“My husband is a poor sailor,” Lady Grace said calmly.

“And you, my lady, are not?” Pohlmann asked.

“I like the sea,” she said, almost indignantly. “I have always liked the sea.”

Cromwell laughed. “They say, my lady, that those who would go to sea for pleasure would visit hell as a pastime.”

She shrugged, as if what others said made no difference to her. Major Dalton took up the burden of the conversation. “Have you ever been seasick, Sharpe?”

“No, sir, I’ve been lucky.”

“Me neither,” Dalton said. “My mother always believed beefsteak was a specific against the condition.”

“Beefsteak, fiddlesticks,” Cromwell growled. “Only rum and oil will serve.”

“Rum and oil?” Pohlmann asked with a grimace.

“You force a pint of rum down the patient’s throat and follow it with a pint of oil. Any oil will do, even lamp oil, for the patient will void it utterly, but next day he’ll feel lively as a trivet.” Cromwell turned a jaundiced eye on Lady Grace. “Should I send the rum and oil to your cabin, my lady?”

Lady Grace did not even bother to reply. She gazed at the paneling where a small oil painting of an English country church swayed to the ship’s motion.

“So how long will this storm last?” Mathilde asked in her accented English.

“Storm?” Cromwell cried. “You think this is a storm? This, ma’am, is nothing but a blow. Nothing but a morsel of wind and rain that will do no harm to man or ship. A storm, ma’am, is violent, violent! This is gentle to what we might meet off the Cape.”

No one had the stomach for a dessert of suet and currants, so instead Pohlmann suggested a hand of whist in his cabin. “I have some fine brandy, Captain,” he said, “and if Major Dalton is willing to play we can make a foursome? I know Sharpe won’t play.” He indicated himself and Mathilde as the other players, then smiled at Lady Grace. “Unless I could persuade you to play, my lady?”

“I don’t,” she said in a tone suggesting that Pohlmann had invited her to wallow in his vomit. She stood, somehow managing to stay graceful despite the lurching of the ship, and the men immediately pushed their chairs back and stepped aside to let her leave the cabin.

“Stay and finish your wine, Sharpe,” Pohlmann said, leading his whist players out.

Sharpe was left alone in the cuddy. He finished his wine, then fetched the decanter from its metal frame on the sideboard, and poured himself another glass. Night had fallen and the frigate, anxious that the convoy should not scatter in the darkness, was firing a gun every ten minutes. Sharpe told himself he would stay for three guns, then make his way into the fetid hold and try to sleep.

Then the door opened and Lady Grace came back into the cuddy.

She had a scarf about her neck, hiding the pearls and the smooth white skin of her shoulders. She gave Sharpe an unfriendly glance and ignored his awkward greeting. Sharpe expected her to leave straightaway, assuming she had merely come to fetch something she had left in the cuddy, but to his surprise she sat in Cromwell’s chair and frowned at him. “Sit down, Mister Sharpe.”

“Some wine, my lady?”

“Sit down,” she said firmly.

Sharpe sat at the opposite end of the table. The empty brass chandelier swung from the beam, reflecting flashes of the candlelight that came from the two shielded lanterns on the bulkheads. The nickering flames accentuated the high bones of Lady Grace’s face. “How well do you know the Baron von Dornberg?” she asked abruptly.

Sharpe blinked, surprised by the question. “Not well, my lady.”

“You met him in India?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where?” she demanded peremptorily. “How?”

Sharpe frowned. He had promised not to give away Pohlmann’s identity, so he would need to treat Lady Grace’s insistence tactfully. “I served with a Company exploring officer for a while, ma’am,” he said, “and he frequently rode behind enemy lines. That’s when I met P-the baron.” He thought for a second or two. “I maybe met him four times, perhaps five?”

“Which enemy?”

“The Mahrattas, ma’am.”

“So he was a friend to the Mahrattas?”

“I imagine so, ma’am.”

She stared at him as if she was weighing the truth of his words. “He seems very attached to you, Mister Sharpe.”

Sharpe almost swore as the wine glass slid away from him and fell over the fiddle. The glass smashed on the floor, splashing wine across the canvas rug. “I did him a service, ma’am, the last time we met. It was after a fight.”

“He was on the other side?” she interrupted him.

“He was with the other side, ma’am,” Sharpe said carefully, disguising the truth that Pohlmann had been the general commanding the other side. “And he was caught up in the rout. I could have captured him, I suppose, but he didn’t seem to pose any harm, so I let him go. He’s grateful for that, I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” she said, and seemed about to stand.

“Why, ma’am?” Sharpe asked, hoping she would stay.

She relaxed warily, then stared at him for a long time, evidently considering whether to answer, then let go of the table and shrugged. “You heard the captain’s conversation with the baron tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“They appear as strangers to each other?”

“Indeed they do,” Sharpe agreed, “and Cromwell told me as much himself.”

“Yet almost every night, Mister Sharpe, they meet and talk. Just the two of them. They come in here after midnight and sit across the table from each other and talk. And sometimes the baron’s manservant is here with them.” She paused. “I frequently find it hard to sleep and if the night is fine I will go on deck. I hear them through the skylight. I don’t eavesdrop,” she said acidly, “but I hear their voices.”

“So they know each other a great deal better than they pretend?” Sharpe said.

“So it would seem,” she answered.

“Odd, ma’am,” Sharpe said.

She shrugged as if to suggest that Sharpe’s opinion was of no interest to her. “Perhaps they merely play backgammon,” she said distantly.

She again looked as though she would leave and Sharpe hurried to keep the conversation going. “The baron did tell me he might go to live in France, ma’am.”

“Not London?”

“France or Hanover, he said.”

“But you can hardly expect him to confide in you,” she said scornfully, “on the basis of your very slight acquaintance.” She stood.

Sharpe pushed back his chair and hurried to open the door. She nodded thanks for his courtesy, but a sudden wave heaved the Calliope and made Lady Grace stagger and Sharpe instinctively put a hand out to check her and the hand encircled her waist and took her weight so that she was leaning against him with her face just inches from his. He felt a terrible desire to kiss her and he knew she would not object for, though the ship steadied, she did not step away. Sharpe could feel her slender waist beneath the soft material of her dress. His mind was swimming because her eyes, so large and serious, were on his, and once again, as he had the very first time he glimpsed her, he sensed a melancholy in her face, but then the quarterdeck door banged open and Cromwell’s steward swore as he carried a tray toward the cuddy. Lady Grace twisted from Sharpe’s arm and, without a word, went through the door.

“Raining buckets, it is,” the steward said. “A bloody fish would drown on deck, I tell you.”

“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, “bloody hell.” He picked the decanter up by the neck, tipped it to his mouth and drained it.

The wind and rain stayed high throughout the night. Cromwell had shortened sail at nightfall and those few passengers who braved the deck at dawn found the Calliope plunging beneath low dark clouds from which black squalls hissed across a white-capped sea. Sharpe, lacking a greatcoat, and unwilling to soak his coat or shirt, went on deck bare-chested. He turned toward the quarterdeck and respectfully bowed his head in acknowledgment of the unseen captain, then half ran and half walked toward the forecastle where the breakfast burgoo waited to be fetched. He found a group of sailors at the galley, one of them the gray-haired commander of number five gun, who greeted Sharpe with a tobacco-stained grin. “We’ve lost the convoy, sir.”