He turned away, unable to resist a grin. The Baron von Dornberg was no baron, and Sharpe doubted he had traded for any diamonds, no matter how many he carried, for von Dornberg was a rogue. His true name was Anthony Pohlmann and he had once been a sergeant in the Hanoverian army before he deserted for the richer service of an Indian prince, and his talent for war had brought him ever swifter promotion until, for a time, he had led a Mahratta army that was feared throughout central India. Then, one hot day, his forces met a much smaller British army between two rivers at a village called Assaye, and there, in an afternoon of dusty heat and red-hot guns and bloody slaughter, Anthony Pohlmann’s army had been shredded by sepoys and Highlanders. Pohlmann himself had vanished into the mystery of India, but now he was here on the Calliope as a celebrated passenger.

“How did you meet him?” Braithwaite demanded.

“Can’t remember now,” Sharpe said vaguely. “Somewhere or other. Can’t really remember.” He turned to stare at the shore. The land was black now, punctured by sparks of firelight and outlined by a gray sky smeared with a city’s smoke. He wished he was back there, but then he heard Pohlmann’s loud voice and turned to see the German introducing his woman to Lady Grace Hale.

Sharpe stared at her ladyship. She was above him, on the quarterdeck, seemingly oblivious of the folk crowded on the main deck below. She offered Pohlmann a limp hand, inclined her head to the fair-haired woman and then, without a word, turned regally away. “That is Lady Grace,” Braithwaite told Sharpe in an awed voice.

“Someone told me she was ill?” Sharpe suggested.

“Merely highly strung,” Braithwaite said defensively. “Very fine-strung women are prone to fragility, I think, and her ladyship is fine-strung, very fine-strung indeed.” He spoke warmly, unable to take his eyes from Lady Grace, who stood watching the receding shore.