A dessert of oranges and burned sugar was served. Pohlmann eagerly spooned the rich sauce into his mouth, then looked at Sharpe. “You think the war is lost, Sharpe?”

“Me, sir?” Sharpe was startled at being addressed.

“You, Sharpe, yes, you,” Pohlmann said. “Do you think the war is lost?”

Sharpe hesitated, wondering whether the wisest course was to say something harmless and let the conversation go on again without him, but he had been offended by Cromwell’s defeatism. “It certainly isn’t over, my lord,” he said to Pohlmann.

Cromwell recognized the challenge. “What do you mean by that, sir, eh? Explain yourself.”

“A fight ain’t lost till it’s finished, sir,” Sharpe said, “and this one ain’t done.”

“An ensign speaks,” Lord William murmured scornfully.

“You think a rat has a chance against a terrier?” Cromwell demanded, just as scornfully.

Pohlmann held up a hand to stop Sharpe from responding. “I think Ensign Sharpe knows a good deal about fighting, Captain,” the German said. “When I first met him he was a sergeant, and now he is a commissioned officer.” He paused, letting that statement cause its stir of surprise. “What does it take for a sergeant to become an officer in the British army?”

“Damned luck,” Lord William said laconically.

“It takes an act of outstanding bravery,” Major Dalton observed quietly. He raised his wine glass to Sharpe. “Honored to make your acquaintance, Sharpe. I didn’t place the name when we were introduced, but I recall you now. I’m honored.”

Pohlmann, enjoying his mischief, toasted Sharpe with a sip of wine. “So what was your act of outstanding bravery, Mister Sharpe?”

Sharpe reddened. Lady Grace was staring at him, the first notice she had taken of him since the company had sat to dinner.