For a moment Sharpe thought he had misheard her, then he smiled. “You’d miss society,” he said.

“I hate society,” she said vehemently. “Vapid conversation, stupid people, endless rivalry. I shall be a recluse, Richard, with books from the floor to the ceiling.”

“And what will I do?”

“Make love to me,” she said, “and glower at the neighbors.”

“I reckon I could manage that,” Sharpe said, knowing it was a dream, except that all it would take was one man’s death to make the dream come true. “Is there a gunport in your husband’s cabin?” he asked, knowing he should not ask the question.

“Yes, why?”

“Nothing,” he said, but he had been wondering whether he could go into the cabin at night and overpower Lord William and heave him through the gunport, but then he dismissed the idea. Lord William’s cabin, like Sharpe’s, was under the poop and close to the ship’s wheel, and Sharpe doubted he could commit murder and dispose of the body without alerting the officer on watch. Even the creak of the opening gun-port would be too loud.

“He’s never ill,” Grace said on another afternoon when she had risked coming to Sharpe’s cabin. “He’s never ill.”

Sharpe knew what she was thinking and he was thinking it himself, but he doubted Lord William would have the decency to die of some convenient disease. “Perhaps he’ll be killed in the fight with the Revenant,” Sharpe said.

Grace smiled. “He’ll be down below, my love, safe beneath the water line.”

“He’s a man!” Sharpe said, surprised. “He’ll have to fight.”

“He’s a politician, my dear, and he assassinates, he does not fight. He will tell me his life is too precious to be risked, and he will really believe it! Though when we reach England he will modestly claim to have played a part in the Revenanfs defeat and I, like a loyal wife, will sit there and smile while the company admires him. He is a politician.”

Footsteps sounded outside the cabin, in the space behind the wheel and under the overhang of the poop. Sharpe listened apprehensively, expecting the steps to go away as they usually did, but this time they came right to his door. Grace clutched his hand, then shuddered as a knock sounded. Sharpe did not respond, then the bolted door shook as someone tried to force it open. “Who is it?” Sharpe called, pretending to have been asleep.

“Midshipman Collier, sir.”

“What do you want?”

“You’re wanted in the captain’s quarters, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll be there in a minute, Harry,” Sharpe said. His heart was racing.

“You should go,” Grace whispered.

Sharpe dressed, buckled his sword belt, leaned over to kiss her, then slipped out of the door. Chase was standing by the larboard shrouds, gazing at the dot on the horizon that was the Revenant. “You wanted me, sir?” Sharpe asked.

“Not me, Sharpe, not me,” Chase said. “It’s Lord William who wants you.

“Lord William?” Sharpe could not keep the surprise from his voice.

Chase raised an eyebrow as if to suggest that Sharpe had brought this trouble on himself, then jerked his head toward his dining cabin. Sharpe felt a rising panic, subdued it by telling himself Braithwaite had not left a damning letter, straightened his red coat, then went to the dining cabin’s door beneath the poop.

Lord William’s voice invited him to come in, Sharpe obeyed and was negligently waved toward a chair. Lord William was alone in the room, sitting at the long table which was covered with books and papers. He was writing, and the scratch of his pen seemed ominous. He wrote for a long time, ignoring Sharpe. The skylight above the table was open and the wind rustled the papers on the table. Sharpe stared at his lordship’s gray hair, not one out of place.

“I am writing a report,” Lord William broke the silence, making Sharpe jump with guilty surprise, “about the political situation in India.” He dipped the nib in an inkwell, drained it carefully, then wrote another sentence before placing the pen on a small silver stand. His cold eyes were pouchy and glassy, probably from the laudanum that he took each night, but they were still filled with their usual distaste for Sharpe. “I would not normally turn to a junior officer for assistance, but I have small choice under the present circumstances. I would like your opinion, Sharpe, on the fighting abilities of the Mahrattas.”

Sharpe felt a pang of relief. The Mahrattas! Ever since entering the cabin he had been thinking of Braithwaite and his claim to have written a damned letter, but all Lord William wanted was an opinion on the Mahrattas! “Brave men, my lord,” Sharpe said.

Lord William shuddered. “I suppose I deserve a vulgar opinion, since I requested it of you,” he said tartly, then steepled his fingers and looked at Sharpe over his well-manicured nails. “It is evident to me, Sharpe, that we must eventually take over the administration of the whole Indian continent. In time that will also become evident to the government. The major obstacles to that ambition are the remaining Mahratta states, particularly those governed by Holkar. Let me be specific. Can those states prevent us from annexing their territory?”

“No, my lord.”

“Be explicit, please.” Lord William had drawn a clean sheet of paper toward him and had the pen poised.

Sharpe took a deep breath. “They are brave men, my lord,” he said, risking an irritated glance, “but that ain’t enough. They don’t understand how to fight in our way. They think the secret is artillery, so what they do, sir, is line up all their guns in a great row and put the infantry behind them.”

“We don’t do that?” Lord William asked, sounding surprised.

“We put the guns at the sides of the infantry, sir. That way, if the other infantry attacks, we can rake them with crossfire. Kill more men that way, my lord.”

“And you,” Lord William said acidly as his pen raced over the paper, “are an expert on killing. Go on, Sharpe.”

“By putting their guns in front, sir, they give their own infantry the idea that they’re protected. And when the guns fall, sir, which they always do, the infantry lose heart. Besides, sir, our lads fire muskets a good deal faster than theirs, so once we’re past the guns it’s really just a matter of killing them.” Sharpe watched the pen scratch, waited until his lordship dipped it into the inkwell again. “We like to get close, my lord. They shoot volleys at a distance, and that’s no good. You have to march up close, very close, till you can smell them, then start firing.”

“You’re saying their infantry lack the discipline of ours?”

“They lack the training, sir.” He thought about it. “And no, they’re not as disciplined.”

“And doubtless,” Lord William said pointedly, “they do not use the lash. But what if their infantry was properly led? By Europeans?”

“It can be good then, sir. Our sepoys are as good, but the Mahrattas don’t take well to discioline. Thev’re raiders. Pirates. Thev hire infantry from other states, and a man never fights so well when he’s not fighting for his own. And it takes time, my lord. If you gave me a company of Mahrattas I’d want a whole year to get them ready. I could do it, but they wouldn’t like it. They’d rather be horsemen, my lord. Irregular cavalry.”

“So you do not think we need take Monsieur Vaillard’s errand to Paris too seriously?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lord.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Did you recognize Pohlmann, Sharpe?”

The question took Sharpe utterly by surprise. “No,” he blurted with too much indignation.

“Yet you must have seen him”—Lord William paused to sort through the papers—”at Assaye.” He found the name which, Sharpe suspected, he had never forgotten.

“Only through a telescope, my lord.”

“Only through a telescope.” Lord William repeated the words slowly. “Yet Chase assures me you were very certain in your identification of him. Why else would this man-of-war be racing through the Atlantic?”