Colonel Boucicault nodded.
"Yes, before the whole regiment with the exception of this gentleman who had—what was it—the toothache?" He lifted his glass towards Radcliffe, whose boyish face had whitened under the taunt. "Allow me to congratulate you on your taste in champagne, sir. You should be invaluable on the mess committee at any rate."
Radcliffe's lips twitched but he made no answer, and it was Sigrid Fersen who spoke. She bent down, stroking Wickie's pointed ears with a deliberate hand.
"Wasn't the execution a trifle ostentatious, Colonel Boucicault?" she asked.
He stared back at her, an ugly smile at the corner of his lips.
"It was meant to be ostentatious. I'm afraid I cannot always consider the delicate female nerves."
"My nerves weren't upset," she returned levelly. "I'm not afraid of anything."
"Indeed?" He seemed to meditate a moment, as though something either in her voice or appearance struck him, then jerked his head in Anne's direction. "My orderly told me there was a messenger for me. Bring him here."
"Here, father?"
"That was what I said."