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Cobham pulled a face of disgust. “Sanctimonious piffle!” He jabbed a gloved finger in the air, close to Sir Gilbert’s snub nose. “You will keep him in check, Parsons. And do a much better job of it than you did the last time, if you want to return to the comfort of your desk! Do you hear me?”
    Sir Gilbert certainly did hear him. He wanted nothing more than to return to the security his deskbound employment afforded him. Since his expulsion from Midanich and being sent home in disgrace, he had not had another posting to the Continent. The past ten years had been spent slouching over other people’s correspondence in the cipher department. Everyone, from Lord Cobham, to his dear wife on, down to his wigmaker, viewed his relegation with a mixture of embarrassment and pity. Publically, Sir Gilbert was suitably humbled. In truth he was happy to be home and in a position within the Foreign Department that bored him almost to incompetence. He loved his comforts, particularly his daily visits to his preferred coffee house in the morning and his favorite chop house in the evening. But as he owed his position and thus his living to Lord Cobham’s good graces, he had no say in the matter of whether he stayed behind a desk or sailed off on a diplomatic rescue mission which had disaster inked all over it before the ship had the wind in its sails.
    “Yes, my lord,” he replied tonelessly. “Loud and as clear as a church bell.”
    Lord Cobham peered at his subordinate for signs the man was being sarcastic, but as Sir Gilbert held his gaze with a suitably neutral expression, he continued, and with a look over his shoulder, as if he half-expected to be overheard. But the cul-de-sac was empty of pedestrian and horse, so it was an unnecessary, and in Sir Gilbert’s opinion, an overly-dramatic gesture.
    “To be frank, Parsons, the reason we are having this discussion out here, before we call on Halsey, is that the release of Miss St. Neots and Sir Cosmo is not to be the primary goal of your mission. Leave that to Halsey. What you are to do is to identify, and make contact with, a member of Margrave Ernst’s court—a traitor—”
    “Traitor?”
    “Not to us, Parsons. Not to England. A traitor to Margrave Ernst’s cause. Someone who is working to further his brother Prince Viktor’s claim to the throne.”
    “Who is this traitor, my lord?”
    “If I bloody-well knew that, Parsons, would I be asking you to uncover his identity? Keep up! Keep up!”
    His lordship threw a hand in the air and let it drop heavily to his side, saying with a crooked, conciliatory smile as if addressing a simpleton, “Look here. In the scheme of things, it doesn’t matter which of the brothers—Margrave Ernst or Prince Viktor—triumphs. What is important is that their civil war ends, and soon. If they keep fighting each other there’ll be no troops left, and where would that leave England, eh?” He paused long enough for Sir Gilbert to open his mouth to respond, then added with a grunt, “If anyone is going to kill off Midanich’s troops, it’s us, fighting for England, not over a brotherly squabble. And when that civil war ends, His Majesty’s government must be seen to have supported the winning side from the very beginning of the conflict. Do you understand, Parsons?”
    “And if it comes to light we were hedging our bets?” asked Sir Gilbert. “Both Margrave Ernst and Prince Viktor are unlikely to consider His Majesty’s government a trustworthy ally then, are they, my lord? It could ruin relations with the country for the fut—”
    “Damme! You’re sounding like that sanctimonious Halsey, and I don’t care for it, Parsons! Listen, man. His Majesty and His Majesty’s government ministers will believe the head of the Foreign Department over the ravings of a bloody nobody ruler of an insignificant principality in the middle of God-knows-where in Europe. Understood?”
    Sir Gilbert did not contradict his superior. He could see