‘Ah!’ Lawford seemed surprised that Sharpe should want nothing more. ‘I see, I see. Who else have you told?’
‘No one.’
‘Except your Sergeant, of course. He’s well, is he?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do tell him I asked. Splendid fellow, for an Irishman.’ Lawford frowned. ‘You say he killed a militia man?’
‘We killed one.’
Lawford smiled at the “we”. ‘A trifle clumsy, perhaps? Better not to have done it.’
‘They were trying to kill us!’
‘Bound to be questions asked, Richard, bound to be! Fellows will be up on their hind legs embarrassing the government. It’s really too bad.’
‘Say they were chasing smugglers!’ Sharpe could not understand this concern for a dead militia man that did not seem extended to Sir Henry’s peculations.
‘Brilliant! Smugglers! Very good, Richard. We’ll do that.’ He leaned forward and laid the stub of his cigar on a silver plate. ‘You do have some proof of these auctions, Richard, of course? Account books, records, tedious paperwork?’ He smiled.
‘Accounts?’
‘Proof, Richard, proof.’
‘I saw it!’
Sir William shook his head slowly, then sipped his brandy. ‘My dear Sharpe! All you saw were some soldiers on Simmerson’s lawn! The rest is surmise!’ Sharpe had said nothing about Jane Gibbons or what she had told him, though now, facing Lawford’s sceptical face, he doubted whether her testimony would add any weight to his argument.
‘I saw ...’
‘I know what you say,’ Lawford smiled to take the sharpness from his words, ‘but we shall want proof.’
Sharpe leaned back. He felt uncomfortable in this lavish room among these fat men whose chins bulged and wobbled over their silk stocks. ‘I heard Lord Fenner say there was no Second Battalion, except as a paper convenience, and I’ve proved him wrong.’
‘There is that,’ Lawford smiled. ‘A greedy man, Fenner. Seems as rich as Croesus, but always eager for more. Not a fellow I’d choose as an enemy, at least not without proof, eh?’
‘The proof is at Foulness. A day’s march away!’
‘I’m sure it is.’ Lawford held up his one hand in a placatory gesture. His other sleeve was pinned across his coat. ‘The nub is York.’
‘York?’
‘The Duke. Foolish Freddie.’ Lawford smiled again. ‘Doesn’t want another scandal, that’s for sure! He had to resign for two years as it was. My dear fellow, thank you.’ Sharpe had poured more brandy as Lawford cut another cigar. ‘I think you’d better leave it to me, Richard.’ Sharpe said nothing, and Lawford leaned forward persuasively. ‘Let me patrol around it, eh? Will you let me do that, Richard? Say to the end of next week?’ He laughed. ‘That’ll give you a chance to watch Prinny’s battle of Vitoria, yes? You’ll enjoy that!’
Sharpe was not happy with the suggestion, but he accepted that Sir William moved in circles that understood these matters, while he was a friendless soldier in a capital city where no one cared about him. ‘Why don’t I just see the Duke of York?’
‘Richard!’ Lawford said in a pained voice. ‘You’ll only upset him, and you know how liverish that damned family is! My dear Sharpe! If I was facing a French army I’d be delighted to have your help, can’t you see you need mine now? You want your men, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I shall do my damnedest! I can’t promise anything, of course, but I think I can extricate you. Where are you lodging, Richard?’
‘Rose Tavern. It’s in Drury Lane.’
‘I do know where the Rose is, Richard,’ Lawford said testily, then noted the name in a silver bound notebook. ‘Give me two days, then meet me here for luncheon. You can do that? And don’t worry about disobeying those orders to go back to Spain, I’ll make sure there’s no undue fuss there.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘Can I ask what you propose to do, sir?’
‘Do?’ Lawford snapped the notebook shut. ‘The proper thing, the clever thing. A few quiet words, Richard, here and there. Thank God Parliament’s recessed so we can keep the whole damned mess secret. And you, Richard,’ he stabbed at Sharpe with his fresh cigar, ‘are going to do nothing. You will keep quiet. No stirring up the enemy from the skirmish line? This is London, not Spain!’ He laughed. ‘Perhaps we can tempt you to dine one evening? Lady Lawford would never forgive me if I didn’t snare you for one night.’
‘That’s kind of you, sir.’
‘Nonsense!’ Lawford smiled. ‘Just leave it all to me, Richard!’ He picked up a strawberry left over from luncheon and popped it into his mouth. ‘Just leave it to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lord Fenner met his guest in the library. His Lordship was not pleased.
Lord Fenner was in the habit of asking the Lady Camoynes to visit him in the early evening, thus leaving his nights free for the pursuit of other pleasures. This evening, as Lord Fenner closed the library door, the Lady Camoynes waited upstairs and Lord Fenner, instead of watching her undress, was forced to be polite to this unexpected and unwelcome guest. ‘I usually take a glass of brandy at this hour. You’ll join me?’
Sir William Lawford smiled his assent. He appraised the pictures that hung between the shelves, noting a fine small drawing of ships at sea and a very good Reynolds. ‘Your mother?’
‘Yes,’ Lord Fenner had barked his order for the brandy. ‘You said this business was urgent, Sir William?’
‘I would hardly disturb your Lordship otherwise.’ Lawford ignored his host’s barely disguised rudeness, admiring instead a Roman bust of a woman with tightly rolled hair. Everything about this room, from its books to its fine hand-painted Chinese wallpaper, testified to the exquisite taste and wealth of Lord Fenner. Lawford accepted his brandy, waited until the steward had left, then sat in the chair Fenner offered. ‘Your Lordship’s most excellent health.’
‘And yours.’ Fenner sat down. He was dressed in a black suit, with a white silk waistcoat and stock. He tried to guess, from Lawford’s demeanour, just what kind of business was so urgent as to preclude an appointment, but the younger man’s face was unreadable. Fenner was remembering what he knew of Lawford; an ex-soldier who now sat in the Government’s interest on the green-leather benches of the House of Commons. Fenner crossed his legs and brushed at a boot-tassel. ‘You’ll forgive me, Sir William, if I tell you that I have other engagements this evening?’
‘Quite so,’ Lawford smiled. ‘I think you’ll hear me out, though. We both, after all, share an interest in making certain that no scandal disturbs our administration? This is very good brandy! My smugglers bring in a most inferior article.’
‘You spoke of scandal.’
Lawford stared at the thin, pale face with its aquiline nose. ‘Girdwood, Foulness, auctions. You permit me to smoke?’
Lord Fenner was too astonished to offer or refuse permission. He said nothing until Lawford had cut and lit a cigar with his one hand, then he made his nasal voice deliberately calm. ‘You confuse me, Sir William.’
‘Confuse you?’
‘You play at riddles like a child.’
Lawford shrugged apologetically. He was nervous. This handsome lord, a government minister, conveyed such an air of elegant gravity that it seemed unthinkable that he should be bound up in so squalid an affair as Foulness. Lawford smiled. ‘I do not, for one moment, sir, imagine that you know of what I speak. Let us, though, assume that you have some influence over those who might? Sir Henry Simmerson, perhaps?’
Lord Fenner showed none of the relief that he felt. Lawford was showing his cards, and though the first cards had horrified Fenner, this last demonstrated that Sir William did not seek his disgrace. Fenner’s voice was still cold and toneless. ‘We can assume that, Sir William.’
Lawford, who had half-expected to be forcibly ejected from the house, even challenged to a duel, knew now that Sharpe’s accusations were right. Lord Fenner had admitted nothing, but the very fact tha
t he would talk proclaimed that there was much to admit. Sir William rested his cigar to take up the brandy. ‘Should news of Sir Henry’s peculations at Foulness become public, my Lord, I need hardly tell you the result.’ Nor did he; another scandal to rock the government, cries of treason, of corruption, of demands for enquiries and God knows what else.
Fenner sat very still. ‘How could it become public?’
‘Because Major Richard Sharpe is in full knowledge of the facts.’ Sir William smiled. ‘He attempted to see the Duke of York today. York’s aide sent for me, knowing that I had been Sharpe’s commanding officer, and I have, so far, kept him silent. You owe me thanks for that.’
Fenner somehow managed to hide his horror. Sharpe was alive? His Lordship had thought it strange that his hired assassins had not come to collect their reward, but nor had Sharpe ever appeared again and Fenner had persuaded himself that the troublesome Rifleman was safely dead.
The door to the drawing room creaked ajar and Fenner supposed that Anne Camoynes was listening there. God damn her! He dared not close the door lest the movement be interpreted as nervousness and, to cover his astonishment and consternation, he lit a cigar for himself and forced insouciance into his voice. ‘You say Sharpe spoke to you?’
‘At great length. A very remarkable man, my Lord. I knew him as a sergeant. He has a talent for battle, but not, I think, for politics.’ Lawford smiled as though such a lack in a man was to be pitied. ‘He is an intemperate fellow, often foolhardy, and not easily dissuaded. He pointed out to me, with commendable passion, the need for veteran Battalions to be kept in Spain. His own Battalion, as your Lordship knows, is in danger of dismemberment and he feels, not without cause, that it has yet a great contribution to make in the invasion of France. If he feels that it is being deliberately denied replacements, then he could make an unwelcome noise. Your Lordship comprehends me?’
Fenner nodded. How, in God’s name, had Sharpe discovered Foulness? Fenner would dearly love to know, yet to ask was to reveal too great a concern.
‘Fortunately,’ Lawford went on, ‘he has no absolute proof, so his opportunity for embarrassing our government is slight. He has agreed to do nothing until the day after tomorrow, my Lord, and to leave the resolution of this affair entirely in my hands.’
Fenner bowed to Lawford, a gesture that did express relief, for now he knew what he must deal with. Not with some rogue Rifleman whose passion and enmity scared His Lordship, but with another politician, a man who understood that compromise was the very finest of the arts. ‘You have suggestions, Sir William?’
‘Mere thoughts,’ Sir William smiled. ‘I really do not know if there is anything amiss at Foulness. A strange name, yes?’ Lord Fenner smiled, for the words told him that Sir William had not come to preach morality, but to make his bargain. Lawford drew on his cigar. ‘My concern is with Major Sharpe. I owe him a great deal, sir, including my life. You will sympathise with my wish to extricate him from this entanglement. I would not want him punished, nor in any way see his career harmed, indeed, I would like to see it advanced. If he is guilty of anything, my Lord, it is merely an excessive devotion to his duty.’
Lord Fenner nodded. ‘You say he is in London?’
‘I did not. I said he has agreed to do nothing until I speak to him in two days.’
‘What does he want?’
‘His Battalion.’
Lord Fenner knew that now he had to play a card of his own. ‘But if there is no Battalion, Sir William, he cannot have it.’ Fenner’s gaze was challenging.
Lawford knew that Lord Fenner, by his last statement, was saying that the physical evidence at Foulness, the men, the camp itself, all signs of the hidden Battalion, would be removed. The men would be sent to different depots throughout Britain, dispersed in sections, while the tents and buildings would be destroyed. There could be no disgrace for Lord Fenner, for there would be no evidence of any kind. Lawford smiled. ‘I thought, my Lord, that he might be given command of a Rifle Battalion in the American war? We need good men over there.’
‘America?’ Lord Fenner thought it would do very well; a minor, scrappy war being fought three thousand miles away. No one cared what happened in America. ‘We could doubtless arrange such a thing, so long as he keeps silent about this preposterous business.’
‘If there’s no evidence, my Lord, what does it matter?’
Fenner said nothing. There was only one proof that could destroy him, and that was the secret records of the Battalion auctions, and they, he knew, were safe. Even if Major Sharpe should produce the men themselves, what could they prove? They were listed as a Holding Battalion, so the men were accounted for. The officers might bleat about auctions, yet they had taken the money and so risked punishment, while not one officer, apart from Girdwood, knew of His Lordship’s involvement.
Sir William tossed his cigar into the empty hearth. ‘I have your permission to return and speak with you tomorrow, my Lord? I would not ask you for a precipitate decision.’
Fenner stood. ‘America?’
‘It would be most suitable. A Battalion command, of course. Nothing less.’ Lawford was ensuring that Sharpe did not suffer. The scandal would be avoided, the government safe, and Sir William’s own reward could wait.
‘Of course.’ Fenner held a hand out to guide his guest towards the door. ‘I really am most obliged to you, Sir William. Men of sense and discretion are rare commodities these days. We must make sure your talents do not go unrewarded.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’ Which meant that Lawford could now look for a government post, something unburdensome but with a welcome salary.
Lord Fenner did not summon his steward, but opened his front door himself. ‘I shall look forward to your return tomorrow. You have a coat, a hat?’
Sir William stood on the step in the gentle London dusk, and thought that it was a good evening’s work. There would be no scandal, no ribald jeers in Parliament. Instead the criminal evidence would be quietly hidden and Richard Sharpe, whom Lawford liked, would get a just reward. He would be promoted, he would have a Rifle Battalion of his own, and no one, except the enemies against whom that Battalion was matched, would suffer. No one. Lawford smiled as his groom opened the carriage door.
Lord Fenner, from his front windows, watched Sir William’s coach go towards St James’s. Lord Fenner was not happy. He had been found out, yet he was sensible of the fact that Sir William had been most delicate. Sir William wanted a reward; why else had he come? His price was Sharpe’s future. Lord Fenner would rather have seen Sharpe flayed alive, but the man’s promotion was a very cheap price to pay.
He turned to the drawing room, opening the door that had been left ajar, to find the Lady Camoynes leafing through a book. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘A while, Simon.’
‘You heard?’
‘That is why I came to this room.’ She smiled at him, her green eyes bright in the lamplight. ‘You might care to know, Simon, that Lawford has a most expensive and ambitious wife. You are fortunate.’
‘Fortunate?’
‘That you will be able to bribe him into silence. A Battalion for the Major and a salary for Sir William.’
‘You disapprove.’ He said it to mock her, to diminish her. She was his creature, in his debt, in thrall to his whim for the future of her son and his inheritance.
‘If it was I, Simon,’ Lady Camoynes closed the book, ‘I would use the knowledge to destroy you.’
He laughed. ‘But it is not you, and your place in my house, Anne, is upstairs.’
She dropped the book and, without another word, turned and left the room. Lord Fenner followed her up the stairs, his appetite, as ever, sharpened by the apprehension of this demonstration of his power. The evening was yet young, and he would do mischief.
CHAPTER 13
Most Londoners claimed that the Vauxhall Gardens were past their prime, that the delights of London’s oldest pleasure garden were faded, mere shadows of outrage
ous past joys, yet Sharpe had always liked Vauxhall. As a child he had come here from the rookery, sent to pick pockets in its shadowed walks and about its extraordinary pavilions, grottoes, lodges, temples, statues, and porticos. It was lit by a myriad of lamps, mostly shaped as stars or sickle moons, lamps that were strung among the trees at different heights so that, from any part of the garden, it seemed as if a visitor walked like a giant amongst a galaxy.
He had been summoned here, brought by a scented note written in a woman’s hand that reminded him of startling green eyes. He had been at the Rose Tavern, reunited with d‘Alembord, Price and Harper when the note had come. There was one other piece of mail for him, waiting since the day he had fled London, a great embossed piece of gilded card that ordered Major Richard Sharpe to attend upon His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, at ten in the forenoon of Saturday, 21st August, at the Reviewing Stand by The Ring in Hyde Park. Sharpe, sourly thinking of the joys of watching garrison troops re-enact a battle at which none had been present, had pushed the card into his pouch. Then had come the scented letter, the mysterious summons to these gaudy, heady, music-filled gardens.
Vauxhall was crowded this night. All kinds of persons came here, from the highest to the lowest, to this place where the titled and rich mixed with anyone who could pay the few pence admission. Many of the women, and a few of the men, wore cheap black masks. Some women carried their masks on short sticks, holding them before a face that would be recognised. Others were masked in the hope that onlookers would think the hidden face famous. It was a place for fantasies, where the dim lights disguised tawdry clothes, and the plaster grotesques fleshed out hopeful dreams.
The letter had named no place in the garden, nor any time for a rendezvous, and Sharpe walked slowly through the great spread of pleasures. He looked at each masked face, but if the woman who had sent him the letter was here, he saw no sign of her. Two soldiers saluted him, but other soldiers in the crowd, seeing an officer approach, pretended not to notice him so that they would not have to diminish themselves in the eyes of their girls by giving a salute. He passed the central pavilion, four storeys high, in which an orchestra played about the base of the great organ. Couples danced beneath the lamps. A woman, on an elevated stage, sang a sentimental song. Beneath the pavilion’s canopies one of Vauxhall’s restaurants did brisk business.
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege Page 50
