I serve the Republic of America . I cannot from my own authority serve either myself,” he smiled to lessen the sting “…or even my best friends. I must therefore decline your generous offer.” He paused, probing the Frenchman’s expression before nodding curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to see to.” Without offering his hand he turned and walked away, heels tapping a stubborn tattoo across the wooden floor.
    When the double doors closed, de Chaumont remained staring at the heavy paneling. That damned captain. He was pomposity personified. Perhaps the best thing would be to get him out of France all together. Preferably back to America , out of harm’s way. And the man for that job was Benjamin Franklin, the main American representative in Europe . Franklin may not like the idea, but it could be demanded as a favor when agreement was needed over more crucial matters than securing a ship for an arrogant glory hunter, which Jones undoubtedly was.
    As it always did, the real power lay in politics.
    ***

    Benjamin Franklin’s suite of rooms at the Hotel Valentinois also overlooked the gardens. His cluttered writing desk faced a broad expanse of manicured lawns and flowerbeds, now filled with dying blooms. A barrel-bodied man, his chair creaked a complaint when he dropped a paper he was studying and leaned back, allowing his gaze to stray to the window. Autumn had transformed Therese’s beloved trees to metaled clusters of copper, bronze, and gold. While he watched, the wind stripped the crackling leaves by the handful, flinging them into the air to dance and flutter before planing down to the hardening earth. Dissatisfied, the wind picked at them so they rustled, cartwheeling along the deserted gravel paths, drifting between the tree trunks to lay a multihued carpet.
    Another year, thought Franklin as he clasped his hands across the bulging expanse of his waistcoat. Another year and more pressure. Pressure that gained nothing, applied by schemers, deceivers, and liars all scratching their way, clawing upward to where the real power lay. He sighed, then plucked his pince-nez spectacles from the bridge of his nose and placed them on top of the discarded paper. He had never felt so tired. Always one step forward and two back. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, massaging his nose where the glasses had left ugly red marks.
    What did the French have against John Paul Jones? He