small bag and began writing on a piece of paper. One man rose to the bait, a foppish cavalry officer whose English drawl spoke of aristocratic birth.
“Any brute can be brave, Ma’am, but a curry-comb always improves it.”
There was a moment’s silence. La Marquesa looked up at Sharpe and smiled. “Sir Robin Callard thinks you’re an uncombed brute.”
“Rather that than a lap dog, Ma’am.”
She had succeeded. She looked at Callard and raised an eyebrow. He was forced to be brave. He stared at Sharpe, his face furious. “You’re insolent, Sharpe.”
“Yes he is.” The voice was crisp. Wellington leaned forward. “He always has been.” The General knew what La Marquesa was doing, and he would stop it. He hated duelling among his officers. “It’s his strength. And weakness.” He touched his hat. “Good day, Captain Sharpe.”
“Sir.” He backed away from the carriage, ignored by La Marquesa who was folding her piece of paper. He had been dismissed, contemptuously even, and he knew that a tattered Captain with an old sword had no place among these scented, elegant people. Sharpe felt the resentment rise sour and thick within him. Wellington needed Sharpe when there was a breach to be taken at Badajoz, but not now! Not among his Lordship’s own kind. They thought Sharpe was a mere brute who needed a curry-comb, yet he was a brute who kicked, clawed and scratched to preserve their privileged, lavish world. Well damn them. Damn them to a stinking hell. Tonight he would drink with his men, not one of whom would dream of owning as much money as the worth of a single silver trace chain from La Marquesa’s coach. Yet they were his men. Damn the bitch and the men who sniffed about her. Sharpe would prove he did not care a damn for them.
“Sharpe?”
He turned. A handsome cavalry officer, hair as gold as La Marquesa’s, uniform as elegant as Sir Robin Callard’s, stood smiling at him. The man’s left arm was in a sling that covered the blue and silver of his jacket, and for a second Sharpe thought this man must be Callard’s second come to offer a duel. Yet the cavalry officer’s smile was open and friendly, his voice warm. “I’m honoured to meet you, Sharpe! Jack Spears, Captain.” He grinned broadly. “I’m glad you twisted Robin’s nose. He’s a pompous little bastard. Here.” He held a folded piece of paper to Sharpe.
Sharpe took it reluctantly, not wanting anything to do with the glittering circle about the blue and silver barouche. He unfolded the pencil written note. “I am giving a small reception this evening at 10 o’clock. Lord Spears will direct you.” It was signed, simply, “H“.
Sharpe looked at the startlingly handsome cavalryman. “H?”
Spears laughed. “Helena, La Marquesade tiddly-tum and tummly-tid, and the object of an army’s combined lust. Shall I tell her you’ll come?” His voice was relaxed and friendly.
“You’re Lord Spears?”
“Yes!” Spears unleashed all his charm on Sharpe. “By the Grace of God and the timely bloody death of my elder brother. But you can call me Jack, everyone else does.”
Sharpe looked again at the note. Her handwriting was childishly round, like his own. “I have other business tonight.”
“Other business!” Spears’ cry of mock amazement made some of the promenading Salamantines look curiously at the young, handsome cavalry officer. “Other business! My dear Sharpe! What other business could possibly be more important than attempting to breach the fair Helena?”
Sharpe was embarrassed. He knew Lord Spears was being friendly, but Sharpe’s encounter with the Marquesa had made him feel shabby and inadequate. “I have to see Major Hogan. Do you know him?”
“Know him?” Spears grinned. “He’s my lord and master. Of course I know Michael, but you won’t see him tonight, not unless you go south a couple of hundred miles.”
“You work for him?”
“He’s kind enough to call it work.” Spears
“Any brute can be brave, Ma’am, but a curry-comb always improves it.”
There was a moment’s silence. La Marquesa looked up at Sharpe and smiled. “Sir Robin Callard thinks you’re an uncombed brute.”
“Rather that than a lap dog, Ma’am.”
She had succeeded. She looked at Callard and raised an eyebrow. He was forced to be brave. He stared at Sharpe, his face furious. “You’re insolent, Sharpe.”
“Yes he is.” The voice was crisp. Wellington leaned forward. “He always has been.” The General knew what La Marquesa was doing, and he would stop it. He hated duelling among his officers. “It’s his strength. And weakness.” He touched his hat. “Good day, Captain Sharpe.”
“Sir.” He backed away from the carriage, ignored by La Marquesa who was folding her piece of paper. He had been dismissed, contemptuously even, and he knew that a tattered Captain with an old sword had no place among these scented, elegant people. Sharpe felt the resentment rise sour and thick within him. Wellington needed Sharpe when there was a breach to be taken at Badajoz, but not now! Not among his Lordship’s own kind. They thought Sharpe was a mere brute who needed a curry-comb, yet he was a brute who kicked, clawed and scratched to preserve their privileged, lavish world. Well damn them. Damn them to a stinking hell. Tonight he would drink with his men, not one of whom would dream of owning as much money as the worth of a single silver trace chain from La Marquesa’s coach. Yet they were his men. Damn the bitch and the men who sniffed about her. Sharpe would prove he did not care a damn for them.
“Sharpe?”
He turned. A handsome cavalry officer, hair as gold as La Marquesa’s, uniform as elegant as Sir Robin Callard’s, stood smiling at him. The man’s left arm was in a sling that covered the blue and silver of his jacket, and for a second Sharpe thought this man must be Callard’s second come to offer a duel. Yet the cavalry officer’s smile was open and friendly, his voice warm. “I’m honoured to meet you, Sharpe! Jack Spears, Captain.” He grinned broadly. “I’m glad you twisted Robin’s nose. He’s a pompous little bastard. Here.” He held a folded piece of paper to Sharpe.
Sharpe took it reluctantly, not wanting anything to do with the glittering circle about the blue and silver barouche. He unfolded the pencil written note. “I am giving a small reception this evening at 10 o’clock. Lord Spears will direct you.” It was signed, simply, “H“.
Sharpe looked at the startlingly handsome cavalryman. “H?”
Spears laughed. “Helena, La Marquesade tiddly-tum and tummly-tid, and the object of an army’s combined lust. Shall I tell her you’ll come?” His voice was relaxed and friendly.
“You’re Lord Spears?”
“Yes!” Spears unleashed all his charm on Sharpe. “By the Grace of God and the timely bloody death of my elder brother. But you can call me Jack, everyone else does.”
Sharpe looked again at the note. Her handwriting was childishly round, like his own. “I have other business tonight.”
“Other business!” Spears’ cry of mock amazement made some of the promenading Salamantines look curiously at the young, handsome cavalry officer. “Other business! My dear Sharpe! What other business could possibly be more important than attempting to breach the fair Helena?”
Sharpe was embarrassed. He knew Lord Spears was being friendly, but Sharpe’s encounter with the Marquesa had made him feel shabby and inadequate. “I have to see Major Hogan. Do you know him?”
“Know him?” Spears grinned. “He’s my lord and master. Of course I know Michael, but you won’t see him tonight, not unless you go south a couple of hundred miles.”
“You work for him?”
“He’s kind enough to call it work.” Spears
Similar Books
