Julian reached out and caught the footman’s arm, at the same time turning his back on the clerk’s desk which stood perhaps twenty feet away.

“What kind of establishment are you running here?” Julian asked, his voice sharp enough to convey irritation but not so sharp as to prick the ears of anyone else. “Must your guests carry in their own bags from this frigid night and have no one to greet their carriage?”

“I … I’m sorry, sir. But due to the lateness of the hour and of course the weather, I have only these two attendants on—”

“No excuses! I am absolutely mortified that we have travelled so far to be treated as common … well, as common! What is your name?”

As this was going on, Matthew saw Julian sneak a glance at the clerk’s desk and he realized this was a stalling game to get the two men up the stairs and out of the lobby. Sir Polar Bear and Clown Face were obviously in a hurry as well, because the key was already being offered and the clerk motioned with a sweeping gesture toward the staircase.

“Hold your place while I’m speaking to you,” Julian went on, and the two hapless attendants—both young boys who looked terribly uncomfortable in their wigs and tightly buttoned uniforms—stood behind the footman as if seeking his protection, as much as frightened mice could seek the protection of a spindly scarecrow. “My associate and I have been guests in many inns across this country, and indeed across Europe, and I am simply astonished at the lack of—”

Matthew nudged him. The objects of interest were ascending the stairs with their quickstep military gait.

“Keep calm and carry on,” Julian said to his audience, and just like that he released them from their state of siege. They rushed on out, Matthew followed Julian to the clerk’s desk, and Julian set the case he was holding atop it. “Booking for Randolph Mowbrey,” he said. “And associate, Mr. Spottle.” While the clerk was checking the ledger for these names that were not there, Julian added, “That would be Count Randolph Mowbrey.”

“Of course,” said the clerk, whose brow was furrowing as his finger ticked down the list on his ledger. “Odd … I don’t see those names.”

“Our agent here made the booking some time ago. We’re with the Prussian delegation who just arrived. The two gentlemen before us.” To the clerk’s blank stare, Julian said loftily, “We are the interpreters, and we would like the room next to theirs.”

“Um … sir … I don’t think I can—”

“This is quite the beautiful lobby,” Julian interrupted with a smile, but his voice still carried a hint of disdain. “I’d say it’s easily the equal to the lobby of the Imperiale in Konigsberg. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Spottle?”

“Easily,” said Matthew, wondering where that ridiculous moniker had come from.