“You know,” he said, and paused to sip his brandy. “I don’t mind disappointing people. Perhaps that’s a flaw in my character, but I think it has rather more to do with other people’s failure to manage their own expectations. And everyone seems to have such varied expectations of me; how could I hope to fulfill them all?”

“I’ll remind you I put the company in trust at the beginning of my campaign,” she said. “Ms. Custler will bear the brunt of this.”

“Cold,” he said. “Do you think she’ll still tickle your pear once she’s been dragged through the midden, and your affair made front page news? It hardly savors of plausible deniability.”

That knocked Frye off-balance for a moment. Then she steadied. “I’d like to know what proof you have of that.”

“I’m sure you would,” he said, and because bluffing had been his business since he was in short pants, it came out smooth as butter.

“Queen and cairn,” she said. “I knew this was a bad idea. I knew you were a bad idea. But Frances would push and push for it.”

“And you knew you could make me pay, I suppose. Campaign debts. I hear they can be positively crippling.”

She put bony knuckles to one temple, pressing so the fragile skin around her eye stretched. “Let me make a guess: You want me to walk back my position on these tribunals.”

This time it was his turn not to answer. In the hearth the big log shifted, showering sparks through the grate.

“I can’t do it,” she said.

He smiled, unkindly. “I’m sure you can.”

But she was already shaking her head. “I can’t give you any guarantee; I haven’t been elected yet. I might not be. Do you have any daggers that would fit Saeger’s back?”

Aristide removed his checkbook from the inner pocket of his jacket and laid it on the table between them. “I can decrease the odds of needing one. But first I’d like a promise.”

A loud pop in the fireplace, as a pocket of sap boiled away. Aristide realized there was no clock in the room to disturb the quiet with its ticking.

“I can’t renege on the tribunals,” said Frye, smoothing her skirt across her lap. Aristide bit back another insistence just in time, seeing it was not an ultimatum, but an entrée. “Those are a foregone conclusion, no matter who ends up in the Cliff House. The danger of catching the public’s imagination.”

“You are not convincing me,” he said.

“If you’ll sit on your mitts through all of that,” she said, an edge of caution or anxiety coming into her voice, “let the tar move along as planned, and come through with your cash, I can promise you a pardon if I end up inaugurated. Will that satisfy you?”