"Yes, and he'll be worse by the time he's done with Slender Billy's lists and requisitions and morning states," replied Fremantle, with a jerk of his head towards the door leading to the Duke's office.
Gordon, who was looking down into the street, announced: "Here comes old Lowe. I wonder whether he's realised yet that the Duke doesn't like being told how he ought to equip his army? Someone ought to drop him a hint."
"Fidgety old fool!" said Fremantle. "There'll be an explosion if he cites the Prussians to the Beau again. I'm glad I'm not going to Ghent."
"Ghent? Who is going to Ghent?" asked Audley.
"You are, my boy," replied Fremantle comfortably.
"When?"
"Tonight or tomorrow. Don't know for certain. The news is that Harrowby and Torrens are arriving from London today for a conference with the Duke. He is going with them to Ghent, to pay his respects to the French king."
"Damnation!" exclaimed Audley. "Why the devil must it be me?"
"Ask his lordship. Daresay he noticed your fine new dress uniform last night. He must know mine ain't fit to be taken into Court circles. Why shouldn't you want to go to Ghent, anyway? Very nice place, so I'm told."
"He's got an assignation with the Fatal Widow!" said Gordon. "That's why he's so beautifully dressed! New boots too. And just look at our elegant sash!"