Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil. Bernard Cornwell

      ‘And in the meanwhile,’ Jane ignored whatever d’Alembord had been about to say, ‘my duty is to make everything ready for his return.’ She waved a hand about the room. ‘Do you like my new house, Captain?’

      ‘Extremely, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord concealed his surprise along with his true opinion. He had imagined that Jane was merely staying in the house, now he discovered that she owned it.

      ‘The Major wished to buy a home in the country,’ Jane said, ‘but once I had returned to England I could not endure the thought of burying myself in rustic ignorance. Besides, it is more convenient to look after the Major’s affairs in London than from the country.’

      ‘Indeed, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord wanted more details of how Jane was looking after Sharpe’s affairs, but he sensed that further enquiries would reveal nothing. There was something unsettling in the situation, and d’Alembord did not want to provoke it.

      ‘So I bought this house instead,’ Jane went on. ‘Do you think the Major will like it?’

      D’Alembord was convinced that Sharpe would detest it, but it was not his place to say so. ‘It seems a very good house, Ma’am,’ he said with as much diplomacy as he could muster.

      ‘Of course I share the house at the moment,’ Jane was eager to stress the propriety of her situation, ‘with a widow. It would hardly be proper otherwise, would it?’

      ‘I’m sure you would do nothing improper, Ma’am.’

      ‘It’s such a pity that the Lady Spindacre is still abed, but dear Juliet’s health is not of the best. You must visit us, Captain, one evening at eight. We usually receive downstairs at that hour, but if no link is lit outside, then you will know that we are not at home. If a lamp is lit then you must announce yourself, though I should warn you that London is sadly bored with soldiers’ tales!’ Jane smiled as though she knew her charms would ameliorate the rudeness of her words.

      ‘I would not dream of inflicting soldiers’ tales on you, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord spoke stiffly.

      ‘London has so many other fascinations to indulge besides the late wars. It will be good for the Major to come here, I think. Especially as he made some very high connections on his last visit, and it would be impossible to preserve those connections if he buries himself in Dorsetshire.’

      ‘You refer to the Prince?’ D’Alembord said in the hope that he would learn more of Jane’s conversation with Lord Rossendale.

      ‘But none of those connections, I think, will care to travel into the remote parts of the country to hear stories of war,’ was Jane’s only response. She looked at the clock again, then held out her hand to indicate that the conversation was over. ‘Thank you for visiting me, Captain.’

      ‘It was my pleasure, Ma’am.’ D’Alembord bowed over the offered hand. ‘Your servant, Ma’am.’

      Once outside the house d’Alembord leaned for an instant on the black railings, then shook his head. He had a suspicion that he had achieved nothing, but he could not quite pin down the reasons for that suspicion. Yet there was one thing for which he was supremely grateful, which was that he had no address by which he could reach Sharpe. What in hell could he have written? He sighed, wondered if there was anyone else he could approach for help, then walked away.

      The horse-pistol had been loaded with three small pistol bullets. The first had entered the upper part of Sharpe’s left arm where it first shattered his shoulder joint, then ricocheted to crack the blade of the big bone behind. The second bullet tore off the top half of his left ear and gouged a deep cut in his scalp that bled horrifically, though the wound itself was slight enough. The impact of that second bullet had plunged Sharpe into an instant and merciful unconsciousness. The third bullet fractured Sharpe’s right thigh-bone just above the knee and tore the leg’s big artery. The blood puddled about the kitchen’s threshold.

      Lucille Castineau, once the shot was fired, had lowered the big smoking pistol and stared defiantly at Frederickson who was picking himself up from the mud outside the door. ‘Now shoot me,’ she said, and though her words sounded dramatic even to herself, she nevertheless felt at that moment as if her defiance embodied a prostrated and defeated France. Indeed, though she never admitted it to anyone but herself, at that proud instant she felt exactly like Joan of Arc herself.

      ‘We don’t even have weapons!’ Frederickson snapped the words in French, then shouted for water and rags. ‘Quick, woman!’ He tore his snake-buckled belt free and twisted it as a tourniquet round Sharpe’s right thigh. ‘Come on, woman! Help me, damn you!’

      ‘Why should we help you?’ Lucille was finding it hard to keep her Joan of Arc poise, but she managed to put a superb scorn into her voice. ‘You killed my brother!’

      Frederickson twisted the tourniquet as tight as it could go, then stared in shock at the tall and oddly calm woman. ‘Your brother’s dead?’

      ‘You killed him! Out there!’ She pointed to the yard.

      ‘Madame, I have never been here before.’ Frederickson turned and snapped at the boy, who had plucked up courage to creep close to the door, then turned again to Lucille. ‘You have my word of honour, Madame, as a British officer, that none of us has been here before, nor did any of us kill your brother whose death, believe me, I regret to the very depths of my soul. Now, Madame, will you please give me bandages and water. We need a doctor. Hurry!’ He twisted back to the door. ‘Sergeant Harper!’ He bellowed hugely into the night. ‘Sergeant Harper! Come here! Quick!’

      ‘Sweet Jesus.’ Lucille crossed herself, stared at the great pool of blood, and at last suspected that her certainty of who had murdered her family might be wrong. Then, because she was a practical woman, and because recriminations would have to wait, she tore a linen cloth into strips and sent the boy to fetch the doctor.

      While Sharpe, pale-faced and with a fluttering pulse, just groaned.

      Lord John Rossendale thought of himself as an honourable man; a decent, privileged and fair man. His greatest regret was that he had never been permitted to leave the Prince’s service to fight in the wars, for he suspected that in peace-time there would be an enviable reputation attached to those men who had brought their scars and swords back from Spain and France. He had asked to be allowed to join Wellington’s army often enough, but the Prince of Wales, Regent of England during his father’s bouts of madness, declared that he needed Rossendale’s company. ‘Johnny amuses me,’ the Prince would explain, and he tried to compensate for Rossendale’s disappointment by offering the young cavalryman promotion. Rossendale was now a full Colonel, though he was required to perform no military duties other than the elegant wearing of his dazzling uniform, which duty he could carry off to perfection.

      Rossendale was, indeed, privileged, but he was not unmindful of those less exalted officers who had carried the brunt of the war against Napoleon, which was why, when Jane Sharpe’s letter had first come to his attention, he had felt a pang of guilt and a start of compassion. He had also admired the snuff-box, though the gift was quite unnecessary, for Rossendale well remembered Major Sharpe and had preserved a great admiration for the Rifleman. Rossendale had therefore returned the snuff-box to Jane, and with it he had sent a charming note which asked Mrs Sharpe to do the honour of calling on Lord Rossendale at her leisure.

      Although Lord John remembered Sharpe very well, he had no exact recollection of Sharpe’s wife. He did dimly recall meeting a fair-haired girl for one evening, but Rossendale met many fair-haired girls and he could not be expected to remember each of them. He fully expected to find Mrs Jane Sharpe dull, for the woman came as a petitioner which would mean that Lord Rossendale must be forced to endure the tedium of her pathetic appeal, yet, for her husband’s sake, Lord Rossendale would do his decent best to oblige.

      Mrs Sharpe demonstrated an ominous desperation by calling on Lord Rossendale the very morning after he had returned the jewelled snuff-box. Lord Rossendale had been at the tables the night before and had lost heavily. He could not afford to lose heavily, and so he had drowned his disappointments