Monsieur Foucault tittered and waved his lace handkerchief. “Oh la, sir, as you noticed, I am no Turk by birth.”

At Patrick’s enquiring gaze, he continued. “I met my dearest Selim when he traveled to France in 1788. We found ourselves to be … kindred spirits.” A smile curled Foucault’s thin lips. It was true enough. He had met the absurd Selim as the Turk racketed about Paris, pinching women and generally raising mayhem.

That explanation made sense to Patrick. He too had met Selim, and this sleek Frenchman was precisely the sort of man with whom Selim surrounded himself.

“When the unfortunate events took place that necessitated Selim breaking off relations with France”—with just a wave of his white hand, Foucault dismissed Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt, one of the Ottoman Empire’s chief holdings—”Selim begged me not to abandon his friendship. In fact, I have long had a burning desire to live in the English capital, and so he was kind enough to make me his envoy. Dearest Mustafa is my devoted acolyte; between us, we await Selim’s missives. Occasionally, we fulfill some small request. Selim has such an affection for hussar boots, for example, and everyone knows that the best boots are made by the English.” Foucault paused and cast his own boots an affectionate glance.

“Selim has been made aware that you, my dear sir, will travel to the Ottoman Empire for his coronation—such a splendid occasion!—and so he naturally desired me to make your acquaintance.” Foucault sipped delicately at his ratafia.

Patrick nodded. He was beginning to wonder what Foucault wanted from him. There was just the faintest air of tension about the man that set Patrick’s nerves on alert. And his companion looked like a rabble-rouser, to Patrick’s mind. Likely Foucault was some sort of procurer for Selim, and he’d be damned if the only English products Foucault sent to Turkey were made from English leather.

But there was no rushing Monsieur Foucault. After what he judged to be an appropriate number of pleasantries, he finally came to the point. “I would adore to attend dear Selim’s coronation,” he said, “but alas, my presence is required in London.”

He managed to convey the impression that he was eagerly awaited in every great house. Whereas, Patrick thought rather sourly, he himself had yet to meet Monsieur Foucault in any respectable setting that he remembered.

“That being the case,” Foucault continued, “I wonder whether I might impose upon you to convey a small token of my appreciation to the sultan … or shall I say, Emperor Selim? I am loath to have my dearest Selim think for a instant that my heart is not with him on this most momentous occasion.”

Patrick sighed internally. Clearly, Foucault wanted to ensure a warm welcome in Turkey, should he be forced to leave England. Because unless he missed his guess, Foucault was a sharpster, if not an out-and-out criminal.