LITMIR.BIZ

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give my decision in the morning. Say at eight o’clock?’

      It was the best they could do. They tried to persuade him, but he would not change his mind. ‘In the morning. Eight o’clock.’

      Two more bottles were opened. Sharpe’s head was already feeling the effects of the first six, but he let Montbrun pour him more wine. They toasted Helene, they toasted her chances of recovering her wagons. It seemed, she said, that they had been sent to Vitoria already, but that General Verigny was confident that he would take them back for her. More wine was poured. Major Montbrun, his plump face gleaming with sweat, asked Sharpe’s permission to toast the Emperor which, the permission having been graciously given, they duly did. Out of courtesy to their guest they proposed the health of King George III, and then various other Kings including Arthur, Alfred, Charlemagne, Louis I to Louis XIV inclusive, Caesar Augustus, Old King Cole, the King of the Castle, Nebuchadnezzar, Wilfred the Hairy, and finishing with Tiglath Pileser III, whose name they could not by then pronounce, but who had the honour to take the first of the brandy.

      General Verigny was asleep. He had slept ever since he had proposed the health of Richard the Lion-heart.

      ‘He was a mignon,’ Montbrun had said, then blushed because he had said it. Now, as the sun was setting and casting long shadows on the conical piles of shells in the castle courtyard, Montbrun decided they must leave. ‘You will give us your decision in the morning, Major?’ His words came out slowly. He tapped the parole.

      ‘In the morning.’

      ‘Good. I shall leave it with you, if I may.’ He stood, and his eyes showed alarm at the effects of the wine on his balance. ‘Good gracious!’

      Two lancers were fetched to carry the General downstairs, and one to assist Montbrun. La Marquesa, who gave her hand to Sharpe to be kissed, seemed unaffected by the drink. There were still six untouched bottles on the table. She smiled at him. ‘Don’t escape, Richard.’

      He smiled. ‘Thank you for coming.’

      ‘Poor, foolish Richard.’ She touched his cheek and followed the two officers to the stairs.

      Sharpe sat. He listened to the General’s feet drag on the stairs, listened to the door open and close, heard the carriage creak, then clatter away. He stared at the parole, at the odd French words, and felt the temptation to share Helene’s coach.

      The door opened.

      She smiled. ‘I’ve told them to come back for me in three hours.’ She knocked on the door and Sharpe heard the bolt slide across outside.

      She stared at him, her head on one side, then she walked to the bed, sat, and lifted one foot to untie the half boots she wore under her dress. ‘Come to bed, Richard, for Christ’s sake come to bed.’

      He took a champagne bottle with him and she laughed. ‘You see how good it is to be a prisoner of France?’

      He smiled and lifted his bandaged right hand. ‘You’ll have to undress me.’

      ‘I intend to, Richard. Come here.’

      He went. He saw the white lace go, the dress fall, and she was naked in the red sunlight. Her hands reached for his jacket, then pulled him down to the bed and to her arms.

      She smoked a cigar. She lay on her back and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. ‘I practised those for months.’

      ‘You’re very good.’

      ‘At blowing smoke rings too.’ She giggled. ‘You’re not very drunk.’

      ‘Nor are you.’ He was dribbling champagne into her navel and sipping it. ‘Can you feel the bubbles?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I don’t believe you.’

      She said nothing for a few seconds, then, in a suddenly changed voice that made him stop his game to look at her, she told him that Major Ducos had made her sign the letter that had provoked the duel.

      Sharpe stared into the grey eyes. ‘I know.’

      ‘Come here.’ She gestured at the pillow beside her, and when he was there she pulled the sheet over them both and hooked a leg over his. ‘Are you drunk?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then listen.’

      She talked. She spoke of a treaty that was being made between the imprisoned Spanish king and the Emperor Napoleon. She spoke of Pierre Ducos’s part in the making of the treaty, and she described the terms of the treaty and how, if it was signed, it would force the British from Spain. ‘You understand?’

      ‘Yes. But what…’

      ‘…Has it got to do with that letter?’ She finished his question for him, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She threw her cigar onto the floor and put her hand on his waist. ‘I just don’t know, except that I think the Inquisitor must be helping Ducos, and I’m guessing that my money is the price of that help.’

      He stared into her lustrous, beautiful face and he tried to sense whether this was the truth. He could not tell. It made more sense than her last story, but he knew this clever woman was a liar of practised fluency. ‘Why are you telling me?’

      She did not answer the question, instead she asked if he had liked Major Montbrun. Sharpe shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

      She propped herself on one elbow, the sheet falling to her waist. It was almost dark, and Sharpe lit the candle beside the bed. She leaned over him to light a fresh cigar from its flame and he reached up with his tongue to touch her breast. ‘Richard! Will you be serious?’

      ‘I am.’

      ‘Why do you think Montbrun was here?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Christ! Think, you stupid bugger!’ She was half leaning over him. ‘Montbrun is one of Joseph’s men, and Joseph is King of Spain! He rather likes it, he likes being called “Your Majesty”! He doesn’t want to give up Spain. Even if we can keep a bit of Spain he’s got a kingdom, but now his brother’s planning to pull the throne out from underneath him and give it all back to Ferdinand. You understand?’

      ‘I understand. But why tell me?’

      ‘Because you’re going to stop it.’ She took a shred of tobacco from her lip and wiped it onto his chest.

      ‘You’re going to sign that parole and come with me. Then you’re going to escape. Montbrun will help, he knows about it. All that talk of crossing France was for Raoul’s benefit. Instead we want you to escape.’ Her fingers were stroking his chest. ‘You go to Wellington. I’ll give you a letter and Montbrun will sign it.’ She was staring at his wide eyes. ‘You escape with our help, you go to Wellington, because if he makes a public announcement now then he can stop the treaty. No one will dare support it yet. Only Ferdinand can make the stupid bastards accept it, but if Arthur gets the Spanish to make an announcement now that it wouldn’t be accepted, then it will never get signed. So you stop it, do you understand?’

      He frowned. ‘Why doesn’t Joseph stop the treaty?’

      ‘Because his brother will crucify him! They’re all scared of Napoleon. But if you tell Wellington, then no one can blame Joseph.’

      ‘Why don’t you just exchange me?’

      She seemed exasperated by his questions. ‘We can’t. Ducos won’t allow it. He wants to parade you in Paris as proof of Britain’s bad faith. Besides, do you think we’d ever exchange someone like you?’

      ‘But you’ll let me escape.’

      ‘Because then Ducos loses. Because Joseph keeps a bit of Spain and gives me my wagons back!’ Her eyes flicked between his, judging him. ‘Montbrun will pay you, too.’

      ‘But didn’t you say the treaty would save France?’

      ‘Christ

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