Opposite them sat half a dozen ministers, in nothing like the same state, all of them marked with the long and hasty retreat from London, and the discomfort they must have felt at being sequestered in a military camp. Perceval, the Prime Minister, looked particularly drawn and unhappy. His ministry was shaky and doubtful to begin with, a collection of lesser evils and men he had cajoled into their posts. His predecessor Lord Portland's government had collapsed under the weight of the disaster in Africa, and the old man had refused to try and build another. Canning, the last Foreign Secretary, had tried for the post himself, and upon failing, had both refused to join the new ministry himself, and blocked the Secretary of War, Lord Castlereagh, from joining it: all circumstances that forced Perceval to make do with Lord Bathurst and Lord Liverpool. They were good men, but these were times in which the most gifted were needed, and though Lord Bathurst had been sympathetic to the abolition cause, Laurence could not help but acknowledge that he was not the ideal man to face across from Talleyrand at the negotiating table.

Lord Mulgrave, the First Lord of the Admiralty, had preserved his post. Dalrymple, the old fat soldier, sat with him: neither looked to be a match for the Marshal. The weight of power and composure sat on one side of the table: the refinement and sophistication of the Ancien Regime married to the brutal strength of the Empire. Only Wellesley, sitting at the other end beside Lord Liverpool, did not look defeated. He instead waited in a glittering temper: his jaw set coldly.

Rowley bent to whisper in his ear, and Wellesley looked at Laurence and then leaned forward and interrupted the conversation going on in French, ‘What the devil is this? You come here under a flag of truce, and meanwhile your dragon is in the courtyard trying to bribe our beasts with trinkets?’

Murat exclaimed at the accusation, and said, ‘I am sure there has been some misunderstanding. Liberté has much enthusiasm, but he would never mean to offend—’

‘I am sure General Wellesley does not mean any insult.’ Lord Eldon jumped in with apologies. ‘Surely Your Highness’ Bonaparte was fond of making his family princes, ‘must be familiar with the frank address of soldiers—’

Talleyrand watched the discussion with half-lidded eyes, which flicked to Laurence for a moment. He leaned back for a whispered consultation one of his aides. Then, when the first exchange had died down, he intervened, ‘Perhaps Marshal Murat and I will go and have words with Liberté, to ensure there is no more confusion. We have been speaking long, and a little rest would do well for all of us.’ He pushed himself to his feet, bringing the rest out of their chairs, and leant towards Perceval, ‘I hope we will have an opportunity to speak again this evening?’