“Indeed,” John said casually, in English. “How interesting.” And with the briefest of dismissive nods to Percy, he let go of Hal’s knee and turned to his partner to the right, this being Mrs. Major General Prévost. Madam General was obviously used to being the only female at military dinners and seemed startled to be spoken to.

John engaged her in descriptions of her garden and which plants were growing well at the moment and which ones were not. This occupied relatively little of his attention, unfortunately; he could hear Hal, behind him, talking to his other partner, a much-decorated but elderly and torpid colonel of artillery, who was stone deaf. Hal’s half-shouted queries were punctuated by small, jibing remarks under his breath, aimed at Percy, who so far had ignored them.

Feeling his joints knot with the urgent need to do something, and unable to kick Percy under the table or give Hal a jolt in the ribs with his elbow, John pushed back his chair and rose abruptly.

He headed for the discreet screen in the corner of the dining room that hid the pisspots from view, but the warm tidal reek of the urine of numerous lobster-eaters hit him in the face and he veered away, going out through the open French doors into the fresh air of the garden. It had been raining, but the downpour had stopped, and water dripped from every tree and shrub.

He felt as though there had been an iron band round his chest that broke as he left the house, and he breathed deep, refreshing gulps of cool, rain-washed air. His face felt hot, and he swiped a hand through the wet leaves of a hydrangea bush and wiped cold water over his face.

“John,” said a voice behind him. He stiffened, but didn’t turn around.

“Go away,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

There was a faint snort in reply.

“I daresay,” said Percy, in his normal English accent. “And I can’t say I blame you. But I’m afraid you’ll have to, you know.”

“No, I won’t.” John turned, meaning to push past Percy and go back inside, but Percy seized his arm.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Buttercup.”

John’s spinal column reacted much faster than his conscious mind. Both stomach and balls contracted with a force that made him gasp, before his mind managed to inform him that the bloody man really had just used his nom de guerre. The very secret code name under which he had labored—for three mortal years—in London’s Black Chamber.