Which only left the missing men as an embarrassment, yet what damage could they cause? They knew nothing. The officers might, at risk of punishment, admit to taking money, but not one of them could prove that Lord Fenner was involved, for his Lordship had taken great care to stay deep in the shadows, letting others show themselves and earn the money he craved so badly. No one, apart from Simmerson and Girdwood knew the extent of his involvement. Only Sharpe, outside of Foulness, was a danger to his Lordship, and without these account books Sharpe was helpless.

And Major Sharpe would be silenced. If the Prince of Wales insisted that he be retained in the army, then Lord Fenner would accept Sir William Lawford's proposal and send Sharpe to the war in America as a Rifle officer. Fenner smiled at the thought. 'We'll let the Americans kill him, eh?

Simmerson shrugged. 'The Fever Islands would be a preferable solution, my Lord. Or the Australias.

There was even a chance, Lord Fenner thought optimistically, that Sharpe could be quietly arrested, disposed of without public knowledge, and the men sent back to Foulness. The crimping had been more profitable than he had ever dared hope and it would be hard to give up that income. Sir William Lawford, of course, would have to be bribed into silence, but Lord Fenner was confident that Sir William would eagerly snap at office. Lord Fenner, though incommoded by Major Richard Sharpe, felt confident. He picked up the leather bag and pushed the carriage door open. 'I trust you will enjoy the day, Sir Henry.

'I wish the same of you, sir.

Fenner did not go directly back to the Royal stand. Instead he went to the Ring where his carriage was parked. He gave the bag to his manservant. 'Take it to the house.

'Yes, my Lord.

'Tell the steward to burn it. He turned away. The evidence was destroyed, he was safe, and he would endure this tomfoolery in the park before returning to his town house to which, as his Lordship felt the need to prove his mastery of his world, he had summoned the Lady Camoynes to an early supper. And once she was used, he thought, there was the Prince's reception to attend. Lord Fenner, secure from scandal, had much to look forward to, but most of all he relished, with a piquant pleasure, the prospect of punishing Major Richard Sharpe for his damned insolence. He smiled, then took his seat once more in the Royal stand. The Review was about to begin.

The assembly area for the troops being reviewed and who would, afterwards, perform their careful restaging of the battle of Vitoria, was to the north of the park. They would march past the Royal reviewing stand once, form up to the south by the King's private road, then march back with all bands playing behind the trophies that had been captured in Spain. The Eagles, eight of them, were to be carried in replicas of Roman chariots. They would follow the captured guns, going close to the Prince, circle to the north, then ride past the common folk in their enclosure. Some troops, men of the Middlesex militia, would stay to the south during the parade of trophies. Their task, eventually, was to play the role of the defeated French army.

At nine o'clock, long before Lord Fenner arrived, a young man in good country clothes had ridden into the assembly area. He looked, for all the world, like a squire's son, down for the season in London, and he cheerfully asked if anyone could direct him to Captain William Frederickson. No one could, for the Captain was in the Pyrenees, but the young man, so impressed by the officers' uniforms, seemed a welcome, if naive, admirer. He brought, too, a fine flask of brandy, and he chatted amiably with the junior officers, wished them joy of the day, and left when he had discovered the answers to all the questions Sharpe had posed to him.

'Well? Sharpe greeted Price.

Lieutenant Price, changing out of a broadcloth coat into his red jacket, described the timetable of the day, the assembly areas, and gave the names of the parade's marshals.

Sharpe's moment was close now, and the fear was rising in him like vomit. He clung to the desperate, foolish hope that Jane Gibbons might yet have rescued the ledgers, might yet be waiting in the park, but he knew such a hope was desperate. He must do what he had planned, and he must do it as if he knew he would win, for the soldier wins who believes in victory. Yet, victory or not, he would protect one man from defeat.

He went to Sergeant Major Harper. 'This is for you.

Harper took the paper Sharpe gave him. 'What is it, sir?

'A discharge. It says you were wounded at Vitoria.

Harper frowned. 'What would I want a discharge for?

'Because, Patrick, either we're on our way to Spain tomorrow, or I'm in jail.

'They won't jail you.

'They will if they can. If it goes wrong, Patrick, get the hell out of it.

'Run all over bloody Hyde Park with the Household Cavalry chasing me? Harper laughed. 'Here. He handed the discharge back.

'Keep it, and good luck.

Sharpe reviewed his troops, his tattered, march-soiled troops, and, as the sun rose higher in a cloudless sky, he marched them south, through the leafy lanes from Hampstead towards London, and towards failure or the invasion of France.

The bands thumped and jangled, crashing out the good tunes of the army, and the troops marched in columns of half Companies past the Prince who, delighted by it all, raised a plump, gloved hand to answer their salutes. The swords of mounted officers flashed up as they rode past him, the Household Cavalry went by in a splendid jingle of curb chains with plumes tossing above their burnished helmets.

In front of the Royal stand, in three ranks, stood two Companies of Foot Guards; the Royal bodyguard. Eight mounted officers flanked the line, carefully placed where their height would not obstruct the royal view.

The Horse Artillery went past at such a pace that the earth seemed to thunder with their passing. Behind them, at a far more sedate trot, came a troop of Rocket Cavalry, the sticks of their curious weapons jutting up like sheafs of lances. The sight of them reminded the Prince that it had been Major Sharpe who had first proved their use against the French army, a use that the Prince had forecast and supported, and he twisted heavily in his chair to look for Lord John Rossendale. 'Sharpe here?

'No, sir.

'Deuced odd! The Prince looked at his brother, the Commander in Chief of the Army. 'Got any of those fireworks in Spain, Freddy?

The Duke of York did, but only at his brother's insistence. Like the rest of the army, he believed rockets to be a dangerous, mad invention. 'A few, he grunted.

'Wish we could fire one now.

'You can't. London's too valuable.

The Prince laughed. He was having a fine time, dressed in his uniform and imagining that he was about to lead these splendid men into battle. He sometimes dreamed that Napoleon invaded England and no general was conveniently at hand, and so, mounted on his horse, the Prince himself led the Household troops to meet the Tyrant. He won, of course, and brought Napoleon caged to London. It was a fine dream. The cheers would ring in his head. 'Who's this? He waved towards a Battalion of infantry that came behind the Rocket Troop.

Lord John Rossendale bent forward. 87th, sir, First Battalion. One of yours.

'Mine?

'Prince of Wales' Own Irish, sir.

'Splendid! He waved at them. 'Well done! Well done! He turned back to Rossendale. 'How many Regiments do I have?

'One of Dragoon guards, sir, two of Light Dragoons, and three Regiments of the line.

The Prince heaved himself closer to his aide and dropped his voice so that he could only be heard five tiers away. 'And how many has he got? He stuck a thumb towards his brother.