"Madame President"
"I know all about the gentleman's agreement about respecting the confidentiality of official diplomatic communications," Pritchart grated. "But as far as I'm concerned, it no longer applies."
"Madame President!"
"I said it no longer applies, Arnold!" She shook her head. "The only reason they could possibly have drafted this piece of crap," she said, "was to justify exactly the scenario Tony's just described. Which means that at some point, probably after they attack us, they're going to publish their version of our diplomatic correspondence. And judging from this," she thumped the Manticoran note again, "their version of it isn't going to bear very much resemblance to reality. Well, if that's what they have in mind, I'll damned well see the truth released to the newsies and the galaxy at large first!"
Giancola swallowed hard. Things were moving much more quickly than he'd anticipated. Pritchart's decision to go public with the text of Descroix's most recent note was hardly unexpected, but he hadn't planned on her reaching it this quickly. He was a little nervous about what might happen when the Republic and the Star Kingdom published their versions of their official diplomatic correspondence and the discrepancies between them came to light, but he wasn't too concerned about it. Or, he hadn't been, at any rate. He'd calculated that by the time the two star nations reached that point, each of them would be completely prepared to believe the other was editing the actual notes in order to support its own territorial ambitions. Certainly he and Grosclaude had been very careful to insure that all of the official archived copies of the Republic's correspondence agreed with the versions approved by Eloise Pritchart.
But he hadn't counted on the sheer, fiery passion of Pritchart's anger. And that, he suddenly realized, had been remarkably stupid of him. She'd fooled him. She'd insisted on being so calm, so magisterial. On thinking things through and 'giving peace a chance.' And because she'd been and done those things, he'd expected her to go on doing them. He'd counted on at least one more round of notes in which he would magically soothe away the tension over Trevor's Star. But that was because he'd forgotten that before she was ever President Pritchart, before she was ever People's Commissioner Pritchart, Eloise Pritchart had been "Brigade Commander Delta"...one of the three top field commanders in the most effective single guerrilla movement to have fought against the Legislaturalists before the Pierre Coup.
Arnold Giancola felt a sudden, icy sinking sensation as he realized just how completely he'd misread her probable response to his carefully engineered Manticoran "provocation."
"As far as I am concerned," she said in a voice of hammered iron, "this travesty, this...farrago of lies, constitutes a unilateral decision to break off negotiations with us. I intend to lay it before a joint session of Congress, and on the basis of its obvious dishonesty and transparently disguised justification for the Star Kingdom to permanently annex planets occupied by our citizens regardless of those citizens' desires, announce my intention to resume active military operations!"
Chapter Fifty
"Good evening, Lady North Hollow. I'm so happy you could come!"
"Why, thank you! I was delighted to be invited," Georgia Young replied as the butler ushered her into the palatial sitting room. It was a very large sitting room, for an apartment, even in the City of Landing, where space was hardly at the premium it was on more populous planets. It might be smaller than, say, the Green Sitting Room in the Landing residence of the Earl of the Tor, but not by all that much. Not surprisingly, perhaps, given that the luxurious "apartment" to which it belonged easily ran to at least three thousand square meters. In, needless to say, one of the most expensive residential towers in the entire capital.
Not bad for a commoner, Georgia thought as she handed her stylish jacket to the butler with a gracious smile. He smiled back at her, and one of her eyebrows tried to quirk in surprise. Mostly because it was unusual for any well-trained, professional servant to return the smileor frownof one of his employer's guests. But also because there was something...odd about that smile. Something she couldn't quite put a finger on.
The butler bowed slightly, and withdrew from the sitting room, and Georgia gave herself a mental shake. Perhaps there had been something unusual about his smile. But equally perhaps she was imagining things. Not that she was in the habit of doing something that silly, but this afternoon was shaping up to be unusual enough to put any self-respecting troubleshooter for the Conservative Association on edge. She wondered again if she should have mentioned the invitation to High Ridge before she accepted it. And decided once more that she'd been right not to do so. It would be a mistake to let him believe that she felt she required his permission for anything she chose to do, and an even bigger mistake to allow herself to believe it.
"Please," her hostess invited. "Sit down. May I offer you some form of refreshment? Tea, perhaps? Or something a bit stronger?"
"No, thank you," Georgia said as she seated herself in a powered armchair that was almost appallingly comfortable. "While I was delighted when you asked me to stop by this afternoon, My Lady, I was also very surprised. And I'm afraid that my schedule was already pretty fully booked before this unanticipated pleasure presented itself. I can only stay a short time, because the Earl and I are due to join the Prime Minister for a fund-raising dinner tonight." She smiled. "And while I appreciate your having thought to ask me to drop by, I'm sure you'll forgive me if I'm blunt enough to say that I rather doubted it was for a social occasion."
"Of course I'll forgive you." Her hostess chuckled. "In fact, I'm sure you've heard that I tend to be on the blunt side myself. I'm afraid my own social graces are less than polished, which always caused my parents quite a bit of distress. Still, I suppose I should point out that, socially speaking, of course, you really don't have to address me as 'My Lady' any longer, My Lady. I'm afraid I'm just plain Cathy Montaigne these days."
"And before my marriage to Stefan," Georgia responded with another gracious smile, "I was 'just plain' Georgia Sakristos, so perhaps we could simply dispense with any 'My Ladies' from either side?"
"That would be perfectly fineand so diplomatic!" Montaigne chuckled again, in high good humor, and Georgia wondered what she felt so cheerful about. She also wondered whether or not Montaigne's obvious good cheer was a good sign or a bad one. According to the ex-countess' dossier, she was at her most dangerous when she smiled.
"While I'm being diplomatic," Georgia said, "allow me to congratulate you both on your election to the House of Commons and on the power base you seem to be building there. I trust you'll forgive me if I don't repeat those congratulations in public, since Stefan and the Prime Minister would never speak to me again if they caught me exchanging pleasantries with the enemy. And, of course, Countess New Kiev would probably do something far worse than that."
"I'm sure she would," Montaigne said with a blinding smile. "Indeed, I spend the occasional evening contemplating the degree of irritation I must be causing both of them. Well, all three, I suppose, counting your husband. Of course, I have to wonder if anyone does count him. Including yourself."
"I beg your pardon?" Georgia stiffened, coming upright as abruptly as the luxuriously enfolding chair allowed. Her voice projected both surprise and an edge of anger, but there was another emotion behind those she'd deliberately allowed herself to show. A sudden, abrupt tingle of anxiety. A suspicion that perhaps Montaigne's cheerfulness might turn out to have been a very bad sign indeed.