“Driving you an easy couple of miles, to the house of a gentleman of my acquaintance, and then a stroll through his park?” Woolvey shot back, sarcastic. “I dare say I will manage somehow.”

“And then?” Laurence said. “When we have gone into the house, and taken Granby out, and a hue and cry is raised after us?”

“I am certain I know Kensington Park a damned sight better than you,” Woolvey said, “so as for getting out, I have a better chance than you of doing it. What is your next objection? I am ready to be as patient as you care to be, Laurence, you are the one insisting on a hurry.”

Woolvey went upstairs to change his clothes, having first taken the precaution of calling down two footmen to watch them, while the coach was pulled around. “Can you not persuade him?” Laurence asked Edith, low, in a corner: she had her arms folded about her waist, hands gripping at the elbows.

“What would you have me say?” she returned. “I will not counsel my husband to be a coward. Will this not be of assistance to you?” He could not deny it, and she shook her head and looked away, her lips pressed tight, and Laurence could not work on her any further. “I had thought I was done with these fears, anyway,” she added, low and unhappily, but he knew how little her personal feelings would be permitted to sway her judgment: as little as he would have allowed himself.

He moved away from her, as Woolvey came down the stairs and went to bid her farewell. The two of them stood talking low a little while, hands clasped, and then he bent his head to hers.

Tharkay was watching the scene with a dry interest. “I beg your pardon for embroiling us so,” Laurence said.

“In a practical sense, we could ask for nothing better,” Tharkay said. “We are not likely to be stopped in a blazoned carriage bowling away down the street in open view of everyone. Noticed, certainly, and he may find his neck in a noose for it afterwards, but that is his concern, and those who would weep for him.” He looked at Laurence. “Although those may be of interest to you also.”

Laurence was sorry to be so transparent, and sorry even more to be shut up in a carriage for half-an-hour with Woolvey for the drive to Holland House. There was no conversation of any kind; there could be nothing said between them, the rejected suitor and the husband. Laurence was silenced further by a difficult, inchoate sensation, which had no place in the present circumstances and yet insisted on making itself felt.

He had never thought very much of Woolvey before; he had dismissed the man as a spendthrift idler, but in fairness, Woolvey had never been given impetus to his own improvement. With nothing to do but spend money, he might easily have fixed himself in a vicious character, a deep gamester or a selfish coward. But he had chosen instead to establish himself respectably, with a wife no man could blush for; and no coward had acted tonight as he had. If he were a little dull and mulish when he was in drink and angry for his country’s humiliation, that was not the worst thing that could be said of a man.

And Edith had looked very well. Not happy, no-one could be happy with an army at the door and a quarrel in the entrance hall; but that she was contented with the lot she had chosen was plain. She did not regret.

Laurence wholeheartedly wished her happy: his feeling had not that envious quality. But it was uncomfortable to think Woolvey had brought it about, and, Laurence was painfully aware, he had not. He had kept Edith on the shelf with expectations, when she might have had more advantageous offers; and their last interview, he could not remember with anything like satisfaction: all selfish petulance on his side, the gall even to make her an offer which could only be unwelcome, after he had pledged himself to the Corps. He looked at Woolvey, who was staring out the carriage window. What had Edith to regret? Nothing: she had rather to congratulate herself on a lucky escape.

The coach drew to a stop. Holland House was dark, and the horses stamped uneasily, warm breath steaming in the air, while a footman came rubbing sleep from his eyes to hold their heads. “Yes, I know the family are away,” Woolvey was saying, already climbing out as another opened the door for him. “Be so good as to stable my horses and bring Gavins out, I want a word with him.”

He gave airy excuses, for his presence in the city, and for his visit: the baby ill and squalling, the wife impatient, “and I thought to myself what I needed was a walk in the fresh air, and to have a look at the stars—too many lights in Mayfair—sure Lord Holland would not mind—”

It was a bizarre proposal, at midnight, with an army in the streets and two men in rough clothing behind him, but Gavins only bowed: familiar with the odd starts of gentlemen in their cups, and too well-trained to show it, if he were puzzled. “I must advise you, sir, not to go too close to the east end of the park, if you should walk beyond the gardens,” he said. “I am afraid we have several dragons sleeping there.”

“Oh,” Woolvey said, and when they had been let into the park, he said in a low undertone, “What are we to do about the beasts?”

“Walk by them,” Tharkay said, blowing out the lantern which they had been given.

“There is no need for you to come farther,” Laurence said. “You have done us a great service already, Woolvey—”

“I am not afraid,” Woolvey returned, angrily, and strode on ahead.

Tharkay shook his head, and when Laurence looked at him said quietly, “It would be difficult to follow an officer of some public repute, in the affections of a woman who loves courage.”

It had not occurred to Laurence, that Woolvey meant to display to advantage for Edith’s benefit, or in any sense of competition with him. “My reputation is hardly such as any sensible man would covet.”

“It does not call you a coward,” Tharkay said. “Whatever has Bertram Woolvey done?”

THE GROUNDS IMMEDIATELY near the house were wooded, cedar trees fragrant around them amid the silent denuded oaks and plane-trees, all crusted with frost. These yielded to broad meadows, hard-frozen, and their boot-heels crushed the grass like sand underfoot. If their object really had been to observe the stars, they would have been served well: the night was clear and cold and still; the wind had died, and no moon.

The dragon interlopers were peacefully snoring, if so could be described a noise like mill-wheels grinding, audible at a quarter-of-a-mile. It did not have that same hollow-chest resonance of the voices of the great combat-weight beasts; there were not many men about, and no fires: it looked to be a company of smaller dragons, couriers, with their solitary captains sleeping huddled up against their sides.

As a practical matter it ought not to have been difficult to simply evade them. Laurence thought himself well used to the company of dragons by now, and he had not minded the streets of Peking, or the pavilions where the great beasts slept in vast coiled heaps; but in the near-absence of light, the persistent low churning noise magnified, and he yet could not wholly repress the shudder which climbed his back as they walked from one stand of trees to another, crossing the meadows where the dragons slept.

The intellect might know these were thinking creatures, who would rather capture than kill him, but his belly did not: it knew only that here nearby were a dozen beasts or more, which he could not see if they chose to move, and which in the ordinary course of animal life would have made an easy meal of him. They were oddly all the more alarming for their smaller size: a man could not be of as much interest to the larger dragons as a meal.

So he informed himself, in cool reasoning terms, and nodded back, the whole exchange wholly divorced from his body’s involuntary response, where every outline became a dragon, and every grumble of rustling leaves a prelude to attack, and they had yet to keep moving on steadily, through pitch impenetrable enough that Laurence put out his hand before his face, to keep from running into any branches.