My friend gently looped her arm through mine and drew me nearer to her side so that our skirts moved together with each step. She took me to this window and to that, admiring snuffboxes or gloves. When we arrived at the shop of a ribbon-seller, she led me through the low door. ‘Come,’ she insisted, ‘I should like to purchase a gift for you.’ Then, before I could protest, we stepped into a narrow space no larger than a kiosk which flowed with strips of silk and grosgrain in every colour. Here Mrs Elliot selected four finely sewn red, white and blue rosettes. They were dainty, and as ruffled as roses. Not a one was larger than the bottom of a teacup.

‘It is necessary that you are seen to wear one, my dear,’ she counselled me in a quiet voice as we moved away. ‘It need not be sizeable. I wear one with discretion, often beneath my lapel.’ She moved her fingers to the half-concealed circle at her jacket collar. ‘I do not much care for the politics of this nation. However, if one wishes to make a life as we do, it is wise to display some measure of approval for the Revolution.’

I was somewhat intrigued by her comment, for I could not imagine what a freeborn Briton would find so objectionable in the notion of liberty.

‘You do not approve of the Revolution, Mrs Elliot?’ I whispered to her.

My companion tightened her lips and smiled. ‘My politics conform to the politics of those gentlemen who offer me their hearts – and their purses, whether they be supporters of the King or of the Revolution.’ She then nodded to a row of windows across the garden. ‘For a time, my politics were those of the Duc d’Orléans, but as he seems to have given me up entirely, my loyalties have strayed elsewhere. What support I grudgingly profess for the Revolution is on account of Biron, who loves Orléans as a brother. But now there is war with Austria, I fear that association will soon be at its end.’

I did not take her meaning, and I expect she read the question upon my face.

‘Biron will be leading the Army of the North, Henrietta, and will soon be departing for Valenciennes.’ She raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Gentlemen are not known to pine for the aged arms of old mistresses once they have abandoned them.’

I studied her, but as she had spoken her sharp words through a smile, I could not determine the true sentiments behind them. Neither would she permit me to contemplate them for too long but hastily turned my attention to other matters.

‘Now,’ she announced, tapping my elbow, ‘see there. I shall scandalize you with Jacobin filth.’ She nodded in the direction of a print-shop window.