A Duke in Shining Armor

“She was kind,” Ashmont had said. “Not in a simpering, sentimental girl way at all, but very matter-of-fact and calm, rather like a fellow. And I must say, I was quite taken with her. And it was no use, when I mentioned her to Uncle Fred later, his telling me I wasn’t worthy of her or up to her brain level and other nay-sayings. ‘That’s up to her, isn’t it?’ I told him. Then I set about the wooing. It was uphill work, I tell you. But she said yes in the end, didn’t she? And wasn’t Lord Fred amazed when I told him. He even clapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘So you had it in you, after all.’”

Ashmont had been elated to get the better of his manipulative uncle for once. However, as Ripley saw it, Lord Frederick Beckingham had seen an opportunity and made the most of it. Telling Ashmont he couldn’t have or do something was a sure way to make him do it.

Not that it mattered, in the end, as long as Ashmont was pleased and the girl knew what she was getting into. Which she must do, if she was as intelligent as believed.

The problem was, the wedding didn’t seem to be proceeding as smoothly as it ought, Ashmont was bored with waiting, and a bored Ashmont was a dangerous article.

Ripley glanced at his brother-in-law. Blackwood—dark, like Ripley, but sleeker and better-looking by far—raised one black eyebrow in inquiry. Ripley lifted his shoulders.

Blackwood made his unhurried way to them.

“Don’t see what the fuss is about a hem,” Ashmont said. “At the bottom, isn’t it? Well, then.”

“If she trips on it and falls on her face—”

“I’ll catch ’er,” Ashmont said.

Ripley looked at Blackwood.

They both looked at Ashmont. He was in his altitudes, beyond a doubt. He had all he could do to stand upright.

If the bride didn’t appear soon, one of two things would happen: At best, the bridegroom would sink into a stupor and subside ungracefully to the floor. At worst, he’d pick a fight with somebody.

“’Nuff o’ this,” Ashmont said. “I’m goin’ t’ get her.”

He started for the door, and stumbled. Blackwood caught him by the shoulder. “Good idea,” he said. “No point hanging about in here.”

He caught Ripley’s eye. Ripley took the other side, and they guided their friend out of the drawing room.

With the guests milling about the trays of champagne, they encountered only servants in the passage.

“Where?” Blackwood said.

“Downstairs,” Ripley said.

“Not down,” Ashmont said. “She’s up. There.” He pointed, his finger making unsteady curlicues in the air.

“Bad luck,” Ripley said. “Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

“Was ’spectin’ to see her at the weddin’,” Ashmont said.

They led him toward the stairs, and then, not easily, down them.

“This way,” Ripley said.

Though he’d been in Newland House before, that was ages ago. He wasn’t sure of the ground floor layout. In an old house of this kind he’d expect a breakfast or dining room and, possibly, a library. Not that the type of room mattered.

They needed to get Ashmont away from drink as well as anybody he might decide to quarrel with, which was more or less everybody.

He and Blackwood guided their friend toward a door standing at a safe distance from the main staircase. Ripley opened the door.

The first thing he saw was white, miles of it, as though a cloud had slid into what he was distantly aware was a library. But clouds didn’t wear white satin slippers and clocked stockings, and did not stand upon a set of library steps.

“Oops,” Blackwood said.

“Dammit, Olympia,” Ashmont said. “What the devil are you about?” He tried to break away from his friends.

Ripley said, “Get him out of here.”

“No, you don’t, blast you,” Ashmont said. “Got to talk to her. Can’t botch this.”

In his present state, this was exactly what he’d do.

Ripley gave Blackwood their patented What Do We Do Now? look.

“Bad luck,” Blackwood told Ashmont. “Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

As he hauled the protesting Ashmont back into the corridor, he said over his shoulder to Ripley, “He put you in charge of wedding details. Do something.”

“The ring,” Ripley said. “The license. Ready money where required. Not the bride.”

“Do something,” Blackwood said.

Once more Ripley opened the door.

The library steps nearby held nobody. A sound drew his gaze to the windows. He saw a flurry of white. Ashmont’s intended was struggling with the window latch.

Ripley crossed the room in a few easy strides.

“Funny thing,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a wedding?”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “You might give the blushing bride some help. The latch is stuck.”

He caught a whiff of brandy mingled with a flowery fragrance.

Though his brain wasn’t at its sharpest at the moment, he could sum up the situation easily enough: drunken bride at window with the aim of getting out.

There was a problem here.

“Why?” he said.

“How should I know why it’s stuck?” she said. “Do I look like a plumber to you? Or what-you-call-it. Glazier.” She nodded. “Window person.”

“Not being a window person, I may not be qualified to help with this sort of thing,” he said.

“Rise above yourself,” she said. “I’m the damsel in distress. And you—” She turned her head to look at him. She stared at the knot of his neckcloth, approximately at her eye level. Then her eyes narrowed and her gaze moved upward.

Behind the spectacles, her grey eyes were red-rimmed.

She’d been crying.

Obviously Ashmont had said or done something to upset her. Nothing new in that. His tongue often got well ahead of his brain. Not that any of them were gifted in the tact department.

“Plague take it,” she said. “You. You’re back.”

“Ah, you noticed.” He felt strangely pleased. But champagne usually had that effect, even in small doses.

“You’re over six feet tall,” she said, tipping her head back. “You’re standing right in front of me. I’m shortsighted, not blind. Even without my spectacles I could hardly fail to recognize you, even at a more distant . . . distance. Which I prefer you were. At.” She made a shooing motion. “Go away. I only want a breath of air. In . . . erm . . . Kensington Gardens.”

“In your wedding dress,” he said.

“I cannot take it off and put it back on again as though it were a cloak.” She spoke with the extreme patience more usually applied to infants of slow understanding. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s raining,” he said with matching patience.

She turned her head and peered at the window. Rain droplets made wriggly trails down the glass.

She gave him a grandiose wave of dismissal. “Never mind—if you’re going to fuss about every little thing.” She turned back to the latch and recommenced trying to strangle it. This time it surrendered.

She pushed open the window. “Adieu,” she said.

And climbed through, in a flutter of satin and lace.

Ripley stood for a moment, debating.

She wanted to go, and he deemed it unsporting to hold women against their will.

He could go back and tell Ashmont his bride was bolting.

He could go back and tell one of the men in her family.

She wasn’t Ripley’s problem.

She was Ashmont’s problem.

True, Ashmont had put Ripley in charge of the wedding. True, Ashmont had seemed unusually concerned about getting it right. And true, Ripley had promised to take care of things: hold on to the ring, supply coins as needed, make sure Ashmont did what he was supposed to do.

Retrieving the bride wasn’t in the agreement.

She oughtn’t to need retrie

ving.

Just because she’d been drunk and crying . . .

“Damn,” he said.