A/N Yes, I resurrected some characters. Let's just assume the second part of Waterloo never happened, OK? :D
Harris came to Mrs. Loveystock's boarding house just a few hours after Antonia had left it. The landlady immediately informed him about Miss Moreno, a mysterious relative to Colonel Sharpe, who came to see him all the way from Spain.
"The Colonel was supposed to come for her, but he's on some mission. Wellington sent him himself!", explained the neighbour excitedly. "So he sent Captain Johnson in his stead. Very nice gentleman, though a bit too pompous, if you ask me."
"Don't you know where he took Miss Moreno?", inquired Harris, more and more intrigued.
"Why, to the Colonel's house, of course! Mrs. Sharpe will take care of her."
"Mrs. Sharpe?" Harris repeated after her like an echo, wondering how much Mrs. Loveystock really knew about Richard Sharpe's private life. Gossip about Jane's affair with Lord Rossendale had once electrified some circles in London, but many years had passed since then, and the general public's interest in Prince's Regents favourite rifleman had evaporated a long time before. Harris had of course told his friends and neighbours many stories from the Peninsular War, and Colonel Sharpe with Sergeant Harper were recurring characters in a lot of these stories. Mrs. Lovestock, would sometimes encourage him to talk about La Aguja, the Spanish guerilla leader who had won the famous officer's heart. But Harris couldn't remember if he had ever mentioned Teresa's last name. He was also sure he had never shared with anyone here in London the story of Richard Sharpe's second marriage, and he wasn't going to do that now. And who knew, maybe the "Mrs. Sharpe" mentioned by his neighbour wasn't even Jane, but that Frenchwoman, Lucille? Questions, and even more questions... If he had a horse, Harris would probably follow the mysterious girl, out of sheer curiosity if nothing else. However, he had never owned a horse in his life and he couldn't afford to borrow one. Moreover, he wasn't even sure if the girl who had left London this morning was really who he thought he was — his former officer's daughter — and if the captain accompanying her was really sent by Sharpe. The whole thing seemed one big riddle to him, and Harris hated riddles that remained unsolved.
Acting on first impulse, he went in search of Major Price. Harry Price, who had begun his military career in the South Essex light company, had married into a rich family, owing it probably to his promotion achieved at Waterloo, but he hadn't lost a bit of his easy-going personality. Having stumbled across Harris one day on some street, he had answered his former soldier's greeting without hesitation, and after a friendly chat offered sincerely that should Harris ever need anything, he could always pay him a visit. Nevertheless, approaching Price's huge London estate, Harris begun to hesitate. If he was to bother the Major, shouldn't he have something more to offer than just the gossip of an old landlady?
It was Sunday and the lawyer's office where Harris worked as a clerk, was closed, so he decided to run a little investigation on his own. Asking around, he learned that a young woman who could pass as a Spaniard and who talked with a foreign accent, calling herself Antonia Moreno, had indeed sailed into London four days earlier and left it in the company of a man in civilian clothes who called himself Captain Johnson. The name was unfamiliar to Harris, but he was aware that he hadn't seen Colonel Sharpe in over a decade, and unlike Harper and Hagman, he hadn't accompanied the officer when he was posted to Yorkshire in the months of peace before Waterloo. Thus, the fact he had never heard about Johnson didn't mean anything. Still, Mrs. Loveystock claimed that her visitor and her companion went somewhere in England, which surprised Harris, who knew that the Colonel had been living in France for over a decade now. And had he come back, wouldn't any newspaper mention the fact? He was still the hero from Talavera, after all.
Having gathered all the information he could, Harris headed back to the Price mansion. Unfortunately, the major wasn't home, because, as Harris was told by a fat and pompous butler, Mr. and Mrs. Price were visiting some even more upper-society friends. Unmoved by the cold welcome, Harris declared to wait as long as he needed to, half-lying that he was sure the major would be happy to see him. Although his old and worn-out clothes suggested otherwise, the way he talked must have impressed the butler, because he didn't say anything more, just pointed Harris to one of the side corridors and left. Harris shrugged, sat in an expensive-looking chair and waited.
Hours passed, no one came. Finally one of the younger servants, who had passed Harris multiple times, suggested maybe the major and his wife had decided to spend the night at their friends' place. It was already early evening, so it seemed she could be right. Harris cursed in his mind and scratched his hair, wondering what he should do next. After a moment, he asked for ink and paper, and quickly summarized all he had managed to learn on Miss Moreno, then handed the letter to the girl, trusting her more than the annoying butler, especially that he was sure she couldn't even read. Having fulfilled what he considered his duty, Harris left the estate and soon mingled with the crowd of Londoners enjoying a Sunday evening stroll. He still couldn't put his mind at ease, though, and some quiet voice in his head kept reminding him that there was someone who knew Colonel Sharpe's secrets much better than Major Price and who could probably answer many of the questions that were bothering Harris. Finally, he surrendered. It looked like it was time for a little vacation.
Leaving the elegant neighbourhood of the Price's, he walked to his boss' house. He found it without trouble. The kind-hearted elderly lawyer was eating supper with some friends, but still he greeted his employee with a smile, expressed his sympathy upon hearing about Harris' mother being ill, which the clerk described very convincingly, rising to the heights of his acting abilities. After putting on such a show, he obtained the desired leave of absence without problem. He had some money put aside, so he had nothing to worry about for the time being. He packed his belongings into a small sack, slept for a few hours, and hoping to catch some cart leaving in the desired direction, he left before sunrise. He quickly made his way towards the suburbs of London, the city which he had dreamed about living in for years, and which, having managed to fulfil that dream after the war, he now liked less and less every day. They said the army changed everyone who joined her ranks. In Harris, a typical city-lover, it had planted a seed of wanderlust. It surprised even him. Still, now, as he sat in a cart belonging to a Jewish pedlar who had agreed to take him north, Harris eyed the last houses of London with a wry smile and whistled quietly the tune of the old rifles' march "Over the Hills and Far Away". It was good to hit the road again.