The navy lad was holding a Christmas Ball next month and Richard Sharpe knew that he was by no means obligated to attend. Hell's teeth, he hadn't even been obligated to attend such events when at home -- preferring to duck out of the officer's mess and join the men instead, not because their welcome was any warmer but because their scorn was more familiar than the scorn of his betters. He knew how to counter the gruff mumbles and hard looks, but not so much the frigid faux-courtesy provided by his fellow officers.

At least he could thump his own men something awful if they got too out of hand.

But -- no -- Sharpe would attend this ball because the lads here weren't so awful and because it seemed like the thing to do just to stave off boredom. So now he stood in the clothing shop and plucked at linen shirts and jackets and knew that none of them would quite be the same as his dress uniform, even if his dress uniform was uncomfortable enough.

He was just shrugging out of a far-too-ornate jacket when the behemoth walked in. Bloody. Hell. The man was taller than him, certainly. Taller than Harper, surprisingly. Taller than Dresden, amazingly.

The rifleman laughed into the back of his hand. "Good luck finding anythin' in yer size, mate."