“Would you be averse to feminine company after supper?” Lavisser asked.

“I’m a married man, Captain,” Willsen said severely.

“Do call me John, please.”

Willsen was made uncomfortable by the invitation to such familiarity. “I’ll not stay after supper,” he said awkwardly, edging past the cart.

Henry Willsen was one of the finest swordsmen in the British army and his skill with a pistol would have been the envy of any duellist, but he had no defense against the attack which erupted as soon as he had passed the rubbish cart. The tall man kicked Willsen in the back of one knee and, as the officer fell, his assailant stabbed upward with a knife that slid between Willsen’s ribs. The blade sank to the hilt and the man held it there, supporting Willsen who was gasping suddenly as his right hand groped for the hilt of his cheap sword. He managed to take hold of the weapon, though feebly, but Captain Lavisser, who had turned when the tall man attacked, just smiled and knocked Willsen’s hand aside. “I don’t think you need that, Harry,” he said.

“You… ” Wilson tried to speak, but his lungs were filling with blood. He began to choke and his eyes widened as he shook his head.

“I do apologize, my dear Willsen,” Lavisser said, “but I’m afraid your presence in Copenhagen would be a most dreadful embarrassment.” The Guards officer stepped hurriedly back as the big man, who had been supporting Willsen’s weight with his knife, jerked the blade free. Willsen slumped and his attacker dropped beside him and slashed the knife across his throat. Willsen began to make choking noises as he jerked spasmodically on the cobbles. “Well done,” Lavisser said warmly.