'I'll lock the windows, Miss Gibbons? The voice was just the other side of the door.

‘I’ll do it, King.

'Thank you, miss.

Sharpe was in shadow. The room smelt musty and damp. He heard steps in the room, a key in the lock, then the squeal of a drawer opening. He guessed Jane Gibbons was looking into the bureau from which the books and pistols had been taken. The drawer closed, was locked again, then Sharpe saw her. She walked to the window-doors, closed them and seemed to show no surprise that one leaf had been ajar onto the night. Then, as she stooped to push the lower bolt home, she became completely still.

Sharpe could see her golden hair was in ringlets. She wore a blue dress, white collared, with a tight, old-fashioned waist that showed her slim hips.

She was staring at the floor.

There was mud there, brought in on Sharpe's boots from the creek bed, mud that led to his hiding place.

She straightened, turned, and raised her eyes slowly, following the trail of dry mud until she was staring into the shadow beside the door.

She jumped when she saw him, but did not cry out. Sharpe stepped sideways, out of the shadow, and they stared at each other, neither saying a word. He smiled.

For a moment he thought she was going to laugh, so mischievous and delighted was her face, then, decisively, she crossed to the door beside him. 'I have to talk with you!

'Here?

She shook her head. There was a pergola in the garden, built at the corner of the north wall, and she would join him there. 'You'll wait?

‘I’ll wait.

He waited in the dark shadow of the roses that grew unpruned about the lattice shelter. There was a seat in the pergola that ran around a table made of rough planks. The sea, far off to his right, seethed, faded, then seethed again. He had come here to find the missing Battalion's accounts, and instead he waited for a girl that he imagined he loved.

He had waited twenty minutes and was beginning to think that she would not come when he heard the creak of a door, and, seconds later, saw a dark-cloaked figure running over the grass. She slid into the shadow, sat, then looked nervously back at the upper windows of the brick house that were glowing with lamplight. 'I shouldn't be here.

He stared at her, suddenly not knowing what to say, and she bit her lower lip and shrugged as if she, too, was suddenly uncertain.

'Thank you for the food and money, Sharpe said.

She smiled and her teeth showed white in the moonlight that filtered through the roses. 'I stole it. She spoke barely above a whisper. She shuddered suddenly, perhaps remembering the man who had died in the marsh that night. 'I shouldn't be here.

He realised that, for all her vivacity, she was frightened. He put his hands slowly over the table and covered hers. 'I shouldn't be here either.

'No. She did not move her hands that were, even though it was a warm night, bitterly cold. 'No, you shouldn't. She smiled a little uncertainly. 'Why were you in the house?

'I wanted to find the records of the auctions. There must be records? Accounts? His voice tailed off, for she was nodding assent.

'There are. In London.

'London? In his disappointment he spoke too loudly, and she looked, fear on her face, towards the house. He lowered his voice. 'I thought Girdwood was taking them out of the drawer.

'He keeps some things there. Books, pistols. She shrugged. 'He said he'd been ordered to London, and I suppose he wanted the pistols for the road. What's happening?

He told her what he had done that day, how he had stripped Girdwood of his command. He did not tell her that he had no orders to take the camp under his authority. 'But I need those accounts.

'They're only here for the auctions. I write them and my uncle takes them back.

'You write them?

'My uncle makes me enter the figures. She left her hands in his and, in a low voice, told him of the money that had flowed through Foulness. Sir Henry Simmerson had made more than fifteen thousand pounds, Lord Fenner the same, and Lieutenant Colonel Girdwood about half. They had spent three thousand and eight hundred pounds for expenses. She smiled, as if at her own precision. 'They're in two big books, red leather books.

'Where?

'In my uncle's town house.

'Where in his house? Sharpe was wondering if his ancient skills would have to be put to a sterner test.

'I don't know. I don't go to London often.

'You don't go to London?

She heard the astonishment in his voice, as if he had expected her to dazzle London's society and as if that expectation had given him the irrational envy people feel about the undiscovered life of someone they desire. She stared at him. 'You don't understand, Mr Sharpe.

'I don't understand what?

She did not answer for a long time. The waves beat at the mudbanks behind Sharpe, water sucked and gurgled in the creek bed, then she pulled her hands free, rubbed her face, and began talking. 'My mother was the younger daughter. She married badly, at least that's what my uncle thinks. You see, my father was in trade. He was a saddler. He was successful, but it's still trade, isn't it? So I'm not well-born enough to go into society, and I'm not rich enough for society to come here. She gave the smile again, rueful and fast. 'Do you understand?

'But your brother…"

She nodded quickly, understanding the question. Her brother had presented the appearance of aristocratic birth and breeding; it had made him into a loud, arrogant, insensitive and elegant lout. 'Christian always wanted to be fashionable. He worked hard at it, Mr Sharpe. He aped the accent, the clothes, everything. And he inherited the money and lost most of it.

'Lost it?

'Horses, clothes. She shrugged. 'But I imagine he made a good soldier. She could not have been more wrong, though Sharpe said nothing. Jane pushed hair from her forehead. 'He wanted to go into the cavalry, but it was too expensive. We weren't rich. At least, not as rich as Christian would have liked. She said her parents had died eleven years before, when she had been thirteen, and she and her brother had come to this house where her mother's sister was Sir Henry's wife. Lady Simmerson was ill. Jane shrugged. 'Or so she says.

'What do you mean?

The quick smile again, shy and dazzling, and she looked behind her as though worried that a servant might be watching from the moon-glossed windows of the house. 'She doesn't leave her room, hardly her bed. She says she's ill. Do you think a person can be so very unhappy that they think they're ill?

'I don't know.

She looked at the table top. She pushed a leaf between two of the rough planks and he saw how the white cuff of her dress was darned with small, neat stitches. 'I don't think she wanted to marry my uncle, but women don't have a choice, really. She talked very softly, not just because she feared her voice carrying, but because she had never talked like this to anyone. She said she should have been married herself, two years before, but the man had lost his fortune and Sir Henry had called off the wedding.

'Who was he? Sharpe asked with a stab of jealousy.

'A man from Maldon. It's not far away. Now she had been told she was to marry Bartholomew Girdwood.

Told?

She gave her sudden, enchanting, mischievous smile, that always, Sharpe was noticing, left a residue of sadness on her face. 'I ran away when it was arranged. My uncle brought me back.

Sharpe wondered if that was why she had been in the carriage on the day when he and Harper were being marched as recruits to Foulness. 'Ran away?

'I have a cousin who married a vicar. Celia said I should come to them, but my uncle knows the man who owns the living, and you can imagine what happened. Doubtless Sir Henry had threatened the vicar with the loss of his parish and livelihood. She smiled at Sharpe. 'I wasn't much good at running away.