“A new vintage,” the little man explained, bowing. “I think it very fine myself—very fine! But taste is such an individual matter, do you not find it so?”

“Ah . . . yes. To be sure.” Grey raised the cup cautiously to his face, only to have an aroma of amazing warmth and spice insinuate itself so deeply into his nostrils that he found the cup pressed to his lips in an involuntary effort to bring the elusive scent closer.

It spread over mouth and palate and rose up in a magic cloud inside his head, the flavor unfolding like a series of blooming flowers, each scented with a different heady perfume: vanilla, plum, apple, pear . . . and the most delicate aftertaste, which he could describe only as the succulent feeling left on the tongue by the swallowing of fresh buttered toast.

“I will have a cask of it,” he said, lowering the cup and opening his eyes as the last of the perfume evaporated on his palate. “What is it?”

“Oh, you like it!” The little man was all but clapping his hands with delight. “I am so pleased. Now, if you find that particular vintage to your liking, I am convinced that you will enjoy this. . . . Not everyone does, it takes a particularly educated palate to appreciate the subtleties, but you, sir . . .” The empty cup was snatched from his hand, and another substituted for it before he could draw breath to speak.

Wondering just how much he had already spent, he obligingly lifted the fresh cup.

Half an hour later, with flattened pocketbook and a pleasantly inflated head, he floated out of the shop, feeling rather like a soap bubble—light, airy, and gleaming with iridescent colors. Under his arm was a corked bottle of Schilcher, the mysterious German red, and in his pocket a list of those customers of Fraser et Cie known to have purchased it.

It was a short list, though there were more than he would have suspected—half a dozen names, including that of Richard Caswell, dealer in information. What else had Caswell carefully not told him? he wondered.

The enthusiastic wine-seller, who had eventually introduced himself as Mr. Congreve, was regretfully unable to tell him much regarding the other buyers of the German red: “Most of our customers merely send a servant, you know; such a pity that more will not come in person, like yourself, my lord!”

Still, it was apparent from the names that at least four of the six were in fact Germans, though none was called Meyer. If his mother could not identify them, chances were good that Captain von Namtzen could; wealthy foreigners in London tended to club together, or at least to be aware of each other, and if Prussia and Saxony found themselves on different sides of the present conflict, their inhabitants did at least still speak the same language.