It made more sense than her last story, but he knew this clever woman was a liar of practised fluency. ‘Why are you telling me?’
She did not answer the question, instead she asked if he had liked Major Montbrun. Sharpe shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
She propped herself on one elbow, the sheet falling to her waist. It was almost dark, and Sharpe lit the candle beside the bed. She leaned over him to light a fresh cigar from its flame and he reached up with his tongue to touch her breast. ‘Richard! Will you be serious?’
‘I am.’
‘Why do you think Montbrun was here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Christ! Think, you stupid bugger!’ She was half leaning over him. ‘Montbrun is one of Joseph’s men, and Joseph is King of Spain! He rather likes it, he likes being called ‘Your Majesty’! He doesn’t want to give up Spain. Even if we can keep a bit of Spain he’s got a kingdom, but now his brother’s planning to pull the throne out from underneath him and give it all back to Ferdinand. You understand?’
‘I understand. But why tell me?’
‘Because you’re going to stop it.’ She took a shred of tobacco from her lip and wiped it onto his chest. ‘You’re going to sign that parole and come with me. Then you’re going to escape. Montbrun will help, he knows about it. All that talk of crossing France was, for Raoul’s benefit. Instead we want you to escape.’ Her fingers were stroking his chest. ‘You go to Wellington. I’ll give you a letter and Montbrun will sign it.’ She was staring at his wide eyes. ‘You escape with our help, you go to Wellington, because if he makes a public announcement now then he can stop the treaty. No one will dare support it yet. Only Ferdinand can make the stupid bastards accept it, but if Arthur gets the Spanish to make an announcement now that it wouldn’t be accepted, then it will never get signed. So you stop it, do you understand?’
He frowned. ‘Why doesn’t Joseph stop the treaty?’
‘Because his brother will crucify him! They’re all scared of Napoleon. But if you tell Wellington, then no one can blame Joseph.’
‘Why don’t you just exchange me?’
She seemed exasperated by his questions. ‘We can’t. Ducos won’t allow it. He wants to parade you in Paris as proof of Britain’s bad faith. Besides, do you think we’d ever exchange someone like you?’
‘But you’ll let me escape.’
‘Because then Ducos loses. Because Joseph keeps a bit of Spain and gives me my wagons back!’ Her eyes flicked between his, judging him. ‘Montbrun will pay you, too.’
‘But didn’t you say the treaty would save France?’
‘Christ on the true cross! And I’ll be poor, and half of Joseph’s men will be ruined! We need this summer, Richard, that’s all! Besides, it was that bastard Ducos who arranged this, who had me arrested, who almost had you hanged! I want Ducos to be stood against the wall, I want that so badly, Richard, I can feel it in my guts. Next year they can make their god-damned treaty, but not now, not till Pierre Ducos is dead.’
‘And you want your money.’
‘I want that house.’
‘Lark pate and honey?’
‘And you can visit me from England. We’ll pay you, Richard. Two thousand guineas, in gold, or paper, or whatever. Just sign the parole and we do the rest.’ She watched him as he stood, as he walked naked to sit in the window. ‘Well?’
‘If I break my parole I have no honour.’
‘God spits on honour. Three thousand!’
He turned to her. She was leaning towards him, naked, her face alive with the moment. Her body, that was so beautiful, was lit and shadowed by the candle. He wondered if she felt anything when he embraced her. ‘You want me to sign away my honour?’
She threw the cigar at him. ‘For your country. For me! Anyway, it isn’t dishonourable!’
‘It isn’t?’
‘Montbrun misspelt your name on purpose. It’s not your parole.’
He turned away from her. Beneath him a carriage was coming into the courtyard between the strange piles of ammunition.
She heard it, swore, and began to dress. ‘Can you hook me up?’
‘Just about.’ He fumbled with his bandaged hand at the nape of her neck, then turned her. He looked into her eyes and she reached up and kissed him. ‘Do it for me, Richard. Finish Ducos and that bastard Inquisitor, and go back to your career.’ She put his hand on her breast and pressed it. ‘The war will be over in two or three years. Over! Come to me then. Promise me?’
She was more beautiful than a dream, more lovely than the stars in winter, softer than light. She kissed him, her lips warm. ‘Come to me when it’s all over.’
‘Come to you?’
She half smiled. She was heart-breakingly beautiful, and she whispered into his ear and her cheek was warm on his. ‘I love you, Richard. Do this for me and come to me.’
There was a knock on the door. She shouted at them to wait and dragged a hand over her hair. ‘Will you come to me?’
‘You know I will.’
She gestured at the parole. ‘Then sign, Richard. For both of us! Sign!’ She smiled at his nakedness, motioned him to stand behind the door, and then was gone into the night.
Sharpe drank steadily, his mood worsening. He was thinking of honour betrayed, of a woman who had promised herself to fulfil his wildest dream, of a treaty to expel Britain’s army from Spain. He had pulled on his overalls and jacket, lit more candles, and still he had not signed the parole.
He decided he was too drunk to sign the parole. Since Helene had left he had finished two bottles of wine.
He went to the table, amazed that he could stand upright, and took two bottles back to the window, reasoning that by carrying two he would save himself another complicated journey across the room when he had finished the first. The reasoning struck him as extremely clever. He was proud of it. He rested his head on the window bars. Somewhere a woman laughed, a low sound of pure pleasure, and he was jealous.
‘Helene.’ He said it aloud. ‘Helene, Helene, Helene.’
He drank more, not bothering with the glass. If he was to sign the parole, he thought, then he would be with her for a few days. Verigny could not be there all the time. They could make love in her carriage, the curtains drawn.
He would break his honour. He would break his parole. There would be no honour left to him if he did that, none.
Yet he would save Britain from defeat at the price of his honour. He could make Helene rich for his honour. And, by forcing failure onto Ducos, he could disgrace the man, maybe even, as Helene had said, have him stood against the wall and shot. All at the price of his honour.
He thought of Ducos and lifted the bottle against the night. ‘Bastard.’ He yawned hugely, drank more, and tried to concentrate his vision on a lit window of the keep, but it kept sliding diagonally up to the right. He frowned at it. Perhaps she meant it, he thought, perhaps she did love him. He sometimes thought she was a treacherous bitch, beautiful as hell, but even treacherous bitches had to love someone, didn’t they? He wondered if love was a sign of weakness, and then he thought that it was not, and then he could not remember what he was thinking and he drank more from the bottle.
He wondered if Antonia would like to have a French aristocrat as a stepmother. He drank to the thought. He drank to lark pate and honey and white wine and her body in his arms and her breath in his throat and he wished she was still here and he drank more wine because it might take away the loneliness because she had gone.
Beyond the window, to the north west, it seemed as if there-was a glow in the sky. He noticed it, frowned at it, and thought the glow in the sky might like to be toasted. He raised the bottle and drank. He felt sick. He thought he might feel better if he was sick, but he could not be bothered to go to the bucket that was decently hidden behind a wooden screen made from an old packing case. They had all laughed when Montbrun had used the
