“Badly.”

“How’s your skull?”

“Hurts.”

“It would, wouldn’t it? I fell off a horse once and bashed my head against a tree stump and I couldn’t think for a month! Not sure I’m cured yet, to be honest. Up you get.”

Sharpe settled himself in the saddle and followed Lord William Russell out of the town and onto the sandy isthmus. “How far is it?” he asked.

“Just over six miles. It’s a nice ride! At low tide we use the beach, but tonight we’ll have to jog along the road instead. You’ll meet Sir Thomas at the embassy. He’s a splendid fellow. You’ll like him. Everyone does.”

“And Moon?”

“I’m afraid he’s there too. Man’s a brute, isn’t he? Mind you, he’s been very civil to me, probably because my father’s a duke.”

“A duke?”

“Of Bedford,” Lord William said, grinning. “But don’t worry, I’m not the heir, not even the one after the heir. I’m the one who has to die for king and country. Moon doesn’t like you, does he?”

“So I hear.”

“He’s been blaming you for all his ills. Says you lost his saber. One of Bennetts’s eh?”

“Never heard of Bennetts,” Sharpe said.

“Cutler in St. James’s, fearfully good, and awfully pricy. They say you can shave yourself on one of Bennetts’s sabers, not that I’ve tried.”

“Is that why they sent for me? To complain?”

“Good Lord, no! It was the ambassador who sent for you. He wants to get you drunk, I expect.”

The isthmus narrowed. Off to Sharpe’s left was the wide Atlantic, while to the right lay the Bay of Cádiz. The edge of the bay looked white in the dusk, and the whiteness was interrupted by hundreds of shining pyramids. “Salt,” Lord William explained. “Big industry here, lots of salt.”

Sharpe suddenly felt ashamed of his ragged uniform. “I thought British soldiers weren’t allowed in the city?”

“Officers are, but only officers. The Spaniards are terrified that if we put a garrison into the city we’d never leave. They think we’d turn the place into another Gibraltar. Oh, there is one rather important thing you ought to know, Sharpe.”

“What’s that, my lord?”

“Call me Willie, for God’s sake, everyone else does. And the one absolutely important thing, the one never-to-be-forgotten thing, and do not break this rule even if you’re drunk to the roof beams, is never ever mention the ambassador’s wife.”

Sharpe looked at the ebullient Lord William with bemusement. “Why would I?” he asked.

“You mustn’t,” Lord William said energetically, “because it would be in the most frightfully bad taste. She’s called Charlotte and she ran away. Charlotte the Harlot. She scampered off with Harry Paget. It was awful really. A horrible scandal. If you spend any time in the city you’re going to see a few of these”—he fished in a pocket and brought out a brooch. “There,” Lord William said, tossing the object to Sharpe.

The brooch was a cheap little thing made of bone. It showed a pair of horns. Sharpe looked at it and shrugged. “Cow horns?”

“The horns of the cuckold, Sharpe. That’s what they call the ambassador, el Cornudo. Our political enemies wear that badge to mock him, poor man. He takes it well, but I’m sure it hurts. So, for God’s sake, don’t ask about Charlotte the Harlot, there’s a good fellow.”

“I’m not likely to, am I?” Sharpe asked. “I don’t even know the man.”

“But of course you do!” Lord William said cheerfully. “He knows you.”

“Me? How?”

“You really don’t know who His Brittanic Majesty’s Envoy Extraordinary to Spain is?”

“Of course I don’t know!”

“Youngest brother to the foreign secretary?” Lord William said, and saw that Sharpe still did not know who he meant. “He’s also Arthur Wellesley’s little brother.”

“Arthur Wellesley’s…you mean Lord Wellington?”

“Lord Wellington’s brother indeed,” Lord William said, “and it gets worse. Charlotte ran off with the ghastly Paget and Henry got a divorce, which meant he had to have an act of Parliament passed and that, believe me, was a deal of trouble, so then Henry comes here and meets this damnably attractive girl. He thought she was respectable and she absolutely wasn’t, and he wrote her some letters. Poor Henry. And she’s a pretty thing, terrifically pretty! Much prettier than Charlotte the Harlot, but the whole thing is completely embarrassing and we all pretend none of it has ever happened. So say nothing, Sharpe, absolutely nothing. Soul of discretion, Sharpe, that’s the thing to be. Soul of discretion.” He fell silent because they had come to the massive gates and huge bastions that guarded the city’s southern entrance. There were sentries, muskets, bayonets, and long-muzzled cannons in embrasures. Lord William had to produce a pass. Only then did the vast gates crash open and Sharpe could thread the walls and arches and tunnels of the ramparts until he found himself in the narrow streets of the sea-bound city. He had come to Cádiz.

SHARPE, TO his surprise, liked Henry Wellesley. He was a slender man in his late thirties and handsome like his elder brother, though his nose was less hooked and his chin was broader. He had none of Lord Wellington’s cold arrogance. Instead he seemed diffident and even gentle. He stood as Sharpe came into the embassy’s dining room and appeared to be genuinely pleased to see the rifleman. “My dear fellow,” he said, “have a seat here. You know the brigadier, of course?”

“I do, sir.”

Moon gave Sharpe a very cold look and not so much as a nod.

“And allow me to name Sir Thomas Graham,” Henry Wellesley said. “Lieutenant General Sir Thomas Graham who commands our garrison on the Isla de León.”

“Honored to make your acquaintance, Sharpe,” Sir Thomas said. He was a tall, well-built Scotsman with white hair, a sun-beaten face, and very shrewd eyes.

“And I believe you already know William Pumphrey,” Wellesley said as he introduced the last man at the table.

“Good lord,” Sharpe said involuntarily. He did know Lord Pumphrey, but was still astonished to see him. Lord Pumphrey, meanwhile, blew Sharpe a kiss off the tips of his fingers.

“Don’t embarrass our guest, Pumps,” Henry Wellesley said, though too late because Sharpe was already embarrassed. Lord Pumphrey had that effect on him, and on a good number of other men too. He was Foreign Office, that much Sharpe knew, and Sharpe had met his lordship in Copenhagen and then in northern Portugal, and Pumphrey was still as outrageous as ever. This night he was dressed in a lilac-colored coat embroidered with silver thread, and on his thin cheek was a black velvet beauty patch. “William is our principal secretary here,” Henry Wellesley explained.

“Actually, Richard, I was posted here to astonish the natives,” Lord Pumphrey said languidly.

“At which you’re bloody successful,” Sir Thomas said.

“You are too kind, Sir Thomas,” Lord Pumphrey said, giving the Scotsman an inclination of his head, “altogether too kind.”

Henry Wellesley sat and pushed a dish toward Sharpe. “Do try the crab claws,” he urged. “They’re a local delicacy, collected from the marshes. You crack them and suck the flesh out.”

“I’m sorry I’m late, sir,” Sharpe said. It was plain from the wreckage on the table that the dinner was over, and equally obvious that Henry Wellesley had eaten nothing. He saw Sharpe glance at his clean plate.

“I have a formal dinner to attend, Sharpe,” the ambassador explained, “and Spanish dinners start extraordinarily late, and I really can’t eat two dinners every night. Still, that crab does tempt me.” He took a claw and used a nutcracker to open the shell. Sharpe realized that the ambassador had only split the claw to show him how it was done, and he gratefully picked up a pair of nutcrackers himself. “So how is your head, Sharpe?” Henry Wellesley asked.

“Mending, sir, thank you.”

“Nasty things, head wounds,” the ambassador said. “I had an assistant in India who cracked his head open and I thought the poor fellow was dead. But he was up and about, quite cured, in a week.”