He strode past his servant and the clerk at his desk, his steps seeming unusually loud in the deserted corridor. Great paintings watched him pass, sea battles: courage and heroism, without the human agony which was so seldom shown.

A lieutenant jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, sir, but the meeting is still in progress!"

Bethune did not even see him. He thrust open the door, and watched the mingled expressions of surprise, irritation, perhaps alarm.

The First Lord frowned. "Is it so urgent, Graham?"

Bethune wanted to lick his lips, to laugh, to weep. He had felt nothing like it before.

"From the admiral commanding at Portsmouth, my lord. A despatch has just been received."

The admiral said evenly, "Take your time."

Bethune tried again. It was a great moment, and he was a part of it, and yet all he could feel was sadness. "Marshal Soult's army was defeated by the Duke of Wellington at Toulouse. Totally. Napoleon has abdicated, surrendered to the Allies, four days ago."

The admiral stood, very slowly, and looked around the table. "Victory, gentlemen." The word seemed to hang in the air. "If only brave Nelson could have seen it."

Then he turned to Bethune. "I shall see the Prince Regent immediately. Attend to it for me." He dropped his voice to exclude the others. "It could mean Paris for you, Graham. I would feel more secure with you there."

Bethune found himself back in his spacious office again, without remembering the return.

When he looked out of the window once more, nothing had changed, not the people nor the horses and carriages. Even the pedlar was still standing with his tray of wares.

The elderly clerk was hovering by the desk. "Sir?"

"Pass the word to the Officer-of-the-Guard for the First Lord's carriage and escort."

"At once, sir." He hesitated. "Difficult to accept, sir. To believe.."