Julia looked around the gathering, her attention falling upon a man standing near the window. “Look, there is Charles Whitmore. We were introduced last year. Do you remember? At Lady Melbourne’s rout. And we have exchanged pleasantries at other events. He is an undersecretary at the Alien Office. Maybe he has something of interest to say.”

We both looked across at the gentleman in question, standing alone and watching Lord Liverpool and Viscount Sidmouth with keen intent. I had to admit, I had only a very vague memory of him, so they could not have been memorable meetings. He stood barely an inch above Julia, with close-set eyes and a jittery energy that kept one finger tapping his port glass. The Alien Office had been created in response to the war with France and Napoleon and was, perhaps, the opaquest of the government departments, designed to gather intelligence about foreigners on our shores. Their involvement with the Home Office and the Runners was not quite clear, nor were most of their activities.

“What do you hope to discover?” I asked. Was she aiming to find out about Mr. Kent? Surely a man as high up in the department as Mr. Whitmore would not know anything about a lowly Runner.

“No idea. But do come.”

She grabbed my hand, and so I was towed once again, this time to Mr. Whitmore.

“How lovely to see you here, Mr. Whitmore,” Julia said, with all her substantial charm aimed at him.

Mr. Whitmore, slightly horrified at being set upon by both of us, bowed. At close quarters, his appearance did not improve overmuch: his mouth was rather small and currently pressed into a forced smile, and his chin seemed to recede into his neck.

“There is something I wish to ask you,” Julia continued. “Are you acquainted with a Bow Street agent by the name of Mr. Kent? Our paths have crossed and I wish to know more about him.”

My sister, it transpired, had decided upon a direct attack.

Mr. Whitmore eyed her for a bemused moment. “I have met him as one agent among many, Lady Julia. I cannot say I know much about the man.”

“Tell me what you know, then.”

At the corner of my eye, I saw Agnes Berry extract herself from Mr. Saxby’s leering presence. I knew I could safely leave Mr. Whitmore under my sister’s capable interrogation, and so, with a murmured pardon and a smile of farewell, I made my way to Agnes’s side.

“Well done on getting away,” I said softly, nodding toward Mr. Saxby. He had latched on to Anne Damer near the windows, and I could see her leaning ever so slightly away from him.

Agnes bit her lip. “I told him I had to help Mary prepare for Lord Sidmouth’s address. I should have stayed, but he is so…”

“Indeed, he is so,” I said, and we shared a wry, female smile.