‘Sir,’ Emily said, and Laurence looked down, she was panting at his elbow, Demane beside her. ‘Sir, Temeraire sent me—Very well, us—to tell you, that French dragon in the courtyard is preaching sedition, and trying to bribe everyone to go over to the Emperor, with pavilions and jewels and such. He can speak English.’

‘Where is the envoy?’ Laurence asked Riley. ‘Do you know who they have sent?’

‘Talleyrand,’ Riley said.

The conference was being held upstairs, in the little-used library. Wellesley had gone to join the discussion, directly on their arrival, and he was, Laurence thought, their best hope. But guards and aides barred the room, among them ten Frenchmen in long coats made of leather with heavy gloves in their belts. Laurence did not know how they might get word inside, until he caught sight of Rowley and called to him.

Rowley's personal disdain had not subsided, but he had just seen a month shortened to two weeks, and though unsmiling he heard Laurence out, and said shortly, ‘Very well, come with me,’ and took him into the room by the side door.

Talleyrand had not come alone. He sat on one side of a long table, laid on for the occasion, with a Marshal sitting beside him. It was Murat, Bonaparte's brother-in-law. They made an odd pair. Talleyrand, brushing long aristocratic face through his thinning fair hair seemed washed out and pale next to Murat, who had thick curly hair and bright blue eyes in a face ruddy with weather and work. He also possessed a powerful frame, every inch the soldier. Murat's clothing was absurdly splendid. He wore a coat of black leather with gold embroidery and gold buttons, over a snowy white stock and shirt, with gloves of black leather and gold on the table beside him. Talleyrand was more quietly elegant.