“No!” Lord John, as white faced as any of the fashionable women at the ball, backed uncertainly towards his friends who hurried towards the confrontation.
Sharpe was just a few paces from his enemy. “Where’s my money? You can keep the whore, but where’s the money?”
“No!” That was Jane, screaming from the supper room’s entrance.
“Stop, I say! Stop!” One of the cavalrymen, a fall captain in Life Guard’s uniform, hurried to Lord John’s side.
Sharpe, though he was still far out of sword’s reach, suddenly lunged and Lord John, in utter fear, stepped hurriedly backwards and tripped on his spurs. He flailed for balance, snatched at the closest tablecloth and dragged a cascade of smashing china and chinking silver to the floor as he fell. There was a second’s silence after the last shard of china had settled.
“You shit-faced, yellow-bellied bastard,” Sharpe said to the sprawling Lord John.
“Enough!” Lord John’s leading rescuer, the Life Guards Captain, drew his own sword and stood above his lordship.
“You want to be filleted?” Sharpe did not care. He kept walking forward, ready to hack down all the high-born, long-nosed bastards.
The Captain held his sword blade upright, almost at the salute, to show that he was neither menacing Sharpe nor trying to defend against him. “My name is Manvell. Christopher Manvell. You and I have no quarrel, Colonel Sharpe.”
“I’ve got a quarrel with that piece of yellow shit at your feet.”
“Not here!” Captain Manvell warned. “Not in public!” Duelling had been forbidden to serving officers, which meant that any duel would have to be fought in secret. Two other cavalry officers stood behind the Captain.
Lord John slowly climbed to his feet. “I tripped,” he explained to his friend.
“Indeed.” Manvell kept his eyes fixed on Sharpe, half fearing that the Rifleman might still attack.
“You can keep the whore,” Sharpe said again to Lord John, but this time loud enough for Jane and the other spectators to hear, “but I want my money.”
Lord John licked his lips. He knew that Sharpe’s insults were more than mere anger, but a deliberate provocation to a duel. No man could hear his woman described as a whore and not fight, yet Lord John was truly terrified of the Rifleman and had no doubt who would win a duel, and so, despite the insults and despite the people who witnessed his humiliation, he nodded his acceptance of Sharpe’s demand. “I’ll send you a note tomorrow,” he said humbly.
Captain Manvell was plainly astonished at Lord John’s swift collapse, even disgusted by the cowardice, but had no choice but to accept it. “Does that satisfy you, Colonel Sharpe?”
Sharpe was just as surprised at his sudden victory. He felt oddly cheated, but sheathed his sword anyway. “You can bring the note to me at the Prince of Orange’s headquarters.”
He had spoken to Lord John, but Manvell chose to answer. “I shall act for his lordship in this matter. You have a second to whom I can present the note?”
“He does!” Peter d’Alembord spoke up from the crowd which listened from the supper room’s wide entrance. Lucille, her face paled by fear, held d’Alembord’s arm as he walked a few paces into the room and bowed primly to Christopher Manvell. “My name is d’Alembord. I can be found with the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers who are a part of Sir Colin Halkett’s brigade.”
Manvell gave the smallest nod to acknowledge d’Alembord’s bow. “I shall serve you a promissory note tomorrow, Captain d’Alembord. Is that agreeable?”
“Entirely.”
Manvell thrust his own sword home, then took Lord John’s elbow and led him away. Jane, watching from the entrance, had a hand over her mouth. Sharpe caught her eye for a second, then turned away as Lucille ran to him.
“I should have killed the bastard,” Sharpe growled.
“You’re a fool.” Lucille brushed at the blood on his jacket, then touched his cheek.
D’Alembord, behind Lucille, waited until the spectators had drifted away. “What happened?” he asked Sharpe.
“You heard for yourself, didn’t you? The bastard collapsed.”
D’Alembord shook his head. “What happened with Wellington? What was the news?”
Sharpe had to drag his thoughts back to the earlier events of the night. “Napoleon’s stolen a march on us. His army’s just a day away from here, and ours is still scattered over half Belgium. We’ve been humbugged, Peter.”