Sylvester stiffened his shoulders as he prepared to enter the room.

"Lord Stoneridge, sir." The servant announced him.

"Ah, Sylvester, welcome." All smiles, Neil came across the room, hand extended. "Before you ask about my eye, I took a tumble from my horse. Now, you know everyone, of course."

"Of course. But it's been a long time," Sylvester said deliberately.

"Too long," Fortescue declared, grasping his hand in a warm clasp. "Why the hell did you resign in such a hurry, man?"

"A head wound is no light matter, Peter," Sylvester said. "It still plagues me."

His old friend examined him closely. He seemed to be hesitating, and Sylvester guessed he was about to bring up Vimiera, but his eyes were puzzled rather than hostile.

Before he could do so, however, Gerard spoke with brisk heartiness. "A glass of claret, Sylvester, and come to the fire." And the other two men moved forward with their own greeting, and the moment was past.

And it never came again. There was to be no opportunity to air the subject; it was as if it had never happened. For a moment Sylvester thought how easy it would be to settle for that. People were willing to forgive and forget… to give him the benefit of the doubt. He could resume a normal life. Except that he couldn't live with himself any longer; he could no longer live under the shadow of cowardice. And then, of course, there was the fact that Gerard had tried to kill him.

As the evening wore on, he watched Gerard and recognized with the eye of experience the man's fear, the edge of near panic in the flat eyes. How often during their boyhood had he seen it? He was filled with a depthless disgust for the man, a disgust far greater and more potent than simple anger, and realized that he'd always felt it to some extent, even in their schooldays when he'd tried to persuade the boy to stand up to the bullies.

And how had he acquired that black eye and split lip this time? Not in the corridors of Westminster School, certainly, but his face had come into contact with more than the hard ground.

As they sat around the card table, it was clear to everyone that Neil's game of whist was distracted, infuriating the captain, who was his partner. As the party broke up, Major Fortescue voiced the opinion of the group.

"You serve too fine a claret, m'boy, for a man who's not the world's best card player." He flung an arm around Gerard's shoulder. "Damn fine claret it was. Can't say I blame you for over-imbibing."

"Well, I can," the captain grumbled. "Lost me fifty pound clear, you have, Gerard. I should have let Barney have my place."

Sylvester wondered why he had been the only one to notice that Gerard drank little. Deliberately he hung back as the others left.

"Another glass, Sylvester?" Neil didn't sound too enthusiastic as he made the offer out of courtesy.

"Thank you." Sylvester sat down beside the fire, blandly ignoring the reluctant tone. "An excellent evening, Neil. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

Smiling, he accepted a refilled glass and calmly began the hunt. "Tell me, did you discuss Vimiera with our friends before I arrived?"

Neil's eyes shifted and then he smiled stiffly. "A word, perhaps. We're all agreed that the story's dead as the proverbial dodo. No point ruining good friendships over it. You'll not find it mentioned again by anyone."

"I do indeed stand in your debt," Sylvester said thoughtfully, his eyes hooded so that his companion couldn't see their sardonic glitter. "I know it's been a long time, but could you tell me again exactly what happened to you that afternoon?"

Gerard's lips thinned. He moved a hand through the air in a vaguely dismissive motion. "It'll do no one any good to go through it again, Sylvester."

"You were coming up in support. Did you see me surrender?"

Gerard closed his eyes as if the memory were too painful. "As I said at the court-martial, I wasn't with you when you surrendered, so I can have no opinion on the matter. The facts spoke for themselves."

"But you were coming up in support?"

"Yes. As it had been agreed at the battle plan."

"With a sizable force?" Sylvester probed slowly.

"A hundred and fifty men."

"Then why in the name of grace would I have surrendered?" Sylvester raised his head and fixed Neil Gerard with a piercing stare. "Goddammit, man. I was told they slaughtered half my men like pigs after they'd taken the colors. They had a damn good try at slaughtering me."

"I don't have the answer, Gilbraith." Neil stood up abruptly. "No one will ever know the truth, so why don't you just let sleeping dogs lie?"

Sylvester rose to his feet also and said deliberately, "I can't do that, Neil. I can't live with the possibility that I might have done something so dastardly. I have to find out what happened." He watched the other man's face closely and saw the panic flare, a naked flame, in Gerard's flat brown eyes.

He set his glass on the table, and the click of glass on mahogany sounded in the silence like the clash of cymbals. He shrugged with an assumption of carelessness.

"Ah, well, I must take my leave. I trust I haven't outstayed my welcome, but it's good to spend an evening like the old days," he said cheerfully, strolling into the hall. "I'll just have to trust that my memory of that half hour, or however long it was, returns." He took his hat and cape from the servant.

"Thank you again, Gerard, for a most pleasant evening." His smile was friendly, his eyes devoid of all expression as he shook his host's hand. Then he frowned. "What was the name of your sergeant? The one who testified at the court-martial. Savage-looking piece of work, but a useful man to have beside one in a fight, I'd imagine."

Gerard shook his head. "I don't recall his name."

"Pity. I might have tracked him down. Well, good night again."

He walked rapidly down the two steps of the narrow house onto the pavement, turned, and raised a hand in farewell. Gerard's face was thrown into relief by the lamplit hall behind him. His expression was one of pure terror, and the fingers of his right hand worried at his black and swollen eye. Then the door closed and the light was gone.

Jud O'Flannery had been the monosyllabic sergeant. Sylvester could see his face with that eye patch and the great scarlet cicatrix slashing his cheek as clearly as if it were yesterday.

And the passing reference to the man had brought that look of terror to Gerard's battered, cowardly face.

Sylvester stood for a minute on the pavement, looking thoughtfully toward the flickering gas jets lighting Piccadilly at the far end of the street, before he turned to walk in the opposite direction to Curzon Street.

Neil Gerard flung on his coat and left the house by the back alley. He strode to Jermyn Street, to a house where he was well-known, where his tastes were as well-known and readily catered to. The little girl they brought him, dressed in a spotted pinafore, her hair in pigtails, trembled convincingly and wept and screamed most satisfactorily at the appropriate moments. But her eyes were sharp and knowing even through the pain he inflicted with a savage need to make someone pay for his terror.