Meanwhile in the drawing room of Camberley Place
Lord Frederick stood at the window, looking out. “The storm’s let up. They ought to be back by now.” He turned back to Lady Charles. “I don’t like this.”
She refilled her glass. “It isn’t up to you.”
“It has to be up to somebody.”
“Ashmont isn’t a child. It’s time he took responsibility for his life. You can’t protect him forever.”
“And you?” he said. “You kept Ashmont’s fiancée from him when he came here.”
“I did nothing of the sort. She wasn’t here at the time.”
“You didn’t tell him the whole truth. Whom were you protecting?”
“Olympia. From marrying the wrong man. Because the right one was too slow-witted to see what was under his nose.”
There was a short, taut pause. Something passed between them. Unseen, unspoken. But felt.
Neither of them acknowledged it. They were both old hands at concealment.
If something flickered in her ladyship’s eyes, it might have been a trick of the light. If a faint red tinged his lordship’s cheekbones, it was from the same cause.
He said, coolly enough, “And you thought you’d give him a little time, and he’d come to his senses.”
“Yes.”
“And what if it takes years?”
The words as it did me might have hung in the short silence. Or maybe not.
Lady Charles laughed and said, “Until it’s too late? In that case, I shall comfort myself with the knowledge that I tried.”
“You put your oar in, you mean.”
If only someone had done so then . . .
“Habit,” she said. “I’ve been doing it for most of his life. You and I have that much in common.”
“Yes, and I’m too old to break the habit now,” he said. “This is the last, best chance that wretched nephew of mine has. I won’t see him make the same mistake . . . so many others do.”
“If he doesn’t make mistakes, how will he learn?”
“That’s a chance I’m not going to take. I’ve waited long enough, I think. For all I know, they’ve gone.”
“Why would they go?” she said. “All they’ve done is take shelter from the storm, separately or individually. You’re jumping to conclusions. That isn’t like you.”
“You don’t know what I’m like,” he said. “But we both know what Ripley’s like. And I have a good idea what he’s going to do.”
What I should have done when I had the chance.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re too late to change anything. You were too late before you came.”
“We’ll see.” He bowed. “I bid you good day, my lady.”
She didn’t curtsey in turn but moved swiftly to the doorway and stood, blocking his way. She smiled. “Ah, no, not quite yet, sir.”
“Woof!” said Cato, behind her.
Chapter 15
As they made their way to the stables, Ripley was more aware of the infernal ankle than he had leisure to be. He was cursing it in his mind when he saw Olympia move off the path and pick up a stout branch.
She held it out to him. “Walking stick,” she said. “Use it.”
“I don’t need a bloody crutch.”
“Is it possible, or do I ask too much, for you to set aside your manly pride for a moment and approach the matter in a calm and logical fashion?”
“I’m perfectly calm,” he lied.
“Let’s take this in steps, then,” she said, much in the same way he’d talked to her when she was drunk. “We are proceeding as quickly as possible to the stables because we have to get to London, you told me, as soon as possible.”
“To get married as soon as possible.” He mimicked her patient tone. “To do this, we need a special license. Which means I must pay a visit to Doctors’ Commons. And hope they don’t keep me there for hours while the word goes round the place that the Duke of Ripley is frantic to marry Lady Olympia Hightower, and the Archbishop of Canterbury himself summons me to explain. Because, you see, he might remember that he recently granted the Duke of Ashmont a special license to marry the same lady.”
“I understand,” she said. “What I should like is for you not to break your neck before we’re married. Because, you see, if you die, you can’t marry me, and then I shall be in rather a pickle, don’t you think?”
“A pickle?” He laughed.
“I had a good idea how babies were made,” she said, and he stopped laughing. “Thanks to you, I now know precisely how human beings make them. I don’t know what the odds are of our having started one. I do know that the practical and sensible thing to do is to be married to its father before it’s born.”
It was like a kick in the gut. Yet he had no business to be startled. He knew how babies were made. He should have had the courtesy to withdraw, a courtesy he’d extended how many times to other women?
“I won’t break my neck,” he said, face hot.
She held out the stick. She wore a look he recognized.
It was the same look she’d worn in the courtyard at the White Lion in Putney. With the blusterer who refused to back down from a ridiculous position.
Ripley took the stick and used it.
When they got to the stables, he did the practical and sensible thing and ordered the landau instead of the curricle. This meant an eternity of waiting for the horses to be put in harness and everything inspected and the coachman, John, to ensconce himself upon his throne.
But the shock she’d administered cleared Ripley’s mind wonderfully.
Only a reckless halfwit would travel with Olympia in a small sporting vehicle, when the weather was changing every minute. A curricle’s hood wasn’t enough to fully keep out the wet. And the wet and the bumps of the less luxurious vehicle would make her fret about his ankle and his needing a comfortable seat on which to rest it. He’d be suicidally foolish not to give the ankle as much rest as possible, considering what lay ahead. More important, in the landau, with the hood closed, he’d enjoy the added benefit of four or five hours’ privacy with Olympia while somebody else drove.
Though it took forever, they did set out at last, unhindered.
Lord Frederick’s horse hadn’t yet been sent for. He must still be busy quarreling with Aunt Julia, which meant there was a reasonable chance of his not traveling too close behind them. An encounter would be awkward, and Ripley was in no mood to explain matters to Ashmont’s manipulative go-between. It had to be face-to-face, friend to false, traitorous friend.
Ripley had told the stable men to keep mum and not answer questions until they were asked. With luck, word wouldn’t travel from the stables back to the house too soon. With luck, nobody would start asking soon. With luck, it’d be assumed he and Olympia had, either separately or together, taken shelter from the storm. Since the skies hadn’t cleared, it might be a while before anybody decided to come looking for them.
In order not to trust entirely to luck, though, he told the stable men to take their time about sending Lord Frederick’s horse to him.
Luck was with them for the journey, at any rate.
Though it rained from time to time, the thunderstorm didn’t seem to follow them.
They reached London before nightfall.
Then it was on to Gonerby House.
Where they encountered a mob of family, including the Newlands, all swarming in within minutes of Olympia and Ripley’s entering the vestibule.
After the first cries had died down somewhat, the swarm bore the travelers into the drawing room, where an odor of fresh paint prevailed and a set of steps blocked a door. Renovations still ongoing, in other words.
There the uproar began to swell again.
Ripley said, “Enough.”
He was a duke. The tide of noise receded.
“Thank you for the thrilling welcome,” he said. “Thing is, not helpful to talk to everybody, all at once. Only Lord Gonerby. Ah, and Lord Newland.
Your counsel would be appreciated.” Unlike his brother-in-law, the Marquess of Newland kept both feet planted firmly on the ground. “If we three might adjourn to another room. A matter of business.”
All about Ripley, eyes widened. Gazes went from him to Olympia and back again. Confusion reigned for a moment. Then the two older ladies, at least, seemed to begin to form a picture in their heads. Judging by their expressions, they found the picture perplexing.
“Your study, Lord Gonerby?” Ripley said. “The library? Not here, in other words. Gentlemen’s business to see to. As soon as is convenient.”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Gonerby said. “But—”
“Papa, the duke is famished,” Olympia said. “We’ve been on the road for several hours, with only the shortest stops. Moreover, as I mentioned in my letter, he is injured. It would be a good thing if he could put his foot up. Perhaps the buts could wait until you take him to a quiet room and he’s been given some refreshment and allowed to rest his ankle.”
It wasn’t the Voice of Command she’d used on the bully at the White Lion. Nonetheless, it was a voice that got things done and had a remarkable subduing effect on the listeners.
Ripley had grown up in a very small family, and he’d spent the bulk of his youth at school, away from his parents and sister, or in the peace of Camberley Place. He wasn’t used to so much . . . family. Voices. Chaos. At Gonerby House, everybody had something to say. Even the little boys.