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explosion that was threatening to erupt from my dear wife.
    Lord Brouncker waved a hand, thereby stifling the response that his inebriated sib had been about to venture. ‘Parliament has voted two-and-a-half millions for it. With respect to my dear brother, such a sum has never been known, my dear lady,’ he said, scowling at his dear brother as he did so. ‘And if as all men expect, men like Captain Quinton here drive the Dutch off the seas before the summer’s end, just as Monck, now His Grace of Albemarle, and the rest of them did in the last war – well then, we will have a peace treaty that brings us all the trade that they currently have, and we will place young Prince William upon their throne to do his uncle’s bidding.’ Brouncker nodded toward Cornelia, who raised her glass to him in return. Cornelia had ever been an Orangist, one of those who resented the coup in Amsterdam that brought to power the republicans under her bête noire , Johan De Witt; but these monarchist principles had formed initially to spite her glum republican parents and dour republican twin brother. ‘Think of Britain as a great eagle, my dear, or a vulture, perhaps. Once the war starts, the Dutch will have to keep up their trade with the outside world. Trade is their lifeblood. Without it, they will perish. But there we are, the great British vulture, astride their only sea routes. They try to run their trading ships through the Channel, and we pounce on them. They try to run them around Scotland, and we pounce on them. All their trade, swept up by our brave ships. Riches beyond imagination for old England, and our king a veritable Midas! Halcyon days, my friends!’
    Cornelia bridled and, under her breath, she swore in Dutch with a quite exceptional degree of obscenity. After all, she had been brought up in a Dutch seaport by a Dutch merchant whose prosperity depended exclusively upon the wellbeing of Dutch maritime trade. Consequently Cornelia had learned the ebbs and flows of the Dutch shipping industry before she could walk, and needed no lessons in it from My Lord Brouncker.
    Mrs Williams suddenly caught my eye. Quite loudly, she cut directly across the company and said, ‘Captain, I have not seen your brother lately. He has ever been a devotee of the playhouses – we miss his patronage.’
    ‘Indeed, Mistress. Marriage has provided my brother with attractions other than those of the stage, alas.’ I attempted to make the remark sound as light as I could, rather than expressing my true feelings upon the matter of my brother’s condition.
    ‘Aye,’ slurred a leering Harry Brouncker, ‘but his wife has found attractions other than those of the marriage, too!’ His arrogant self-regard and broad smile left little doubt that these ‘attractions’ were, in fact, his own.
    Both of the Evelyns were scandalised, although Abigail Williams grinned bawdily. I frowned at the rogue and began to rise from my stool, despite Cornelia’s restraining hand upon my arm and her urgent whisper of ‘ Nee, betalen geen acht !’ (‘No, pay no heed!’). I pushed her hand away. For here was a matter to pursue, by God: I had no love for my good-sister Louise, but for good or ill she was Countess of Ravensden. The honour of my ancient house demanded a defence, or else the exposure of any dishonour that she might bring to it. But Lord Brouncker had gripped his brother’s shoulder and was whispering angrily into his ear while raising a hand to me to stay my advance. In that moment, too, a young man whom I recognised as one of the clerks of Deptford yard was admitted to the room by Evelyn’s maid, thus distracting the party. The clerk walked up to Pepys and whispered hurriedly to him. Pepys’s mouth suddenly gaped, and he swayed. He asked another question of the clerk, who nodded vigorously.
    Finally, Pepys turned to the rest of us. Some instinct had made us all fall silent at once. For some reason, in that moment I thought upon the