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skirmishers—the
cacadores
—with a curly-haired young lady on his arm.
    â€œBob,” he said, “why are you not dancing? Never tell me that you cannot.”
    Captain Blake shrugged.
    â€œSophia wishes to dance with you,” the lieutenant said. “Don’t you, my love?”
    He grinned down at the girl, who looked blankly at him and at Captain Blake.
    â€œIt would help if you talked Portuguese to the poor girl,” Major Campion said. “I suppose she speaks not a word of English, João?”
    The lieutenant continued to grin at her. “She is hot for me,” he said, still in heavily accented English. “Now, if I could just separate her from her chaperone and her mother and father, perhaps . . .” He raised the girl’s hand to his lips. “You want to dance with her, Bob? I daresay I will not be permitted the next.”
    â€œNo,” the captain said shortly.
    â€œBob, Bob,” Captain Lord Ravenhill said with a sigh, reaching up with a finger and thumb to smooth the outer edges of his mustache, “what are we to do with you? You have none of the social graces.”
    â€œAnd have never craved any of them,” Captain Blake said, nettled despite the fact that he knew his friends’ teasing to be good-natured.
    â€œIf you could dance as well as you fight,” the major said, “the rest of us might take ourselves back to our beds while the ladies flocked to you, Bob. From private to captain in how many years?”
    â€œA little over ten,” the captain said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He did not particularly enjoy being reminded that he had taken the almost insurmountable step up from the ranks to a commission without the aid of either influence or purchase. It was easier, he had found since being promoted from sergeant to ensign in India, to do the deed of exceptional bravery that had made possible the promotion than to live with the fact that his place was now with officers rather than the enlisted men. Socially he did not belong. “I was fortunate. I happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
    Lord Ravenhill slapped him on the back and bellowed with laughter. “You have been in more right places at more right timesthan anyone else in the army, if I have heard the facts correctly,” he said. “Come out of the corner, Bob. There are doubtless people here who would be fascinated to converse with a genuine hero. Let me introduce you to some of them.”
    â€œI am going home,” Captain Blake said.
    â€œHome being the hospital or the arms of the delectable Beatriz?” Lord Ravenhill asked. “No, really, Bob, it won’t do, old chap. The marquesa is supposed to be coming tonight. She has been in Lisbon for a few days already. If you think your Beatriz lovely, you must stay and gaze upon true beauty.”
    â€œThe marquesa?” Captain Blake frowned. “Who in hell is she?”
    â€œIn heaven, my boy, in heaven,” Lord Ravenhill said, kissing two fingers. “The Marquesa das Minas, the toast of Lisbon. The streets are strewn with her slain admirers—slain by one glance from her dark eyes, that is. And you ask ‘Who in hell is she?’ Stay and you will see for yourself.”
    â€œI am leaving,” the captain said firmly. “I agreed to an hour and have been here an hour and ten minutes.” He downed the wine that remained in his glass.
    â€œToo late, Bob,” the major said with a laugh. “That extra buzz and excitement at the door is the signal that she has arrived. One glance will root you to the spot for another hour and ten minutes at the very least, take my word on it.”
    â€œAnd how,” Lieutenant Freire said in English, smiling pleasantly down at the girl on his arm, “am I to divest myself of this encumbrance so that I may fall at the feet of the marquesa and pay my homage?”
    â€œYou return her to