Sharpe 3-Book Collection 6: Sharpe's Honour, Sharpe's Regiment, Sharpe's Siege by Bernard Cornwell Page B

don’t be fooled by that waist. The fastest swordsman I ever saw was fatter than a hogshead. Why didn’t you choose pistols? Or twelve pounder cannons?‘
    Sharpe laughed and hefted his big, straight sword. ‘This is a lucky blade.’
    ‘One sincerely hopes so. On the other hand, finesse is usually more useful than luck in a duel.’
    ‘You’ve fought a duel?’
    D‘Alembord nodded. ’Rather why I’m here, Sharpe. Life got a little difficult.‘ He said it lightly, though Sharpe could guess the ruin that the duel had meant for d’Alembord. Sharpe had been curious as to why the tall, elegant, foppish man had joined a mere line regiment like the South Essex. D‘Alembord, with his spotless lace cuffs, his silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses that were carefully transported by his servant from camp ground to camp ground, would have been more at home in a Guards regiment or a smart cavalry uniform.
    Instead he was in the South Essex, seeking obscurity in an unfashionable regiment while the scandal blew itself out in England, and an example to Sharpe of how a duel could blight a career. Sharpe smiled. ‘I suppose you killed your man?’
    ‘Didn’t mean to. Meant to wing him, but he moved into the blade. Very messy.’ He sighed. ‘If you would deign to hold that thing more like a sword and less like a cleaving instrument, one might hold out a morsel of hope. Part of the object of the exercise is to defend one’s body. Mind you, it’s quite possible that he’ll faint with horror when he sees it. It’s positively mediaeval. It’s hardly an instrument for fencing.’
    Sharpe smiled. ‘I don’t fence, d’Alembord. I fight.‘
    ‘I’m sure it’s vastly unpleasant for your opponent. I shall insist on coming as your second.’
    ‘No seconds.’
    D‘Alembord shrugged. ’No gentleman fights without a second. I shall come. Besides, I might be able to persuade you not to go through with this.‘
    Sharpe was sheathing his sword on which Harper had put a wicked cutting edge. ‘Not to go through with it?’
    D‘Alembord pushed open the door of the stable yard where, to the amusement of the officers’ servants and grooms, they had been practising. ’You’ll be sent home in disgrace, Sharpe. The Peer will have your guts for breakfast tomorrow.‘
    ‘Wellington won’t know about it.’
    D‘Alembord looked pityingly on his superior officer. ’Half the bloody army knows, my dear Sharpe. I can’t think why you accepted! Is it because the man struck you?‘
    Sharpe said nothing. The truth was that his pride had been offended, but it was more than that. It was his stubborn superstition that Fate, the soldier’s goddess, demanded that he accept. Besides, he did it for the Marquesa.
    D‘Alembord sighed. ’A woman, I suppose?‘
    ‘Yes.’
    The Light Company Captain smoothed a wrinkle in his sleeve. ‘When I fought my duel, Sharpe, I later discovered that the woman had put us up to it. She was watching, it turned out.’
    ‘What happened?’
    The elegant shoulders shrugged. ‘After I skewered him she went back to her husband. It was all rather tedious and unnecessary. Just as I’m sure this duel is unnecessary. Do you really insist on this duel, Sharpe?’
    ‘Yes.’ Sharpe would not explain, was not even sure he could explain the tangle of guilt, lust, pride and superstition that drove him to folly. Instead he sat and shouted for the Mess servant to bring tea. The servant was a Spaniard who brewed tea foully.
    ‘I’ll have rum. Has it occurred to you,’ and d‘Alembord leaned forward with a small frown of embarrassment on his face, ’that some people are joining this regiment simply because you’re in it?‘
    Sharpe frowned at the words. ‘Nonsense.’
    ‘If you insist, my dear Sharpe, but it is true. There’s at least two or three young fire-eaters who think you’ll lead them to glory, such is your reputation. They’ll be very sad if they discover your paths of glory lead but to a lady’s