Tharkay listened and shrugged. “We may as well take the chance; the trail is cold otherwise.”

It was dark by the time they reached the outskirts of Mayfair. Here and there the life of the city continued, at a muted tone, alehouses spilling warmth and the smell of fresh beer onto the dirty cobbles, and firelight gleamed from behind closed shutters, those who had not fled the city, whether from unwillingness or from inability. In the fashionable section, Laurence took the lead from Tharkay—these streets he knew well, going past his father’s house and those of his friends and political acquaintance, of men Laurence had known in the Navy, all of them shuttered and dark. Laurence did not hesitate: he had expected silence, abandoned houses, perhaps even wreckage and looting; he moved on steadily and did not look to see what damage might have been done, until he came into Dover Street, and was at last surprised: to find it crammed with carriages, ten linkmen standing at the door of one great town-house, fine young ladies and their chaperones, British gentlemen, French officers all going up the stairs and a great bustling noise of music and laughter and dish-clattering spilling down.

He stopped in the street, appalled, and had to be drawn back from the lights by Tharkay. “We will not get past that soon,” Tharkay said. Laurence did not immediately answer, too choked with anger. He had never been a visitor in the house, but thought it was let to a member from Liverpool, a man who might have voted with his father on occasion. Laurence mastered himself and drew Tharkay along the street a few doors to another house still occupied, but quietly so: a few subdued lights gleaming out from between shutters, not a party to welcome the conquerors. Waiting by the gate they might pass for footmen or grooms, and be dismissed from notice; with any luck the owner and his family were already abed.

They stood nearly an hour, stamping a little to warm their feet, and drawing back against the sides of the house now and then as another carriage reached the door to disgorge its passengers. Every minute brought a fresh cause for indignation: the smell of hot beef, a burst of singing in French, a lady waltzing with a French officer past the open balcony doors. The carriages thinned out only a little over the course of their wait: a sad crush, with the King fled to Scotland and thousands of British soldiers dead and prisoner.

And then a troop of horses came down the street: Old Guard, in their tall hats and pomp, shouting to clear the way and muscling the remaining carriage-horses aside with cool indifference to the protests of their drivers, making room for the great coach to come rolling along through the crush: an eagle painted in gold upon the door. It drew up before the house, and through the ranks of guards lined up the stairs, Laurence saw Napoleon emerge from the carriage and mount up to the house: in trousers and Hessian boots and a long leather coat more suited to mid-air than a drawing room, though splendid with gold braid and buttons, and dyed richly black. Another man was beside him, one of the Marshals: Murat, Laurence thought, the Emperor’s brother-in-law; they went up the stairs together, and applause welcomed them inside.

“Disgusting,” a man said, nearby, low, and Laurence started and looked around: while he had been watching the spectacle, two gentlemen had descended a carriage at the very door of the house where he stood. They were presently between him and Tharkay, who had drawn back a little into the shadow of the house. “Do you know, I heard Lady Hamilton was going to attend?”

“Her and half the other women of quality left in the city,” the second gentleman answered him, a voice vaguely familiar. “You there,” the man raised his voice to address Laurence, “what do you mean, loitering on the street gawking as though you were at a play? They don’t need any damned encouragement,” and Laurence in sinking sense of disaster recognized him: Bertram Woolvey, a distant acquaintance and the son of a friend of Lord Allendale’s.

Woolvey had married Edith Galman, if any better cause were needed for lack of love between him and Laurence, but they had never been friends even before that event. Woolvey was a gamester and a spendthrift, with the one saving grace that he could afford to be, and their circles had always been very different: Laurence knew nothing good of him besides his choice of a wife. And now Woolvey was stepping closer, frowning at the lack of an answer. Laurence was out of the street-light circle, and his face obscured by the smudged dirt he had applied. But in a moment he should be recognized, and all at an end: the slightest outcry would bring ten men from the guards outside the party, whether Woolvey meant to draw them down on him or not.

Laurence took two quick steps to Woolvey’s side and gripped him by the arm, covering his mouth with another hand. “Say nothing,” he said, hissed and low, to Woolvey’s staring eyes. “Do you understand? Say nothing; nod if you understand me.”

Woolvey’s companion said, “What are you—” and stopped: Tharkay had caught him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth also.

Woolvey nodded, and when Laurence took away his hand said at once, “William Laurence? What the devil are you—” and had to have his mouth covered again.

The door of the house opened, a footman looking out, puzzled. “Into the house,” Laurence said. “Quickly, for God’s sake,” and half-pushed Woolvey up the stairs, before they should draw attention. The footman backed in at a loss before their awkward rush, Tharkay and Woolvey’s companion—a gentleman Laurence vaguely recognized, a Mr. Sutton-Leeds—directly on Laurence’s heels.

Tharkay let go Sutton-Leeds as soon as they were inside, and snatched the door away to shut it again. “What on earth,” the man said, “is it thieves?” more incredulous than alarmed.

“No, stay there, and for God’s sake do not stir up the house any further,” Laurence said sharply, to the footman who was edging towards the bell-pull. “Enough of a muddle as it—” and stopped; Edith was on the stairs, in a dressing-gown and cap, saying, “Bertram, may I beg you to be as quiet as you can? James is only just asleep—”

There was a moment of general uncomfortable silence, until Woolvey broke it, saying pompously, “I think you had better explain yourself, Laurence, and what you mean by this invasion of my house.”

“Nothing,” Laurence said, after a moment, “but to keep you from drawing attention from the French on the stoop: we may not be discovered.” His hand was closed and hard upon the pistol in his waist, for no good reason. The fool, the damned fool, keeping his wife and child in the middle of an occupying army. Laurence had no right and knew it, but he could not help but ask, “Why in God’s name have you not left the city?”

“Measles,” Edith said, from the stairs: she had come halfway down, from the landing. Her face was composed, but her hand gripped tightly on the railing. “The doctor said the baby might not be moved.” She paused and added quietly, “The French have not troubled us: one officer came to question us, but they have been perfectly civil.”

“Not that we are sympathizers, and if you mean to suggest as much—wait,” Woolvey said, “haven’t I heard—you were—” He stopped, and was plainly stuck for an explanation which Laurence had not the slightest desire to try and give him.

“You must pardon me, I do not know what you have heard,” Laurence said. “I am most heartily sorry to have troubled you, but we are on an urgent errand, and it is not of a nature to be discussed in your front hall.”

“Then come into the sitting room: discuss it there,” Sutton-Leeds said: he was more than a little drunk, if not to the point of slurring. “Secret mission, splendid: I have been aching to do something against these damned Frogs, prancing through the city as though they owned it.”