“He gave me a very fine telescope, sir,” Sharpe said.
“Doubtless one that had been given to him,” Henry Wellesley suggested, “and that he didn’t want?”
“I’m sure that’s not true, sir,” Sharpe said.
Wellesley smiled. “My brother has many virtues, but the ability to express sentiment is not among them. If it is any consolation, Sharpe, he has frequently expressed his admiration of your qualities.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sharpe said awkwardly.
The ambassador sighed, suggesting that the pleasantest part of the conversation was now done. He hesitated, as if looking for words, then opened a drawer and found a small object that he tossed across the desk’s leather top. It was one of the horned brooches. “Know what that is, Sharpe?”
“I’m afraid I do, sir.”
“I rather thought Willie Russell would tell you. And how about this?” He pushed a newspaper across the desk. Sharpe picked it up, saw it was called El Correo de Cádiz, but the light was too dark and the print too small to attempt to read the ill-printed sheet. He put the paper down. “Have you seen that?” the ambassador asked.
“No, sir.”
“It appeared on the streets today and it purports to print a letter I am supposed to have sent to a lady. In the letter I tell her that the British plan to annex Cádiz and make it into a second Gibraltar. It does not name me, but in a city as small as Cádiz it hardly needs to. And I need hardly tell you that His Majesty’s government has no designs on Cádiz either.”
“So the letter’s a forgery, sir?” Sharpe asked.
Henry Wellesley paused. “Not entirely,” he said cautiously. He was not looking at Sharpe now, but had twisted in his chair to stare into the dark garden. He drew on his cigar. “I imagine Willie Russell told you of my circumstances?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So I shall not describe them further except to say that some months ago I met a lady here and was persuaded that she was of gentle birth. She came from the Spanish colonies and assured me her father was wealthy, respectable indeed, but he was not. And before I discovered that truth I was foolish enough to express my sentiments in letters.” He paused, still staring through the open window, waiting for Sharpe to speak, but Sharpe was silent. “The letters were stolen from her,” the ambassador went on, “and it was not her fault.” He turned and gazed at Sharpe defiantly, as if he half expected Sharpe to disbelieve him.
“And the thief, sir, tried to blackmail you?”
“Exactly,” Henry Wellesley said. “The wretch made an arrangement to sell the letters to me, but my envoy was murdered. He and his two companions. The money, of course, vanished and the letters are now in the hands of our political enemies.” Wellesley spoke bitterly and gave the newspaper a blow with his hand. “You must understand, Sharpe, that there are men in Cádiz who believe, quite sincerely, that Spain’s future would be a great deal brighter if they were to make peace with Napoleon. They believe that Britain is the more formidable enemy. They think we are intent on destroying Spain’s colonies and on taking her Atlantic trade. They do not believe that my brother can expel the French from Portugal, let alone from Spain, and they are working diligently to fashion a political future that does not include a British alliance. My job is to persuade them otherwise, and those letters are going to make the task much harder. It may even make it impossible.” Again he paused as if inviting some comment from Sharpe, but the rifleman sat very still and silent. “Lord Pumphrey tells me you are an able man,” the ambassador said quietly.
“He’s very kind, sir,” Sharpe said woodenly.
“And he says you have a piquant past.”
“Not sure what that is, sir.”
Henry Wellesley half smiled. “Forgive me if I’m wrong and believe my assurance that I am not trying to give offense, but Lord Pumphrey tells me you were once a thief?”
“I was, sir,” Sharpe admitted.
“What else?”
Sharpe hesitated, then decided the ambassador had been honest with him so he would return the compliment. “Thief, murderer, soldier, sergeant, rifleman,” he said the list flatly, though Henry Wellesley detected pride in the words.
“Our enemies, Sharpe,” Wellesley said, “have printed one letter, but say they are willing to sell the rest to me. The price, I have no doubt, will be extortionate, but they have intimated that they will publish no more if I pay their price. Lord Pumphrey is negotiating on my behalf. If an agreement is reached, then I would be most grateful if you would serve as his escort and his protector when the letters are exchanged for the money.”
Sharpe thought about it. “You say that your previous fellow was murdered, sir?”
“He was called Plummer. The thieves claimed he tried to take the letters without surrendering the gold, and I have to say that sounds plausible. Captain Plummer was a belligerent man, God rest his soul. They knifed him and his two companions in the cathedral, then threw their bodies over the seawall.”
“What’s to say they won’t do it again, sir?”
Wellesley shrugged. “Captain Plummer may have antagonized them. And he certainly wasn’t an accredited diplomat. Lord Pumphrey is. Murdering Lord Pumphrey, I can assure you, would invoke a most vigorous response. And your presence, I dare say, might deter them.”
Sharpe ignored that compliment. “One other question, sir. You mentioned I was a thief. What’s that to do with keeping Lord Pumphrey alive?”
Henry Wellesley looked embarrassed. “If Lord Pumphrey fails to reach an agreement I was hoping the letters could be stolen back.”
“You know where they are, sir?”
“I assume at the place where the newspaper is printed.”
It seemed a huge assumption to Sharpe, but he let it go. “How many letters are there, sir?”
“They have fifteen.”
“There are more?”
“I wrote more, I fear, but they only stole fifteen.”
“So the girl has more, sir?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Henry Wellesley said stiffly. “Perhaps only fifteen survived.”
Sharpe was aware that something was not being said, but he reckoned that pushing the ambassador would not reveal it. “Thieving’s a skilled trade, sir,” he said instead, “and blackmail’s a nasty one. I need men. We’re dealing with killers, sir, so I need my own killers.”
“I have no men to offer,” the ambassador said, shrugging, “with Plummer dead.”
“I’ve five riflemen with me, sir, and they’ll do. But they need to be here, in the city, and they need civilian clothes, and they need a letter from you to Lord Wellington saying that they’re here on duty. I need that most of all, sir.”
“All agreed,” Henry Wellesley said with relief in his voice.
“And I need to speak to the lady, sir. No point in stealing one set of letters if there’s another lot waiting.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know where she is,” the ambassador said. “If I knew then I would, of course, tell you. She appears to have hidden herself.”
“I still need her name, sir.”
“Caterina,” Henry Wellesley said wistfully. “Caterina Blazquez.” He rubbed his face with a hand. “I feel very foolish telling you all this.”
“We’ve all made fools of ourselves over women, sir,” Sharpe said.
“We wouldn’t be alive if we hadn’t.”
Wellesley smiled ruefully at that. “But if Lord Pumphrey negotiates successfully,” he said, “then it will all be over. A lesson learned.”
“And if he doesn’t, sir, then you want me to steal the letters?”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Wellesley said. He stood and spun his cigar into the night where it hit the dark lawn with a shower of sparks. “I really must get dressed. Full court uniform, sword and all. But one last thing, Sharpe.”