‘Don’t want the buggers waiting for you to leave, Your Grace.’
‘Carry on, Sergeant,’ the Duke said, then grimaced at Sharpe. ‘You have some explanations to make,’ he spoke as he strode into the vestibule, and then stopped, staring for a second or two at the monkey, which was now perched on the head of a statue and was busy scratching itself. ‘You are fond of disobeying orders, Sharpe?’ He started walking again.
‘I am, Your Grace?’ Sharpe asked, lost for anything else to say.
‘I gave no orders for your battalion to billet itself here.’
‘Mister Fox is eager to move the work on, Your Grace. It seemed sensible to work around the clock.’
The Duke grunted, strode on. ‘Yet the permanent presence of a redcoat battalion in this building is likely to provoke discontent.’
‘They’re already discontented, Your Grace.’
Another grunt, then the Duke stopped and rounded on Sharpe. ‘The Prussians insist there is no battalion hiding at the Delaunay place.’
‘They might have moved, sir,’ Sharpe said uncertainly.
‘And the man who just took a shot at me? He’s one of them?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. But I believe Colonel Lanier will keep trying.’
‘So find him, Sharpe, these damned pictures can wait. Your only task now is to find Lanier and his men. Kill them, Sharpe. Put an end to this nonsense. That’s an order you will not disobey.’
‘I can use the battalion, Your Grace?’
‘It appears I can’t stop you.’ The Duke walked back towards the vestibule, then suddenly stopped. ‘I almost forgot. You’re to dine with me tonight, Sharpe. Seven of the clock. Bring your lady.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
And Sharpe felt a sudden quick joy because, just like Charlie the monkey, he was off the leash.
PART THREE
The Fight
CHAPTER 11
‘Bleached linen,’ Lucille said, buttoning the white shirt at Sharpe’s neck, ‘brand new and clean.’
‘You bought it here? In Paris?’ Sharpe asked.
‘In Lisieux. Monsieur Ballat made it. He made this too.’ She handed him a jacket cut from a cloth so dark green that it almost looked black. ‘I had it made from the measurements of your old jacket. Monsieur Ballat made all the uniforms for the Count. He’s a very good tailor.’
‘And doubtless not cheap,’ Sharpe grumbled as he pulled on the jacket.
‘Good clothes are never cheap.’ Lucille stepped away and looked at Sharpe. ‘It looks so good, Richard! The cloth is English! Lambswool!’
Sharpe looked at himself in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. The jacket did look good; tight fitting and, above all, clean. ‘I don’t need a new uniform,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve worn the old one for the last five years. Longer, probably.’
‘Yes, dear,’ Lucille said, ‘and you cannot wear it for dinner with the Duke.’
‘There’s no oak leaves,’ he complained. His old jacket, now strewn across a chair, had a wreath of oak leaves sewn onto one sleeve. They denoted that Sharpe had been in a Forlorn Hope, and he was proud of it.
‘Jeanette will take them from your old coat. Now try these on.’ She held out a pair of trousers made from the same sleek cloth.
‘I’m wearing these overalls,’ Sharpe insisted. He had stripped the leather reinforced overalls from a dead French cavalry officer, and the bloodstain down the right thigh had never been wholly washed out.
‘They’re baggy and threadbare!’
‘And they’re mine,’ Sharpe said stubbornly, ‘they’re comfortable.’
‘And they need mending,’ Lucille said patiently. She stepped to him and undid the twelve silver buttons of the coat. ‘Take that off, and your overalls, and try them on.’
The trousers fitted just as perfectly as the coat. ‘I feel like an idiot,’ Sharpe said. ‘I don’t want to go to his bloody dinner anyway!’
‘But I do,’ Lucille said, ‘and we will. The Countess has said we can use her carriage, and Pat says he’ll be coachman.’
‘You don’t like mutton,’ Sharpe pointed out.
‘It’s not my favourite.’
‘And it will be mutton,’ Sharpe said, ‘it always is. With a vinegar sauce.’
‘And I will eat it and be grateful,’ Lucille said placidly. ‘It’s kind of the Duke to invite us!’
‘He’s never kind,’ Sharpe snarled, ‘he’s planning something, and these trousers are too tight.’
‘They’re supposed to be tight, but you can’t wear those boots!’
Sharpe pulled on the boots anyway and stamped his feet. ‘Dead man’s shoes, darling,’ he said, ‘best for a soldier.’
‘Even dead man’s shoes can be cleaned.’
‘They just get dirty again.’
‘You can’t dance in them!’
‘I can’t dance anyway,’ he said, then looked alarmed. ‘There won’t be dancing tonight!’
‘I doubt it,’ Lucille said sadly, ‘just dinner.’
‘Mutton and vinegar!’ He pulled on his new coat, secretly rather pleased with it. ‘Jeanette will sew on the oak leaves?’
‘She’ll do it right now.’
‘And put it back on the old coat before tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’ Lucille sighed, then handed Sharpe an officer’s scarlet sash. ‘It is silk,’ Lucille said, ‘and I sewed it myself.’
Sharpe looked at himself in the mirror, seeing a stranger; a man in a smart tailored uniform with the epaulettes of senior rank, and he thought about his very first uniform, the red coat of the 33rd over white breeches that had slowly turned pink as the red dye of the coat leaked in the rain. ‘In a month or two,’ he said, ‘I’ll never wear a uniform again.’
‘Of course you will! There will be dinners and parties to attend!’
Sharpe grunted at that, then unwound the sash, unbuttoned the jacket, and gave it to Lucille. ‘And what are you wearing?’
‘Something you will like,’ Lucille said. ‘We don’t need to leave for another hour, which gives you time to shave.’
Sharpe muttered something about having mislaid his razor, then dressed in his old uniform, less the oak wreath badge that Lucille had snipped from the sleeve, then toured the grounds to check on the picquets. He found Harper washing the Countess’s carriage. ‘Must look smart for you!’ the Irishman said. The carriage was a barouche with seats for four, a high box for the driver, and a leather hood that could be raised over the back seat. ‘The leather’s all rotten,’ Harper said, ‘so pray it doesn’t rain.’
‘All bloody nonsense, Pat. And why does the Duke want us at dinner anyway?’
‘He probably doesn’t want you, sir, I expect he wants Lucille there. The man’s no fool.’
And Lucille, who Sharpe found when he went to dress, looked like a vision, in a tight-fitting dress of grey silk, cut low. ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ Sharpe said, ‘we stay here.’
‘Dress, Richard,’ she said patiently, then hung a string of pearls around her neck. ‘The Countess loaned me the pearls,’ she explained.
‘The Duke should have invited her.’
‘She wouldn’t accept. She is loyal to Bonaparte.’
‘Silly old bat.’
‘Richard! She has been so kind!’