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

‘But you like it. I’ve seen you kill for it.’

‘You need the nourishment,’ Frederickson insisted, ‘I don’t.’

Sharpe frowned. ‘Is this place short of money?’ He knew that Madame Castineau spoke no English, so had no qualms about talking thus in front of her.

‘They’re poor as church mice, sir. Rich in land, of course, but that doesn’t help much these days, and they rather emptied the coffers on Henri’s betrothal party.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Sharpe sliced the ham into three ludicrously small portions. His actions were very clumsy for he could still not use his left arm. He distributed the meat evenly between the three plates. Madame Castineau began to protest, but Sharpe growled her to silence. ‘Tell her my wife will bring some money from England,’ he said.

Frederickson translated, then offered Lucille’s reply which was to the effect that she would accept no charity.

‘Tell the bloody woman to take what’s offered.’

‘I’ll hardly tell her that,’ Frederickson protested.

‘Damn her pride, anyway.’

Lucille blanched at the anger in Sharpe’s voice, then hurried into a long conversation in French with Frederickson. Sharpe scowled and picked at his food. Frederickson tried to include him in the conversation, but as it was about the château’s history, and the styles of architecture that history reflected, Sharpe had nothing to offer. He leaned his chair back and prayed that Jane would come soon. Surely, he persuaded himself, her previous silence had been an accident of the uncertain delivery of mail to the army. She would have already spoken to d’Alembord, and would doubtless welcome Harper’s arrival. Indeed, it was probable that Harper was already in London and Sharpe felt a welcome and warm hope that Jane herself might arrive at the château in less than a week.

Sharpe was suddenly aware that Frederickson had asked him a question. He let the chair fall forward and was rewarded with an agonizing stab of pain down his plastered right leg. ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’ he cursed, then, with a resentful glance at the widow, ‘I’m sorry. What is it, William?’

‘Madame Castineau is concerned because she told the Paris lawyer that we murdered her brother.’

‘So she damn well should be.’

Frederickson ignored Sharpe’s surly tone. ‘She wonders whether she should now write to Monsieur Roland and tell him that we are innocent.’

Sharpe glanced at the Frenchwoman and was caught by her very clear, very calm gaze. ‘No,’ he said decisively.

‘Non?’ Lucille frowned.

‘I think it best,’ Sharpe suddenly felt awkward under her scrutiny, ‘if the French authorities do not know where to find us. They still believe we stole their gold.’

Frederickson translated, listened to Lucille’s response, then looked at Sharpe. ‘Madame says her letter will surely persuade the authorities of our innocence.’

‘No!’ Sharpe insisted a little too loudly.

‘Why not?’ Frederickson asked.

‘Because the damned French have already faked evidence against us, so why should we trust them now? Tell Madame I have no faith in the honesty of her countrymen so I would be most grateful if, for so long as we are in her house, she would keep our presence a secret from Paris.’

Frederickson made a tactful translation, then offered Sharpe Lucille’s reply. ‘Madame says she would like to inform the authorities who was responsible for the murder of her mother and brother. She wants Major Ducos punished.’

‘Tell her I will punish Ducos. Tell her it will be my pleasure to punish Ducos.’

The tone of Sharpe’s voice made any translation unnecessary. Lucille looked at Sharpe’s face with its slashing scar that gave him such a mocking look, and she tried to imagine her brother, her gentle and kind brother, facing this awful man in battle, and then she tried to imagine what kind of woman would marry such a man. Frederickson began to interpret Sharpe’s reply, but Lucille shook her head. ‘I understood, Captain. Tell the Major that I will be for ever grateful if he can bring Major Ducos to justice.’

‘I’m not doing it for her,’ Sharpe said in curt dismissal, ‘but for me.’

There was an embarrassed pause, then Frederickson studiedly returned the conversation to the château’s history. Within minutes he and Lucille were again absorbed, while Sharpe, warm in the evening sun, dreamed his soldier’s dreams that were of home and love and happiness and revenge.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Patrick Harper liked London’s cheerfully robust chaos. He could not have contemplated living there, though he had relatives in Southwark, but he had enjoyed his two previous visits, and once again found an endless entertainment in the hawkers and street-singers. There were also enough Irish accents in the capital to make a Donegal man feel comfortable.

Yet he was not comfortable now. He should have been for he was sitting in a tavern with a pot of ale and a steak and oyster pie, yet a very unhappy Captain d’Alembord was threatening to capsize Harper’s well-ordered world.

‘I think I can understand why it has happened,’ d’Alembord said painfully, ‘I just don’t want to believe that it’s true.’

‘It’s not true, sir,’ Harper said stoutly, and in utter defiance of all Captain d’Alembord’s evidence. ‘Mrs Sharpe’s good as gold, so she is. Take me round there, sir, and she’ll be as happy as a child to see me.’

D’Alembord shrugged. ‘She quite refused to receive me again, and Lord Rossendale has ignored all my letters. I finally went to see Sir William Lawford. Do you remember him?’

‘Of course I remember One-armed Willy, sir.’ Sir William Lawford, now a member of Parliament, had commanded the Prince of Wales’s Own Volunteers until the French had removed one of his arms at Ciudad Rodrigo.

D’Alembord shook his head sadly. ‘Sir William assured me that Mrs Sharpe and Lord Rossendale are,’ d’Alembord paused, then said the damning word, ‘intimate. It could just be ill-natured gossip, of course.’

‘It must be nothing but gossip.’ Harper’s world was bounded by certainties, one of which was that a pledge of love was entirely unbreakable, which was why, though he was made very uncomfortable by these speculations about Jane Sharpe, he still refused to give them any credit. ‘I expect they’re just trying to help Mr Sharpe, sir, so it stands to reason that they have to spend a bit of time together. And you know how tongues start flapping when a man and woman spend time together. So why don’t we just walk round there and I’ll give her the Major’s letter, and I’ll warrant she’ll be as happy as a hog in butter when she reads it. I’ll just finish the pie first, if I might. Are you sure you wouldn’t want a bite of it yourself?’

‘You finish it, Sergeant-Major.’

‘I’m not a soldier any more, sir,’ Harper said proudly, then plucked at the hem of his new coat as proof. He had discarded the old clothes Madame Castineau had given him, and replaced them with a suit of thickly woven wool, stout boots, gaiters, and a neckcloth which he had purchased with part of the money he had left in London where, like Sharpe, he had sold his Vitoria jewels. He was clearly pleased with his purchases, which made him look like a prosperous farmer come to town. His only weapon now was a thick and ungainly cudgel. ‘I haven’t got my papers yet,’ he admitted to d’Alembord, ‘but once Mr Sharpe’s off the hook then I dare say he’ll get them.’

‘Be careful you’re not arrested.’

‘Who’d dare?’ Harper grinned and gestured towards the cudgel.

The pie finished and the ale drunk, the two men walked slowly westwards. It was a lovely spring evening. The sky was delicately veined with thin cloud beyond the gauzy pall of London’s smoke, and the new leaves in the squares and wider streets had still not been darkened by soot and so looked spring-bright and full of hope. The beauty of the evening infused Harper with a quite unwarranted optimism. ‘It’s going to be all right, sir, so it is,’ he insisted. ‘Just wait till Mrs Sharpe sees me! It’ll be grand to see the lass again!’ He dropped a coin into the upturned shako of a legless beggar. D’Alembord did not have the heart to tell Harper that the vast majority of wounded indigents were not, despite their remnants of army uniforms, veterans of the war, but were merely taking advantage of the generosity of officers home from France. ‘Have you thought,’ Harper went on, ‘of writing to Nosey?’

‘Nosey’ was the newly created Duke of Wellington who, for lack of any better government appointment in London, had just been made Ambassador to Paris. ‘I’ve written to him,’ d’Alembord said, ‘though I’ve had no reply.’

‘Nosey won’t let Mr Sharpe down, sir.’

‘He won’t defend him if he thinks he’s a murderer.’

‘We’ll just have to prove he isn’t.’ Harper tossed another penny, this time to a man with empty eye-sockets.

They turned into Cork Street where Harper sniffed his disapproval for the elegant houses. ‘Mr Sharpe will never live here, sir. She’ll have to change her tune a bit smartish, I can tell you! He’s set on the countryside, so he is.’

‘And I tell you she’s set her heart on London.’

‘But she’s the woman, isn’t she? So she’ll have to do what he wants.’ That was another of Harper’s unshakeable certainties.

‘Hold hard.’ D’Alembord put a hand on Harper’s arm. ‘That’s the house, see?’ He pointed to the far end of the street where a varnish-gleaming phaeton was drawn up outside Jane’s house. A pair of matching chestnuts were in the carriage shafts and an urchin was earning a few coins by holding the horses’ heads. ‘See her?’ D’Alembord was unable to hide the disgust he felt.

Jane was being handed down the steps by a very tall and very thin young man in the glittering uniform of a cavalry Colonel. He wore pale blue breeches, a dark blue jacket, and had a fur lined pelisse hanging from one shoulder. Jane was in a white dress covered by a dark blue cloak. The cavalryman helped her climb into the high, perilous seat of the phaeton which was an open sporting carriage much favoured by the rich and reckless.

‘That’s Lord Rossendale,’ d’Alembord said grimly.