“Well?” The naval captain’s voice betrayed a gleeful anticipation of the imminent argument.

Jane defused the confrontation. “My husband, Captain, is sensitive to the language of fighting men.”

The captain, not certain whether he was being complimented or mocked, chose to accept the words as a tribute to his gallantry. He glanced at Sharpe, looking from the Rifleman’s face to the new, unfaded cloth of the green jacket. The newness of the uniform evidently suggested that Sharpe, despite the scar on his face, was fresh to the war. The captain smiled superciliously. “Doubtless, Major, your delicacy will be sore tested by French bullets.”

Jane, delighted at the opening, smiled very sweetly. “I’m sure Major Sharpe is grateful for your opinion, sir.”

That brought a satisfying reaction; a shudder of astonishment and fear on the annoying, plump face of the young naval officer. He took an involuntary step backwards, then, remembering the cause of the near quarrel, bowed to Jane. “My apologies, Mrs Sharpe, if I caused offence.”

“No offence, Captain…?” Jane inflected the last word into a question.

The captain bowed again. “Bampfylde, ma’am. Captain Horace Bampfylde. And allow me to name my lieutenant, Ford.”

The introductions were accepted gracefully, as tokens of peace, and Sharpe, outflanked by effusive politeness, sat. “The man’s got no bloody manners,” he growled loudly enough to be overheard by the two naval officers.

“Perhaps he didn’t have your advantages in life?” Jane suggested sweetly, but again the scene beyond the window distracted the naval men from the barbed comments.

“Christ!” Captain Bampfylde, careless of the risk of offending a dozen ladies in the dining-room, shouted the word. The outraged anger in his voice brought an immediate hush and fixed the attention of everyone in the room on the small, impertinent drama that was unfolding on the winter-cold sea.