In truth Captain Willsen was intrigued. He had served twelve years in the British army and had never heard a shot fired in anger. He yearned to distinguish himself and now, quite suddenly, a chance had arisen because an officer was needed to escort the Duke of York’s aide to Copenhagen. That was all Willsen knew, though his commanding officer had hinted that his facility with small arms might be a great advantage. Willsen had been worried at first, fearing that he would be fighting against his father’s people, but he had been assured that the danger in Copenhagen came from the French, not the Danes, and that assurance had permitted

Now Lavisser was offering to explain and Willsen, who knew he had been churlish, nodded. “Of course. It will be a pleasure to dine with you, sir.”

“My name is John,” Lavisser insisted as he led Willsen down the staircase to the street. Willsen half expected to find a carriage waiting, but it appeared Lavisser was on foot even though a small chill rain was falling. “Hard to believe it’s July,” Lavisser grumbled.

“It will be a bad harvest,” Willsen remarked.

“I thought we might get a bite at Almack’s,” Lavisser suggested, “and maybe play a hand afterward?”

“I never wager,” Willsen answered, and even if he did he could never have afforded the high stakes at Almack’s.

“How very wise you are,” Lavisser said. They were both speaking English again. “And I thought it might please you if we had a word with Hanssen before supper.”

“Hanssen?”

“The first secretary at the Danish embassy,” Lavisser explained. He gave his companion an earnest look. “I want to be quite certain that our activities are not prejudicial to Denmark. Hanssen’s a decent man and I’ve always found his advice very sound.”

Willsen shared the desire to avoid upsetting Denmark and so he rather liked the idea of talking to someone from the embassy, but his innate caution came to the fore. “Are we supposed to be revealing our purposes to the Danish government?”

“Of course we’re not and of course we shan’t.” Lavisser stopped and unleashed his dazzling smile on Willsen. “Sir David told me you expressed scruples about visiting Denmark? Is that right? Believe me, my dear Willsen, I feel the same. My mother’s family live there and I will do nothing, nothing, that places them in jeopardy.” He paused, then his voice became, if anything, even more earnest. “If you and I cannot bring Denmark and Britain into a closer friendship, my dear Willsen, then we have no business going there, none. I merely seek general reassurances from Hanssen. I want news of the political situation in Denmark. I want to know what pressures the French are applying. The French are the irritants, but aren’t they always? And of course Hanssen will want to know the purpose of our visit, but we shall merely say we are visiting families. What could be more innocent?" Lavisser smiled, walked on, and Wilsen, reassured, followed the tall guardsman across the street. A crossing sweeper, a skinny boy with a running sore on his forehead, sprinted to brush a horse dropping out of Lavisser’s path. The guardsman spun a careless sixpence toward the lad, then led Willsen down an alleyway. “Would it offend you if we visited Hanssen by his servants’ entrance?” Lavisser asked. “Only with the Baltic so tremulous you can be sure that the damned Frogs will be watching his front door.”

“The French? In London?”

“They have agents everywhere,” Lavisser said, “even London. But not, I think, in this alley.”

The alley was noisome and dark. It culminated in a gate that stood ajar and led into a bleak narrow yard that was made even darker by the day’s dense clouds and the surrounding walls. The yard’s cobbles were half covered in rubbish that was being loaded onto a handcart by a tall, heavyset man who seemed surprised to see two red-coated officers invade his grubby domain. He hastily stood aside, snatched off his ragged hat and tugged his forelock as the two officers stepped gingerly through the yard’s filth.

“Would you be averse to feminine company after supper?” Lavisser asked.

“I’m a married man, Captain,” Willsen said severely.

“Do call me John, please.”

Willsen was made uncomfortable by the invitation to such familiarity. “I’ll not stay after supper,” he said awkwardly, edging past the cart.

Henry Willsen was one of the finest swordsmen in the British army and his skill with a pistol would have been the envy of any duellist, but he had no defense against the attack which erupted as soon as he had passed the rubbish cart. The tall man kicked Willsen in the back of one knee and, as the officer fell, his assailant stabbed upward with a knife that slid between Willsen’s ribs. The blade sank to the hilt and the man held it there, supporting Willsen who was gasping suddenly as his right hand groped for the hilt of his cheap sword. He managed to take hold of the weapon, though feebly, but Captain Lavisser, who had turned when the tall man attacked, just smiled and knocked Willsen’s hand aside. “I don’t think you need that, Harry,” he said.

“You… ” Wilson tried to speak, but his lungs were filling with blood. He began to choke and his eyes widened as he shook his head.

“I do apologize, my dear Willsen,” Lavisser said, “but I’m afraid your presence in Copenhagen would be a most dreadful embarrassment.” The Guards officer stepped hurriedly back as the big man, who had been supporting Willsen’s weight with his knife, jerked the blade free. Willsen slumped and his attacker dropped beside him and slashed the knife across his throat. Willsen began to make choking noises as he jerked spasmodically on the cobbles. “Well done,” Lavisser said warmly.

“Easy work,” the big man grunted. He stood, wiping the blade on his dirty coat. He was very tall, very broad in the chest and had the scarred knuckles of a pugilist. His face was pitted with pox scars, his nose had been broken and ill set at least once, and his eyes were like stones. Everything about him declared that he was from as low a gutter as could bear life and just to look at him was to be glad that the gallows stood tall outside Newgate Prison.

“He’s still alive.” Lavisser frowned at Willsen.

“Not for long, he ain’t,” the big man said, then stamped hard on Willsen’s chest. “Not now, he ain’t.”

“You are an example to us all, Barker,” Lavisser said, then stepped close to the lifeless Willsen. “He was a very dull man, probably a Lutheran. You’ll take his cash? Make it look like a robbery?”

Barker had already begun cutting the dead man’s pockets open. “You think they’ll find another bugger to go with us?” he asked.

“They seem tediously intent on giving me company,” Lavisser said airily, “but time is short now, very short, and I doubt they’ll find anyone. But if they do, Barker, then you must deal with the new man just as you dealt with this one.” Lavisser seemed fascinated by the dead Willsen, for he could not take his eyes from him. “You are a great comfort to me, Barker, and you will like it in Denmark.”

“I will, sir?”

“They are a very trusting people,” Lavisser said, still unable to take his gaze from Willsen’s body. “We shall be as ravening wolves among the woolliest of baa-lambs.” He finally managed to look away from the corpse, raised a languid hand and edged past the handcart. He made bleating noises as he went down the alley.

The rain fell harder. It was the end of July 1807, yet it felt more like March. It would be a poor harvest, there was a new widow in Kent and the Honorable John Lavisser went to Almack's where he lost considerably more than a thousand guineas, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now. He left worthless notes of hand promising to pay his debts and walked away. He was on his way to glory.

Mister Brown and Mister Belling, the one fat and the other thin, sat side by side and stared solemnly at the green-jacketed army officer across the table. Neither Mister Belling nor Mister Brown liked what they saw. Their visitor—he was not exactly a client—was a tall man with black hair, a hard face and a scar on his cheek and, ominously, he looked like a man who was no stranger to scars. Mister Brown sighed and turned to stare at the rain falling on London’s Eastcheap. “It will be a bad harvest, Mister Belling,” he said heavily.