“Don’t change the subject, man,” snapped the duke, pulling himself together a bit. “Admit it—she offered you hedonistic and licentious pleasures known only to those who dabble in the carnal arts, didn’t she?”
The sergeant stood to attention and stared straight ahead.
“No, sir,” he said, in the manner of one speaking the truth come what may. “She offered me a bun.”
“Yes, sir. It had currants in it.”
Felmet sat absolutely still while he fought for internal peace. Finally, all he could manage was, “And what did your men do about this?”
“They had a bun too, sir. All except young Roger, who isn’t allowed fruit, sir, on account of his trouble.”
The duke sagged back on the window seat and put his hand over his eyes. I was born to rule down on the plains, he thought, where it’s all flat and there isn’t all this weather and everything and there are people who don’t appear to be made of dough. He’s going to tell me what this Roger had.
“He had a biscuit, sir.”