fear that is check, Your Excellency. Doubtless by next week you will confound me.”
The ambassador courteously walked Duff to the sedan chair waiting in the courtyard. “If they publish more,” Wellesley said, holding an umbrella over the consul as they approached the chair, “I shall have to resign.”
“It will not come to that, I’m sure,” Duff said unconvincingly.
“But if it does, Duff, you’ll have to shoulder my burden till a new man arrives.”
“I pray you remain in office, Your Excellency.”
“As do I, Duff, as do I.”
Some kind of answer to the ambassador’s prayers came on the fourth day after the fire rafts had been destroyed. Sharpe was in the stables where he struggled to keep his bored men busy by repairing the stable roof, a job they hated, but a better occupation than being drunk. Lord Pumphrey’s servant found Sharpe handing tiles to Rifleman Slattery. “His Lordship requests your attendance, sir,” the servant said, eyeing Sharpe’s dirty overalls with distaste, “as soon as possible, sir,” the servant added.
Sharpe pulled on Captain Plummer’s old black jacket, donned a cloak, and followed the servant through the city’s maze of alleys. He discovered Lord Pumphrey in the middle balcony of the church of San Felipe Neri. The church was an oval-shaped chamber with a floor tiled in bold black and white, above which three balconies punctuated the domed ceiling from which hung a tremendous chandelier that was unlit, but thick with stalactites of candle wax. The church was now home to the Cortes, the Spanish parliament, and the upper balcony, known as paradise, was where the public could listen to the speeches being given below. The middle balcony was for grandees, churchmen, and diplomats, while the lowest was where the deputies’ families and friends gathered.
The church’s huge altar had been draped in a white cloth, in front of which a portrait of Spain’s king, now a prisoner in France, was displayed where the crucifix normally stood. In front of the concealed altar the president of the Cortes sat at a long table flanked by a pair of rostrums. The deputies were in three rows of chairs facing him. Sharpe slid onto the bench beside Lord Pumphrey who was listening to a speaker haranguing the church in shrill, passionate tones, but was plainly being dull, for deputies were slipping away from their chairs and hurrying out of the church’s main door. “He is explicating,” Lord Pumphrey whispered to Sharpe, “the crucial role played by the Holy Spirit in the governance of Spain.”
A priest turned and scowled at Pumphrey who smiled and waggled his fingers at the offended man. “It is a pity,” His Lordship said, “that they’ve draped the altar. It possesses a quite exquisite painting of the Immaculate Conception. It’s by Murillo and the cherubs are enchanting.”
“Cherubs?”
“Plump little darlings that they are,” Lord Pumphrey said, leaning back. He smelled of rosewater today, though thankfully he had resisted wearing his velvet beauty patch and was soberly dressed in plain black broadcloth. “I do think cherubs improve a church, don’t you?” The priest turned and demanded silence and Lord Pumphrey raised an eyebrow in exasperation, then plucked Sharpe’s elbow and led him around the balcony until they were directly above the altar and so facing the three rows where the remaining deputies sat. “Second row back,” Pumphrey whispered, “right-hand side, four chairs in. Behold the enemy.”
Sharpe saw a tall thin man in a dark blue uniform. He had a stick propped between his knees and he looked bored for his head was tilted back and his eyes were closed. His right hand opened and closed repeatedly over the stick’s head. “Admiral the Marquis de Cardenas,” Lord Pumphrey said.
“The enemy?”
“He has never forgiven us for Trafalgar. We lamed him there and took him prisoner. He was well enough looked after in a very decent house in Hampshire, but he hates us all the same and that, Sharpe, is the man rumored to be paying El Correo de Cadiz. Do you have a spyglass?”
“Mine’s at the embassy,” Sharpe said.
“Fortunately I possess all the essential accoutrements of a spy,” Lord Pumphrey said and gave Sharpe a small telescope with an outer barrel sheathed in mother-of-pearl. “You might care to look at the admiral’s coat?”
Sharpe opened the glass and trained the lens, focusing it on the admiral’s blue jacket. “What am I looking at?”
“The horns,” Lord Pumphrey said, and Sharpe edged the glass right and saw one of the horned brooches pinned to the dark cloth. The mark of el Cornudo, the enemy’s mocking badge. Then he raised the glass and saw that the admiral’s eyes were now open and were staring straight up at him. A hard face, Sharpe thought, hard and knowing and vengeful. “What do we do about the admiral?” he asked Lord Pumphrey.
“Do?” Pumphrey asked. “We do nothing, of course. He’s an honored man, a deputy, a hero of Spain and, publicly at least, a valued ally. In truth he’s a sour creature, animated by hatred, who is probably negotiating with Bonaparte. I suspect that, but I can’t prove it.”
“You want me to murder the bastard?”
“That would certainly improve diplomatic relations between Britain and Spain, wouldn’t it?” Pumphrey asked tartly. “Why didn’t I think of doing that? No, Richard, I do not want you to murder the bastard.”
The admiral had summoned a servant and now whispered to him, pointing up at Sharpe as he did. The servant hurried away and Sharpe collapsed the glass. “What did you say his name was?”
“The Marquis de Cardenas. He owns much land in the Guadiana valley.”
“We met his mother,” Sharpe said, “and she’s a wicked old bitch. Well in bed with the French too.”
“Literally?”
“No. But they haven’t plundered her estate. And she summoned them when we arrived. Tried to have us taken prisoner. Bitch.”
“Like mother like son,” Pumphrey said, “and you’re not to murder him. We must frustrate his knavish tricks, of course, but we must do it without anybody noticing. You look very dirty.”
“We’re mending the stable roof.”
“That is hardly an officer’s occupation.”
“Nor is getting back blackmailer’s letters,” Sharpe said, “but I’m doing it.”
“Ah, the messenger, I suspect,” Lord Pumphrey said. He was looking at a man who had come onto the balcony and was sidling behind the benches toward them. The man wore the same small horned badge as the admiral.
“Messenger?” Sharpe asked.
“I was told to wait here. We are to have a meeting to discuss the purchase of the letters. I was afraid you would not arrive on time.” Pumphrey went silent as the man edged behind him, then leaned down to His Lordship’s ear. He spoke briefly and too quietly for Sharpe to hear, then moved on toward the balcony’s second door.
“There is a coffeehouse opposite the church,” Lord Pumphrey said, “and an envoy will meet us there. Shall we go?”
They followed the messenger down the stairs, emerging on the ground floor into a small antechamber where the admiral now stood. The Marquis de Cardenas was very tall and very thin and had a black wooden leg. He leaned on an ebony stick. Lord Pumphrey gave him a low and exquisite bow, which the admiral returned with a stiff nod before turning on his heel and limping back into the church. “Bugger’s not bothering to hide from us,” Sharpe said.
“He has won, Sharpe,” Lord Pumphrey said. “He has won, and he gloats.”
The wind was gusting in the narrow street, snatching at Lord Pumphrey’s hat as he hurried through the cold drizzle to the coffeehouse. There were a dozen tables inside, most of which were taken by men who all seemed to be talking at once. They shouted at one another, ignored one another, and gesticulated extravagantly. One, to emphasize his argument, tore a newspaper into shreds and scattered the pieces on the table, then leaned back triumphantly. “The deputies of the Cortes,” Lord Pumphrey explained. He looked around him, but saw no one who was obviously waiting and so threaded the noisy crowd to take one of the empty tables at the back of the cafe.
“Other chair, my lord,” Sharpe said.
“You’re fussy?”
“I want to face the door.”
Lord Pumphrey dutifully moved and Sharpe sat with his back against the wall. A girl took an order for coffee
