“This song’s deeper meaning was that my fellow Masons at Annapolis were initiates into an ancient, hidden rite of masonry known only to Scotland. Some call it the Rite of Strict Obedience, others the Rite of Kilmarnock, named for an earl who founded the rite and who was executed, nearly one hundred years ago today, for supporting the Stuart return to the throne. The Tuesday Club knew the meaning of Brother Jacques, and seemed prepared to implement its logical outcome—as they might, even today.

“But how many realize,” Franklin asked his fellow diners, “that that same Bonnie Prince, Charles Edward Stuart, who claims the British throne, lives only kilometers from where we sit? At St. Germain en Laye, on the road from Paris to Versailles. There the Stuarts have remained under the protection of the Bourbon kings for one hundred years, ever since their ouster from Britain’s throne.”

“You don’t mean to suggest,” interjected John Adams indignantly, “that the exiled Stuarts are still a factor in European politics?”

“Europe—no,” agreed Franklin. “It is America that is forefront in my mind. Our newly fledged country has, as yet, no true ruler—no chief of state. General Washington, everyone’s choice, has—like Julius Caesar—thrice been proffered a kingship, and thrice declined. A great man, who is married to a long-barren wife with useless offspring of her own. Shall he produce the necessary dynasty to keep us safe?”

“Dynasty?” cried Adams, leaping to his feet. “Why have we fought a revolution? Are you gone mad, sir?”

“Look about you, my friend,” said Franklin coolly. “Is there a country on any continent that exists with no line of succession? What would ours be? Kings deal with kings. Washington knows this—that is why he’s sent a private delegation to ask whether the Stuarts are prepared. My message suggests that the Stuarts are prepared—their ship departs for the coast by the canonical hour of Matins—that is, by midnight, this very night! They are bound for America, and the children of the Kilmarnock Order will greet them when they arrive.”

Adams was blathering, tugging at his wife’s arm, as the younger folk around the table scrambled to their feet.

“This is monstrous!” Adams informed Franklin. “I shall see you tomorrow, sir, when you’ve had time to reflect!”

Franklin nodded gravely as the Adamses took their leave.

Taking Mme Helvetius by the arm, he retired to the salon as customary, to bid all his guests adieu before his afternoon nap. But as he passed the windows, Franklin noticed that the French contingency—his hosts, the Chaumonts, and the playwright, Beaumarchais—had stepped into the garden and were close at heads with the American mission’s secretary. After a moment, Beaumarchais reentered the house as the others were still collecting their things to depart, and he took Franklin aside.

“Look here, my dear doctor,” said the dashing playwright, “we’re flustered at this turn of events. Though no one believes a Scottish king is in the stars for America, it will create a furor if true. You mentioned that your message suggested a spy among us. However did you deduce such a thing from a nursery song?”