‘You want to visit your mother’s grave.’

‘She was born and brought up in the city. Though she enjoyed living in England with my father, she felt that it was only right that she should be buried here.’

‘An English father and a Dutch mother,’ she observed.

‘It’s a case of divided loyalties.’

‘Which has the stronger pull on you?’

‘Each of them.’

‘That doesn’t make sense, Daniel.’

‘It does to me,’ he said. ‘When I’m fighting in a British regiment, I feel English blood coursing through my veins and a sense of true patriotism. When I’m here in Amsterdam, however,’ he continued, pulling her close and looking deep into her eyes, ‘I feel as Dutch as a field of tulips and want to stay here for ever.’

‘Why have you never remarried?’ asked the Duke of Marlborough.

‘Oh, I’m much too senile for such things, John.’

‘Nonsense, man — you’re only five years older than me.’

‘I’ll not see sixty again,’ admitted Godolphin with a shrug. ‘Besides, there’s an insuperable barrier to my ever entering into holy matrimony again.’

‘You can’t mourn Margaret for ever.’

‘It isn’t just out of respect to my late wife. Margaret was a godsend and I could never find anyone else like her. No, there’s a much simpler reason, John — I’ve never been wholly at ease in the company of women. The truth of it is that I feel far more comfortable with racehorses.’

Marlborough laughed. ‘Does that mean you’d prefer to propose to a bay mare?’

‘It means that I’m a contented widower and relieved that I won’t ever have to go through the frightening process of selecting a wife.’

‘Choosing Margaret was not frightening, was it?’

‘That was different — she was an angel.’

The two men were enjoying a glass of brandy after an excellent dinner at Holywell House, the favourite home of John Churchill, Duke of Marlborough.