Sharpe's Trafalgar by Bernard Cornwell

gentle to what we might meet off the Cape.”
    No one had the stomach for a dessert of suet and currants, so instead Pohlmann

    suggested a hand of whist in his cabin. “I have some fine brandy, Captain,” he said, “and

    if Major Dalton is willing to play we can make a foursome? I know Sharpe won’t play.” He

    indicated himself and Mathilde as the other players, then smiled at Lady Grace. “Unless

    I could persuade you to play, my lady?”
    “I don’t,” she said in a tone suggesting that Pohlmann had invited her to wallow in his

    vomit. She stood, somehow managing to stay graceful despite the lurching of the ship,

    and the men immediately pushed their chairs back and stepped aside to let her leave the

    cabin.
    “Stay and finish your wine, Sharpe,” Pohlmann said, leading his whist players out.
    Sharpe was left alone in the cuddy. He finished his wine, then fetched the decanter from

    its metal frame on the sideboard, and poured himself another glass. Night had fallen and

    the frigate, anxious that the convoy should not scatter in the darkness, was firing a gun

    every ten minutes. Sharpe told himself he would stay for three guns, then make his way into

    the fetid hold and try to sleep.
    Then the door opened and Lady Grace came back into the cuddy.
    She had a scarf about her neck, hiding the pearls and the smooth white skin of her

    shoulders. She gave Sharpe an unfriendly glance and ignored his awkward greeting. Sharpe

    expected her to leave straightaway, assuming she had merely come to fetch something she

    had left in the cuddy, but to his surprise she sat in Cromwell’s chair and frowned at him.

    “Sit down, Mister Sharpe.”
    “Some wine, my lady?”
    “Sit down,” she said firmly.
    Sharpe sat at the opposite end of the table. The empty brass chandelier swung from the

    beam, reflecting flashes of the candlelight that came from the two shielded lanterns on

    the bulkheads. The nickering flames accentuated the high bones of Lady Grace’s face.

    “How well do you know the Baron von Dornberg?” she asked abruptly.
    Sharpe blinked, surprised by the question. “Not well, my lady.”
    “You met him in India?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Where?” she demanded peremptorily. “How?”
    Sharpe frowned. He had promised not to give away Pohlmann’s identity, so he would need to

    treat Lady Grace’s insistence tactfully. “I served with a Company exploring officer

    for a while, ma’am,” he said, “and he frequently rode behind enemy lines. That’s when I met

    P-the baron.” He thought for a second or two. “I maybe met him four times, perhaps

    five?”
    “Which enemy?”
    “The Mahrattas, ma’am.”
    “So he was a friend to the Mahrattas?”
    “I imagine so, ma’am.”
    She stared at him as if she was weighing the truth of his words. “He seems very attached

    to you, Mister Sharpe.”
    Sharpe almost swore as the wine glass slid away from him and fell over the fiddle. The

    glass smashed on the floor, splashing wine across the canvas rug. “I did him a service,

    ma’am, the last time we met. It was after a fight.”
    “He was on the other side?” she interrupted him.
    “He was with the other side, ma’am,” Sharpe said carefully, disguising the truth that

    Pohlmann had been the general commanding the other side. “And he was caught up in the

    rout. I could have captured him, I suppose, but he didn’t seem to pose any harm, so I let him

    go. He’s grateful for that, I’m sure.”
    “Thank you,” she said, and seemed about to stand.
    “Why, ma’am?” Sharpe asked, hoping she would stay.
    She relaxed warily, then stared at him for a long time, evidently considering whether

    to answer, then let go of the table and shrugged. “You heard the captain’s conversation

    with the baron tonight?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “They appear as strangers to each other?”
    “Indeed they do,” Sharpe agreed, “and Cromwell told me as much himself.”
    “Yet almost every