“Why tell him?” The small man’s eyelids drooped.

Breksby eyed him. His guest knew more about the inner workings of several governments than he himself did. It galled him, but it was the truth.

“How can I not tell Foakes? He may be walking into danger. What if we slip up and the scepter does explode?”

“The scepter will not explode unless we allow a substitution of the original scepter,” the small man pointed out. “The scepter is the key and Foakes doesn’t have it—we do.” He drifted to the door, indicating that his brief visit was over. “Better not to risk Foakes dropping a hint to his wife,” he murmured as he left. “Men in love are dangerous.”

Breksby stared at the closed door. The man had shown himself out, and Breksby had let him go. Lord only knew what secret documents he would be riffling through in the next hour or so. Breksby shrugged. There was no stopping him anyway.

Breksby sat down and pulled out a sheet of paper. But a moment later he tore up the elegantly written note, addressed to Right Honorable Patrick Foakes.

He was right, the little man. It was damnable that he was always right, but … Perhaps the best idea would be to send the scepter out incognito, as it were. If the scepter wasn’t delivered to Foakes until a mere hour before it was due to be presented to Selim, the risk would be minimized nicely. An exploding scepter! What an absurd notion. But—and Breksby sobered, thinking of it—if Foakes did bring such a device to Selim’s coronation, and it did blow up, the resulting imbroglio would be a disaster for England. Selim’s delicate sensibilities would be insulted, if indeed his royal person survived the explosion. He would undoubtedly side with Napoleon on the spot, and declare war against England.

“Damn and blast,” Breksby muttered to himself. He summoned his attendant and clapped a hat on his head. The Treasury would have to know about Napoleon’s little scheme.

That evening the Marquis and Marchioness of Brandenburg found themselves alone in the drawing room, awaiting the arrival of their daughter. They were having a family dinner. The last family dinner, Eloise thought, with a lump in her throat. Tomorrow her child would leave the house for St. George’s chapel and never return, except as a visitor.

She took the glass of sherry Carroll handed her and walked to the large window looking over the gardens. Something about the conversation with Sophie … Eloise had never, ever said out loud the things she had told Sophie. It made her feel subtly embarrassed even to be in the same room with her husband.

But if George noticed the faint feeling of constraint in the room, he said naught. He cheerfully strolled to the window as well and stood at her shoulder.

“I think it’ll be a pretty match, don’t you, my dear?”