Sharpe could, at least, be depended upon not to yell -- not indoors, at least. And not at a lady, however much he might not care for her. He would safe his sergeant's bellowing for the field. And for now he kept his voice low and measured, if clumsy in many other ways.

He ran a palm over his bruise. And shrugged. Might as well small-talk his way past this hurdle, first. "He'll come to a bad end, that one..." The soldier said it matter-of-factly. It wasn't quite a threat, but it wasn't quite not a threat either. "Him and his big mouth."