The man lay on his belly, anxiously twisting his head to see what Sharpe was doing. “I wouldn’t watch, miss,” Sharpe said to Astrid, then put a finger to his mouth to show that she should be silent.

He had a problem now. The Frenchman had seen Sharpe put the finger to his lips and must have realized that noise was his best friend, which meant Sharpe was unwilling to shoot him because the sound of the pistol would bring the other intruders into the parlor. The man took a deep breath and Sharpe, desperate, kicked him brutally hard in the throat. He hurt his foot, for he had no boots, but he hurt the Frenchman even more. Astrid gasped and the man began to choke as he clutched his gullet and his feet drummed on the floor. Sharpe dropped on the man’s back to hold him still. He needed to make the man senseless, but that would take a deal of violence and must inevitably make more noise. Skovgaard’s expensive pistols, though deadly, were not heavy enough to use as clubs. The Frenchman, catching his breath, tried to heave Sharpe off his back so Sharpe hit him hard, bouncing the man’s skull off the floorboards, but he still tried to twist Sharpe off. Sharpe hit him again, this time so hard that the man went momentarily still and so gave Sharpe a chance to put the pistol down. He took out his folding knife and pulled out the blade. “Eyes closed, miss,” he said grimly.

“What… ”

“Shhh,” Sharpe said. “Tell the others to close their eyes. Quick now.”

Astrid whispered something in Danish as Sharpe felt the man tense under him. The Frenchman was about to make another effort to dislodge Sharpe, but the rifleman stabbed once with the short-bladed knife. It only took one thrust, right into the base of the skull, and the Frenchman gave a surprisingly strong spasm and then seemed to sigh. That was the only noise he made and there was remarkably little blood. Sharpe pulled the dead man’s collar up to conceal the wound, wiped the knife clean on the corpse’s coat, then stood. “You can open your eyes now,” he said.

Astrid stared at Sharpe, then at the dead man.

“He’s just sleeping,” Sharpe said. He picked up the man’s pistol. It was a clumsy thing compared to Skovgaard’s sophisticated weapons, but it was loaded and gave him three shots. Four men and one woman left. “Are there any guns in this room?” Sharpe asked Astrid.

She shook her head.

He knelt by the corpse and searched its clothes, but the man had no other weapons. So, three shots and five targets. He went to the door and put his ear to the wood. He could hear voices. Then he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, there was a pause and sudden feet on the hall floor. Sharpe waited a heartbeat, then eased the parlor door open an inch.

“He’s gone!” Barker said.

“He can’t have gone.” That was Lavisser’s voice.

“He’s gone!” Barker insisted.

Sharpe imagined Lavisser glancing at the shutters. That opportunely open window could only be explained by Sharpe’s otherwise inexplicable absence. “Look outside,” Lavisser said, “and be careful.”

The woman spoke, using French, then Lavisser talked in Danish. There was a pause, then Skovgaard, for it could be no one else, gave a shout that turned into a terrible groan and a yelp of pain. Astrid gasped and Sharpe whipped round and put his finger to his lips.

Skovgaard shouted again. It was the sound men made on the battlefield when they were wounded and did not want to scream. It was involuntary, a wordless exhalation of pain. Sharpe pointed at Astrid. “Stay here,” he said firmly, then pulled open the parlor door. Barker was probably in the garden by now, so that left four targets and three shots. What had Baird called him? A thug. So he would be a thug now, and a damned good one. He crossed the hall and saw that the study door was ajar. He dared not push it open further for the hinges squealed so badly, but he wished he could see more of what was going on in the study. He could just make out that Skovgaard had been tied to the chair behind his desk on which stood a lantern, and in its light Sharpe could see that the front of Skovgaard’s nightshirt was drenched in blood. Then he saw a man lean forward and force the Dane’s mouth open. The man held a pair of pliers. They were making him talk.

A second man came into view to help keep Skovgaard’s mouth open. The Dane tried to clamp his jaws shut, but the second man used a knife to force his teeth apart. The woman spoke. Skovgaard shook his head and the pliers’ jaws closed on one of his teeth. Skovgaard groaned and made a huge effort to shake his head, but one of the men struck him hard across the skull. Then the Dane moaned as the pliers began to exert pressure.

Sharpe fired at the man wielding the pliers.

He used one of Skovgaard’s rifled nistols and it was as accurate as it was beautiful. He had expected the long-rifled barrel to give the gun a heavy kick and so he had aimed a little low, but the weapon was so exquisitely balanced that it hardly quivered. It jetted smoke halfway across the study as the ball struck the man in his neck. A jet of blood fountained up over Skovgaard’s desk. Sharpe dropped the gun, plucked Skovgaard’s second pistol from his belt and pushed the door fully open. The man who had been holding Skovgaard’s head was quick, incredibly quick, and he was already bringing up a pistol and so Sharpe, who had reckoned to take Lavisser with his second shot, fired at him instead. Smoke thickened in the room, shrouding Sharpe’s targets, but he had the third pistol in his grip now and he aimed it at Lavisser, who had seized the woman’s hand and was pulling her toward the open window. Sharpe fired. The Frenchman’s heavy pistol kicked like a mule and made far more noise than the expensive guns. He heard the crash of breaking glass.

Someone squealed in pain, then Lavisser and the woman disappeared into the night. Smoke writhed about the room as Sharpe ran to Skovgaard’s side. The Dane stared in astonishment, blood trickling down his long chin. Sharpe ducked down behind the desk so that he offered no target to anyone in the garden. The second man he had shot was lying against the wall, twitching, and his pistol was on the floor. Sharpe picked the weapon up, then hurled the lantern into the fireplace. The lamp glass shattered and the study was plunged into darkness.

He went to the window, knelt and peered into the garden. He could see no one, so he closed the metal shutters and put the bar into place. Lavisser, it seemed, had fled. The three shots, coming in such quick succession, must have convinced him that he was up against more than one man.

“Mister Sharpe?” Skovgaard said from the darkness. His voice was slurred.

“Aren’t you glad Britain sent an aging lieutenant?” Sharpe asked savagely. He crossed to the desk and leaned on it so his face was close to Skovgaard. “And damn you, you bloody fool.” He spat the words. “Damn you to bloody hell and all the bloody way back, but I was not sent to kill the Crown Prince.”

“I believe you,” Skovgaard said humbly. His voice was thick because of the blood in his mouth.

“And that was your hero Lavisser, you fat-headed bastard.”

Sharpe, still angry, went to the parlor. “Your father needs water and towels,” he told Astrid curtly, then picked up the lamp and went back to the study.

There were shouts outside the house. The coachmen and stable boys had evidently been woken by the shots and were now asking for reassurance from Skovgaard or his daughter. “Are those the two men who were with you earlier?” Sharpe asked Skovgaard who was still tied to the chair.

Skovgaard jerked his head toward the shutters. “That is them,” he said indistinctly.

“Are they guards?”

“A coachman and a groom.”

Sharpe cut Skovgaard free and the Dane went to the window to reassure the men outside while Sharpe knelt beside the wounded Frenchman, except he was a dead man now. He had bled to death. Sharpe swore.