A man and a woman were seated in the carriage which was driven by an Indian dressed in yellow and black livery. Two native footmen, arrayed in the same livery, now hurried to open the carriage door and unfold the steps, allowing the man, who was dressed in a white linen jacket, to step down to the pavement. A beggar immediately swung on short crutches and calloused stumps toward the carriage, but one of the footmen fended the man off with a sharp kick and the coachman completed the rout with his whip. The white-jacketed man was middle-aged and had a face that reminded Sharpe of Sir Arthur Wellesley. Maybe it was the prominent nose, or perhaps it was the cold and haughty look the man wore. Or perhaps it was just that everything about him, from his carriage to the liveried servants, spoke of privilege.

“Lord William Hale,” Chase said, investing every syllable with dislike.

“Never heard of him.”

“He’s on the Board of Control,” Chase explained, then saw Sharpe’s raised eyebrow. “Six men, Sharpe, who are appointed by the government to make certain that the East India Company doesn’t do anything foolish. Or rather that, if it does, no blame attaches itself to the government.” He looked sourly at Lord William who had paused to speak with the woman in the carriage. “That’s his wife and I’ve just brought the two of them from Calcutta so they could go home on the same convoy as yourself. You should pray they aren’t on the Calliope.”

Lord William was gray-haired and Sharpe assumed his wife would also be middle-aged, but when she lowered her white parasol Sharpe had a clear view of her ladyship and the breath was checked in his throat. She was much younger than Lord William, and her pale, slender face had a haunting beauty, almost a sadness, that struck Sharpe with the force of a bullet. He stared at her, entranced by her.

Chase smiled at Sharpe’s smitten expression. “She was born Grace de Laverre Gould, third daughter of the Earl of Selby. She’s twenty years younger than her husband, but just as cold.”

Sharpe could not take his eyes from her ladyship, for she was truly beautiful; breathtakingly, achingly, untouchably beautiful. Her face was pale as ivory, sharp-shadowed as she leaned toward her husband, and framed by heavy loops of black hair that were pinned to appear artless, but which even Sharpe could tell must have taken her maid an age to arrange. She did not smile, but just gazed solemnly into her husband’s face. “She looks sad rather than cold,” Sharpe said.

Chase mocked the wistfulness in Sharpe’s voice. “What does she have to be sad about? Her beauty is her fortune, Sharpe, and her husband is as rich as he is ambitious as he is clever. She’s on her way to being wife of the Prime Minister so long as Lord William doesn’t put a foot wrong and, believe me, he steps as lightly as a cat.”

Lord William concluded the conversation with his wife, then gestured for a footman to open Chase’s gate. “You might have taken a house with a carriage drive,” he admonished the naval captain as he strode up the short path. “It’s devilish annoying being pestered by beggars every time one makes a call.”

“Alas, my lord, we sailors are so inept on land. I cannot entice your wife to take some coffee?”

“Her ladyship is not well.” Lord William ran up the verandah steps, gave Sharpe a careless glance, then held a hand toward Chase as if expecting to be given something. He must have noted the blood that was still crusted in Chase’s fair hair, but he made no mention of it. “Well, Chase, can you settle?”

Chase reluctantly found the big leather bag which held the coins he had taken from Nana Rao and counted out a substantial portion that he gave to Lord William. His lordship shuddered at the thought of handling the grubby currency, but forced himself to take the money and pour it into his coat’s tail pockets. “Your note,” he said, and handed Chase a scrap of paper. “You haven’t received new orders, I suppose?”

“Alas no, my lord. We are still ordered to find the Revenant.”

“I was hoping you’d be going home instead. It is crucial I reach London quickly.” He frowned, then, without another word, turned away.

“You did not give me a chance, my lord,” Chase said, “to introduce my particular friend, Mister Sharpe.”

Lord William bestowed a second brief look at Sharpe and his lordship saw nothing to contradict his first opinion that the ensign was penniless and powerless, for he merely looked, calculated and glanced away without offering any acknowledgment, but in that brief meeting of eyes Sharpe had received an impression of force, confidence and arrogance. Lord William was a man who had more than his share of power, he wanted more and he would not waste time on those who had nothing to give him.

“Mister Sharpe served under Sir Arthur Wellesley,” Chase said.

“As did many thousands of others, I believe,” Lord William said carelessly, then frowned. “There is a service you can do me, Chase.”

“I am, of course, entirely at your lordship’s convenience,” Chase said politely.

“You have a barge and a crew?”

“All captains do,” Chase said.

“We must reach the Calliope. You could take us there?”

“Alas, my lord, I have promised Mr. Sharpe the barge,” Chase said, “but I am sure he will gladly share it with you. He too is bound for the Calliope.”

“I’d be happy to help,” Sharpe said.

Lord William’s expression suggested that Sharpe’s help was the last thing he would ever require. “We shall let our present arrangements stand,” he told Chase and, wasting no more time, stalked away.

Chase laughed softly. “Share a boat with you, Sharpe? He’d rather sprout wings and fly.”

“I wouldn’t mind sharing a boat with her,” Sharpe said, staring at the Lady Grace who was gazing fixedly ahead as a score of beggars whimpered a safe distance from the coachman’s stinging whip.

“My dear Sharpe,” Chase said, watching the carriage draw away, “you will be sharing that lady’s company for at least four months and I doubt you will even see her. Lord William claims she suffers from delicate nerves and is averse to company. I had her on board the Pucelle for near a month and might have seen her twice. She sticks to her cabin, or else walks the poop at night when no one can accost her, and I will wager you a month of your wages to a year of mine that she will not even know your name by the time you reach England.”

Sharpe smiled. “I don’t wager.”

“Good for you,” Chase said. “Like a fool I played too much whist in the last month. I promised my wife I wouldn’t plunge heavily, and God punished me for it. Dear me, what a fool I am! I played almost every night between Calcutta and here and lost a hundred and seventy guineas to that rich bastard. My own fault,” he admitted ruefully, “and I won’t succumb again.” He reached out to touch the wood of the table top as if he did not trust his own resolve. “But cash is always short, isn’t it? I’ll just have to capture the Revenant and earn myself some decent prize money.”

“You’ll manage that,” Sharpe said comfortingly.

Chase smiled. “I do hope so. I fervently hope so, but once in a while, Sharpe, the damned Frogs throw up a real seaman and the Revenant is in the hands of Capitaine Louis Montmorin. He’s good, his men are good and his ship is good.”

“But you’re British,” Sharpe said, “so you must be better.”

“Amen to that,” Chase said, “amen.” He wrote his English address on a scrap of paper, then insisted on walking Sharpe to the fort where the ensign collected his pack, after which the two men went past the still smoking ruins of Nana Rao’s warehouse to the quay where Chase’s barge waited. The naval captain shook Sharpe’s hand. “I remain entirely in your debt, Sharpe.”

“You’re making too much of it, sir.”

Chase shook his head. “I was a fool last night, and if it hadn’t been for you I’d be looking an even greater fool this morning. I am beholden to you, Sharpe, and shall not forget it. We’ll meet again, I’m sure of it.”