British Army Headquarters, Lisbon

"Think nothing of it," the General said, getting up from his seat again before crossing round the other side of the desk to shake the doctor's hand. But once done he did not immediately let go. A slight frown creased his brow.

"Forgive me, Dr. Maturin," he said hesitantly. "I do not wish to seem impertinent, but have we met before? I somehow get the feeling we have."

Stephen flushed; he smiled to cover it. "I believe we have, sir: in Dublin, many years ago. It was at the Fitzgerald's-" who had never held his birth against him, God bless them, "-before all the troubles, though I do not think we were formally introduced. There may have been other instances - Dublin only has so much society after all, or in London, maybe. I was also in India in the year '03." Stephen could remember no other time clearly save the first, but given the various options the Duke would hopefully be satisfied. He had at least admitted to an association with the Fitzgeralds, while implying a certain distance, forestalling a future interrogation on that subject, with the blessing. For an Irishman, the question "What were you doing in 1798?" was almost always one to be avoided.

Fitzgerald. The name hit Sir Arthur along with a jolt of recognition. Dublin Castle, one of the Commissioner's wife's picnics, an exceedingly drunk Fitzgerald introducing his shy, shabby bastard cousin 'just come back from Spain, don'tcha know?'... The incident had left him more of an impression of Fitzgerald than the cousin - but still, what a name to bear! Or not to bear, as the case may be. Dear Lord, it seemed so long ago.

He suddenly realised that he was still gripping the doctor's hand and swiftly released it, schooling his features back into their usual cold expression where his shock had momentarily got the better of him. He cleared his throat.

"Of course, I recollect now. I hope you have a pleasant night's rest, doctor, and that I shall see you tomorrow morning."

The slightest widening of the eyes, the slightest tightening of the grip. Well, thought Stephen bitterly, at least we're on the same page now. The General released his hand and gracefully brushed the recognition aside, for which he was infinitely grateful.

"Thank you, Sir Arthur; I wish the same to you, and I will see you in the morning."

A servant led Stephen up to his room, which was filled with the intensely welcome smell of hot lamb. Even before the servant had closed the door he was patting his pockets, bringing out an obscenely large role of money, sealed with the Admiralty seal, for after the morning meeting with Hogan and his expedition to find a room he intended to buy a proper bag and a sword, if Lisbon was as dangerous as everyone was warning him. For his intelligence work, something would have gone very, very wrong if he was compelled to use even the catling he kept in his pocket, but a sword would deter more mundane trouble-makers. He found what he was really looking for in his coat pocket and poured himself a generous dose of laudanum, knocking it back with a practiced hand - it would have come into effect by the time he finished his meal.

There was a mirror hanging on one of the walls; he started when he saw himself. No wonder Wellesley had not recognised him - he barely recognised himself, staring at the pale creature in the mirror with bloodshot, violet-rimmed eyes. Comparing their images, Wellesley was as handsome, dignified and fashionably-dressed as Stephen was not. His clothes were in an even worse state than his body - all the fabric of his jacket below his chest was of a paler blue than that covering his shoulder from his repeated dunkings in sea-salt, and how could he have not noticed the fraying patch on his elbow, for shame? A smart jacket as needed as well then.

A relaxed, grey veil was pulling over his thoughts, the memory of Wellesley's shocked face was drowning in a thick warmth; he pushed his empty plate aside and pulled the curtains closed against the sun. He staggered over to the meticulously made bed, kicked off his shoes, and, worrying no further, fell into a blissfully deep sleep.

Back in his office Sir Arthur returned to his desk and sat down in the chair, running his hands over his face with a sigh. The interview had gone off well enough and boded well for tomorrow, and if Sir Joseph's recommendation were to be halfway believed then they had just gained a very valuable agent... but the evening was soured by his recognising Maturin. Damn him! Sir Joseph assured him of his loyalties, but the relation to Fitzgerald... There was no way that Blaine would let him know everything about his agent; but a ex-follower of Wolfe Tone may prove awkward, very awkward indeed if it were to get out or fall into the hands of the enemy. Or even his own staff. Maturin would not admit to anything, he was certain - at least not to him. Hogan would be the one for the job. Later. Much later.

But Maturin's Republican sympathies were not all that troubled the General. For Sir Arthur Dublin Castle held only bad memories; of missed opportunities, failures, years of being bored out of his mind with nothing better to do than dance, drink, whoring or gambling and amusing older ladies at garden parties. Arthur Wesley had been a completely different man to Arthur Wellesley. He had believed he had laid that all to rest, but now this Irishman had come along, his only impression that of a bored youth deeply in debt and concerned with nothing more than his own pleasure. The memory of himself made him wince, made him recall his regrets, Kitty as she had been...

But no, this was not helping. Dear God, what was the matter with him? Why this sudden torpor? He was not in the habit of reflecting deeply on himself, so there was no reason why he should start now. He was tired, and after today's activity was sorely in need of rest. He smiled to himself wryly. A decent night's rest in a proper bed, after a week in the confines of a grubby naval cot. It would be heaven.

He rose from the desk and tugged again at the bell-pull, summoning his valet. He then removed his coat and boots, loosening his cravat, picked up his glass and the decanter along with the copy of Zofloya he had been reading and quitted the small office for his bedchamber.