Then a troop of horses came down the street: Old Guard, in their tall hats and pomp, shouting to clear the way. They muscled the remaining carriage-horses aside showing cool indifference to the protests of their drivers, to make room for a great coach to come rolling along through the crush. An eagle had been painted in gold upon the door. It drew up before the house, and through the ranks of guards lined up the stairs, Laurence just saw Napoleon emerge from the carriage and mount the steps to the house. He wore trousers and hessian boots, and a long leather coat more suited to mid-air than a drawing room, though it was splendid with gold braid and buttons, and dyed richly black. Another man was beside him, one of the Marshals: Murat, Laurence thought, the Emperor's brother-in-law. They went up the stairs together, and applause welcomed them inside.

‘Disgusting,’ a man muttered quietly, nearby, and Laurence started and looked around. While he had been watching the spectacle, two gentlemen had descended from a carriage at the very door of the house where he stood. They were presently between him and Tharkay, who had drawn back a little into the shadow of the house. ‘Do you know, I heard Lady Hamilton was going to attend?’

‘Her and half the women of quality left in the city,’ the second gentleman answered him, a voice vaguely familiar. ‘You there,’ the man raised his tone to address Laurence, ‘what do you mean, loitering on the street gawking as though you were at a play? They don't need any damn encouragement,’ and Laurence, with a sinking sense of disaster, recognized him as Bertram Woolvey, the son of a friend of Lord Allendale's.

Woolvey had married Edith Galman, if any better cause were needed for the lack of love between him and Laurence, and they had never been friends even before that event. Woolvey was a gamester and a spendthrift, with the one saving grace that he could afford to be, and their circles had always been most different. Laurence knew nothing good of him besides his choice of wife.

Woolvey now stepped closer, frowning at the lack of an answer. Laurence was out of the circle of street light, his face obscured by the mud he had applied, but at a moment he could be recognized, and bring it all to an end: the slightest outcry would alert at least ten men from the guards outside the party, whether Woolvey meant to draw them down on him or not.

Laurence took two quick steps to Woolvey's side and gripped him by the arm, covering his mouth with another hand. ‘Say nothing,’ he hissed quietly, to Woolvey's staring eyes. ‘Do you understand? Say nothing; nod if you understand me.’

Woolvey's companion said, ‘What are you,’ and stopped. Tharkay had caught him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth also.