'Are you frightened of Sir Henry?

She thought about it, her hands linked on the table top, then nodded. 'Yes. But most of the time he's in London. He's only here for a few days at a time. She looked out over the moon-washed marshes to where, now at its height, the tide was pushing waves across the drowned mudflats in shimmering, silver sheets that broke in small, bright spurts of foam where they met the river's push. 'So here I am. I'm a companion to my aunt, I talk with the housekeeper, and sometimes, when my uncle's at home, I have to be a hostess for his dinners. She smiled. 'That means soldier's talk.

'Girdwood?

'He's always here. She said it with a rueful laugh. 'My uncle likes him. They talk for hours and hours about battles and tactics? She made the last word into a question as though she was not accustomed to using it. 'But I suppose all soldiers do that?

He shook his head. 'Most of the soldiers I know talk about what they're going to do when the war ends. They want to own a piece of land. I think they dream of never seeing a uniform again.

'And you?

He laughed. 'I don't know what I'll do. He remembered his sad thoughts as he had sat on the pool's parapet in the Vauxhall Gardens, his drab presentiments of a soldier in peacetime.

She sighed. 'You need the books badly?

'Yes. I have to have proof, you see.

'Yes. She nodded. 'I want to help you, but it's hard.

'Hard? He wanted to take her hands once more, but was uncertain whether the gesture would be welcomed. Her head was lowered, and the moonlight cast the shadows of her eyelashes in long, thin lines down her cheeks that abruptly vanished as she looked up at him.

'I can take the risk, you see. I can try to find them for you. I would like to do that, really. But I shall be punished.

'Sir Henry?

'He beats me. She was not looking at him, but across the marshland to the small waves.

'He beats you?

'Yes. She said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. 'He let Girdwood watch the last time, because he thought the Colonel should know how to treat a wife. He uses a cane. He doesn't do it often; not very often, anyway. She gave a small laugh, as though indicating that she was not seeking his pity. Sharpe felt inadequate to say anything, and kept silent. She shook her head. 'There are marks on his study walls. He thrashes, you see, and the cane scratches the plaster. He gets very angry. The last words were said limply, as though she could not truly describe the beatings. In the silence that followed her words Sharpe heard a clock chiming in the house. He counted ten beats and, when they were done, she looked up at him. 'What happens if you don't have the books?

He did not know. Everything he had planned for these next few days depended on the accounts. He had been so sure that they would be here, that he could ambush Girdwood and take them, and then march the men to Chelmsford where the Battalion would wait. He had planned to send d'Alembord to the Rose Tavern, but without the books he had no proof. He had nothing. He looked into her huge eyes, shining with reflected moonlight, and he let his gaze linger on the shadows beneath her cheekbones and on her neck. He smiled. 'Do you remember that you gave your brother a locket with your picture inside?

'Yes. She sounded surprised.

'I wore it after his death.

She smiled shyly, knowing the message he was giving her, yet not sure what to say in return. She looked down at the table. 'Do you still have it?

'I was taken prisoner earlier this year. A Frenchman has it now. Sharpe had worn it as a talisman, as all soldiers have talismans against death. 'I expect he wonders who you are.

She smiled at the thought, then looked up at him. 'I want you to have the books. She said it hurriedly. 'But I'm afraid. She was scared because, once Sharpe had the books and his victory, she would be left to her uncle's revenge.

Sharpe touched her hands again. It seemed, at that moment, as brave an act as climbing the blood-slicked breach at Badajoz. 'Why do you want to help me?

She gave the quick, mischievous smile. 'I never forgot you. She said it very softly. 'I sometimes think that it's because my uncle hates you so much. If you were his enemy, you had to be my friend? She inflected the last word as a question, then gave a low laugh. 'He envies you.

'Envies?

'He'd like to be a big, brave soldier! she said scornfully. 'What did happen to him in Spain?

'He ran away.

She laughed. Her hands were still in his, unmoving. 'He always talks about it as if he was a hero. Did Christian take that Eagle?

'He was close.

'Meaning he didn't?

'Not really.

She shook her head, as if remembering all her uncle's lies. 'I've always wanted to see Spain. There was a girl from Prittlewell who married an artillery Major. She went to Spain with him. Marjory Beller? Do you know her?

He shook his head. 'No. But there are a lot of officers' wives there.

She was silent for a long time. She looked down at his hands that were still on her hands. 'I could go to London, but I'd need some money. I know some of the servants in his house because they visit us here. I could perhaps find the books.

He said nothing. There were too many uncertainties in her words for Sharpe's peace of mind and, though his spirit soared that she wished to help him, he feared too for the punishment that she risked.

She bit her lip. 'But what if I can't find them?

'I'll have to think of something else. He said it lightly, yet without the proof he had nothing. He could perhaps order Captain Smith and the other officers to write their confessions, but then he remembered Lady Camoynes' words; what hope did such witnesses have against the evidence of peers and politicians and men of high standing? Sharpe, without the account books, needed allies of equal weight, and suddenly that thought, the thought of allies, gave him an outrageous, wonderful, impossible idea. The idea, that rose like a great sheet of flame in the darkness of his head, was so splendid that he smiled and gripped her hands hard. 'I don't need them, truly!

'You don't?

The idea was seething in him, making his words tumble out. 'It would be wonderful to have them. It would make things easy. But if not? I can manage.

'But it would be helpful to have them? She said it earnestly and he realised, suddenly, that this girl wanted to help him.

'Yes, of course.

'Would you like me to try for you?"

He nodded, 'Yes.

'How do I find you?

'Next Saturday. He took one hand from hers and pulled some guineas from his pouch that he put on the table. 'Do you know Hyde Park Gate? Where Piccadilly ends? She nodded. He pushed the coins towards her. ‘I’ll be there at midday, and if you have the books then we'll beat them, but if not? We'll still win!

She smiled at the enthusiasm in him, the sheer, sudden hope that had given him energy. She stirred the ten coins with her finger. ‘I’ll be there. I'll bring the accounts.

'And no one will punish you. He held her hands tight. 'I have money, more than enough. For a moment he was tempted to tell her about Vitoria, about that battlefield of gold and jewels, of silks and pearls. 'You can go where you like. You can run away.

She laughed. Her eyes were bright on his. 'I'm not very good at running away.

He stared at her, overwhelmed by her face, by a beauty that was precious and rare, and he thought of all the things he had wanted to say to her, had dreamed over the years of saying, and suddenly knew that now they must be said, or, perhaps, never be said at all. Sharpe had often taken risks, he had often, on the spur of a sudden thought, and without thinking of consequences, done things on a battlefield that had made his name famous in Wellington's army. He had climbed a breach where hundreds lay dead, acting on the snatched opportunity because the thought led instantly to the deed and, though caution was wise in soldiering, hesitation was fatal. Yet now, when he spoke, listening with astonishment to his words, he thought he was taking a risk greater than any he had chanced in Spain. 'Then you must marry me.