‘Very good, Your Grace.’
Lucille had managed to detach herself from her admirers and, seeing the silver glitter on Sharpe’s chest, glided across the room to join them. ‘Your Grace.’ She curtseyed to the Duke, then fingered the star. ‘Richard, what is it?’
‘It’s a bauble, milady,’ the Duke answered, ‘but a well-deserved one.’ The last five words were spoken in what sounded to Sharpe like perfect French. He also noted that the coldness had gone from the Duke’s voice.
‘Yet I am told your army does not award medals?’ Lucille stayed in French.
‘It’s not our custom, milady, but I am thinking that every man at Waterloo deserves one, so perhaps we will change the policy.’
‘Oh, you should, Your Grace! Soldiers are simple souls who like baubles that reward their valour,’ Lucille said mischievously, ‘and Richard is very proud of his oak leaves.’
‘Those, milady, are not awarded for bravery, but for insanity.’ The Duke gave Sharpe a harsh look. ‘Why don’t you introduce yourself to Kippen, Colonel?’
‘Of course, Your Grace.’
Colonel Kippen was the Prussian with the elaborate star on his broad chest. He had a scarred face, a large moustache, and a nose that had evidently been broken. ‘I am an infantryman,’ he told Sharpe, not bothering with any formal greeting.
‘As am I, Colonel.’
Kippen leaned closer to Sharpe. ‘That is the Duke’s woman?’ he spoke heavily accented English in a hoarse whisper.
Sharpe looked back at the Duke, who was smiling as Lucille spoke. ‘She’s my woman,’ Sharpe said.
‘Ah! So you are a lucky infantryman! She’s English?’
‘French.’
‘The spoils of war, eh?’
Sharpe had no idea what to say, so sensibly said nothing.
‘I am to be attached to you,’ Kippen said, ‘perhaps you find me a woman like that?’
‘She’s one of a kind,’ Sharpe said coolly.
‘And you are Colonel Scharf, yes?’
‘Sharpe,’ Sharpe said, still cool.
‘Scharf is our word for sharp,’ Kippen said, evidently amused, ‘and you are the man who says there is a battalion of infantry in that vineyard?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then I must tell you we searched the house and found nothing except an unpleasant old woman.’
The unpleasant old woman chose that moment to arrive, her right arm in a sling made from black cloth on which she had pinned her dead husband’s red ribbon from which hung the glittering badge of the Légion d’honneur, and, in case anyone misunderstood her allegiance, she also wore an enamelled brooch of violets, Napoleon’s favourite flower. She paused in the doorway, her gaze scornful. ‘Oh good,’ she said loudly, ‘no fat man here. I feared you would invite him.’
‘Fat man?’ the Duke asked stiffly.
‘The gross Louis, supposed King of France.’
‘I believe His Majesty arrives in two days’ time,’ the Duke said, ‘and welcome, madame.’
The widow Delaunay sniffed at that. ‘The last time I dined with Your Grace,’ she said, ‘the wine was atrocious. Undrinkable!’
‘I trust you will enjoy this evening’s selection, madame.’
‘I’ve brought you a gift of wine,’ she said, ‘my people are unloading it now. There is a cellar?’
‘You are too kind, madame,’ the Duke said, discomfited. He nodded at Captain Burrell. ‘Do show madame’s men the way to the cellars, Captain. And the rest of us, I think, can go through.’ He offered his arm to Lucille and led the way through newly opened doors to a candle lit dining room where a long table glittered with silver and crystal. There were small cards with names indicating who should sit where, and Sharpe found himself between Kippen and General Halkett. Lucille was seated to the Duke’s right, and Madame Delaunay to his left. ‘The Peer always prefers women’s company,’ Halkett murmured to Sharpe.
‘Can you blame him, sir?’
‘He deserves the best, though I’m not sure I’d wish that widow woman on him.’ Halkett, a decent man, grinned suddenly. ‘Did you really threaten to flog your new Major?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘He complained to me!’ So that, Sharpe thought, was how the Duke had discovered his threat.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘But why, Sharpe? Fellow seemed harmless enough.’
‘A long time ago, sir, he had me flogged for something I didn’t do, and he knew it.’
‘Good Lord, Sharpe! You were flogged?’
‘I was, sir, and it hurt.’
‘Rather the point of it, yes? But it doesn’t seem to have hurt your chances of promotion.’
The conversation paused as an orderly placed a soup plate in front of Sharpe and another ladled a dark transparent liquid into the bowl. A third poured a glass of white wine into one of the three glasses in front of Sharpe.
‘Consommé of pheasant,’ the Duke’s steward announced, ‘accompanied by Muscadet.’
That provoked a snort from the widow. ‘No dumplings?’ she asked.
‘Dumplings, madame?’ the Duke enquired.
‘Sparrow dumplings. Very good with consommé. Larks are better if you can get them. You wrap them in batter, then boil them. Delicious.’
‘Would you really flog Morris?’ Halkett asked in a low voice.
‘Happily, sir.’
‘Yes, I told the Duke I thought you would. He was amused too.’
‘He didn’t sound amused to me, sir.’
‘He wouldn’t, would he? I say, this soup is good.’
Sharpe was just lifting the first spoonful when an enormous crash resounded through the house, startling the diners. ‘What the devil?’ The Duke looked up, frowning.
A splintering sound followed, as if a door was being broken down, and then an ominous rumble that sounded like thunder. There was another smaller crash, a shout of alarm, and a moment later Captain Burrell appeared at the door, hurried to the Duke’s side, and stooped to his ear. The Duke listened, grimaced, then looked at Sharpe. ‘Colonel, I hate to disturb your dinner, but men have broken the outer cellar door. Tell them to stop their damned noise!’
‘With pleasure, sir,’ Sharpe said, standing. Lucille looked alarmed, but Sharpe was secretly pleased to escape the formal dining room and pleased too that the Duke had again turned to him in an emergency. He beckoned to Captain Burrell. ‘You can show me the way?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Burrell led him into the hallway. ‘They’re delivering wine, Colonel, and decided to use the outer cellar door, but it was locked. They just hammered it down!’
Sharpe followed Burrell to the side of the house where a wagon and two horses stood. The men, he could see six of them, were rolling barrels down a plank ramp from the bed of the cart. Two more men were then rolling the barrels down more planks laid over the cellar steps, and the crashing sound was repeated as each barrel landed on the stone floor. ‘Stop it!’ Sharpe shouted, seizing a man’s elbow. ‘You carry the barrels down to the cellar.’