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Incisively intelligent, incurably erratic, with the broad sense of humor of a schoolboy, Brockholst was an ally who needed careful managing.

But then, who didn’t? The only one Aaron could fully trust was his Theodosia.

“I don’t like his presumption any more than you do, but it works to our advantage. Let Hamilton weary himself chasing a phantom. We have other fish to fry.”

Brockholst scowled over his brandy. “Hamilton has joined Troup in acting against me in the Cooper matter.”

“A dispute over land, was it?” Everyone was always being sued over land speculation. It was a land speculation that had ruined Aaron’s finances, stripped his house bare—and Hamilton, who had litigated the case that had beggared him. It was like Brockholst to take it personally. “Hamilton probably needs the fees.”

“He’s doing it to persecute me. Cooper,” added Brockholst pointedly, “is a Federalist. He’s misconstrued the whole matter. It’s nothing more than a ploy to waste my time and sully my name.”

“If it is a ploy, it’s a weak one. We’ll make them pay at the polls.” Aaron deemed it time to get to the heart of the matter, or else Brockholst would stay brooding and drinking his brandy all night. Aaron already owed a formidable amount to his wine merchant. “I had hoped you would do us the honor of putting yourself forward as a candidate for the assembly in the spring elections.”

“I don’t know. . . .”

“Governor Clinton has agreed to serve.”

Brockholst sat up straight in his chair. “I thought he’d resolved never again to enter office!”

Aaron played his winning card. “And General Horatio Gates.”

“The hero of the Saratoga?” If any man was revered as much as President Washington for his military prowess, it was General Gates. “He’s never run for office.”

“He is prepared to rise to the needs of the hour.”

In fact, Gates was decidedly undecided, but that, Aaron felt, was a triumph, given the man’s well-known reluctance to sink into the pit of politics. He had no doubt he could bring Gates around—with Governor Clinton and a Livingston on the ticket.

“We also have Henry Rutgers and John Broome.” Aaron named two more heroes of the Revolution. He licked a drop of brandy off the side of his glass. “Venerable patriots whose love for their country compels them to battle the abandoned and reckless policies of General Hamilton.”

“You look like the cat who got the cream,” Brockholst mocked, but Aaron could tell he had him, even before he added, “In that case . . . I’ll do it.”

“Your country thanks you,” said Aaron, and held out the decanter to top up Brockholst’s glass.

A Clinton, a Livingston, and a slew of war heroes. Let Hamilton top that.

“Who does Hamilton mean to put forward for the Federalists?”

“As far as I can find”—and Aaron had found a great deal—“not many of note. Oh, and our young friend Cadwallader Colden.”

Brockholst’s eyes narrowed. “Would Hamilton insist upon taking up the case of Levi Weeks only to hand the victory to Colden?”

For a moment, Aaron felt a trickle of unease. But only for a moment. “And risk his reputation in the process? It seems unlikely. No. He wouldn’t want to be seen to fail so publicly.”

Not to mention that it would be entirely unlike Hamilton to conjure anything quite that subtle. Hamilton was like a child who thought he was being devious in his theft of tarts with the jam smeared all over his face. Actual intrigue was beyond him.

“Hamilton has once again been too clever for his own good. Humiliate Colden—and he humiliates one of his few candidates with any standing. Throw the case to Colden—and he humiliates himself. Which of the two do you think our coxcomb will choose?”

“Hmmm.” Aaron could see Brockholst turning the problem around in his mind, looking for unexpected pitfalls.

“I’ll start our work in hand before I leave for Philadelphia tomorrow. We lay the foundations of the case, and let Hamilton waste his time as he will.”

“I’m still not sure it’s wise,” said Brockholst, but he heaved himself out of his chair and let himself be led to the door, where Alexis was waiting with his cloak. “What is this business in Philadelphia?”

“Oh, a trifling thing.” A trifling matter of wheedling a loan of twelve thousand dollars from a Philadelphia merchant to whom he already owed several times that—but Aaron had no doubt he could convince him that it would be less trouble to make the loan than refuse.

But before he left for Philadelphia, he had a defense to undertake—all the more urgently for the fear that Hamilton might try to write something first.

In his depleted library, surrounded by the books he hadn’t been able to bring himself to sell, Aaron pulled up one of his few remaining mahogany chairs to a small table, took out a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write.