A Duke in Shining Armor

As though dogs didn’t always look famished.

“He’s a dog,” she said. “He won’t remember.”

“Dinner!” Ripley shouted. “Rabbits. Delicious rabbits!”

“Squirrels!” she called. “Foxes!”

“Badgers! Weasels! Beef, thick and bloody, the way you like it!”

They went on calling, and the lurcher went on running, in zigzags and in circles, sometimes coming nearer to them, and other times dashing farther away.

She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled. The dog paused and looked toward her.

She heard Ripley shout, and turned in time to see him fall forward to the ground.

The Swan at Battersea Bridge, with its constant comings and goings, turned out to be the wise choice for waiting for information. Since various delays had cost time, the two dukes estimated they were about two hours behind their prey. This was sufficient, it turned out, for word of the Duke of Ripley’s activities at the White Lion in Putney to travel, via watermen and others, back to them.

As they were about to set out, however, the boy Jonesy disappeared. Trying to track him down delayed their departure.

Street boys were useful, and clever ones like Jonesy could save a duke a lot of boring time questioning people when he could be in a tavern, drinking.

But Jonesy had vanished, and as usual, everybody “didn’t know nuffink,” and Blackwood and Ashmont set out on their own for the White Lion in Putney.

There they heard a great deal. Putney was abuzz with recent events, and the locals couldn’t wait to tell their versions of the story.

What people were less helpful about was Ripley’s destination.

“Plague take ’em, didn’t anybody watch which way they went?” Ashmont demanded while the innkeeper and his wife debated whether the post chaise was headed to London or to Twickenham or another place entirely.

“Well, he’s clever, you know, Your Grace, and it’d be like His Grace, wouldn’t it, to seem to be going one way when he means to go another,” said the landlord.

“He said Twickenham,” said his wife. “Only a short journey out of the way, if he was going back to London. Whyn’t he say Doncaster or Brighton if he meant to send them on a proper wild-goose chase?”

“I wonder if Twickenham is a clue,” Blackwood said. “Otherwise, I can’t think—”

“How the devil is one to think, famished and dying of thirst?” Ashmont said. “We should have eaten before, in Chelsea, instead of looking for that wretched boy.”

“Some local authority harassed him, no doubt, and he took off,” Blackwood said. “Or he found another pigeon to pluck. How much did we give him, altogether, I wonder? Maybe he’s gone to buy himself a thoroughbred to race at Goodwood.”

“To hell with the little ingrate,” Ashmont said. Turning to the innkeeper, he said, “Give us the Sun or the Star or one of them to sit in without yokels bothering us, and something to eat and drink. As quickly as you can—in case anybody has anything intelligent to say before next Wednesday about that scurvy, bride-stealing, thinks-he’s-so-clever, so-called friend.”

They adjourned to the private parlor called the Sun, where they assuaged their hunger and thirst if not Ashmont’s frustration.

“Do you think he’s gone back to London?” Ashmont said, after his tankard had been refilled for the third time.

“Yes,” Blackwood said. “At any rate, it’s what I’d do. Take her out of Town for a while, give everybody time to get into an uproar, then circle back and sneak her home.”

“It’s what I’d do, too.” Ashmont frowned. “I don’t understand why she went.”

“I don’t know,” Blackwood said. “She doesn’t seem the sort—that is, it’s the kind of thing I’d expect from Alice, actually. And I did, too. Right up until the minister said we were man and wife, I was ready to find out it was all a joke, or hear her raise an objection—you know, when the minister asks if anybody knows any reason you shouldn’t be shackled? There I was, waiting for her to say, ‘I have a good reason. He’s an idiot. Will that do?’ In that way she does. And then—but she didn’t.” He shrugged.

After a moment, Ashmont said, “I think Olympia bolted.”

“Well, why not?” Blackwood said.

“I don’t know,” Ashmont said. “But it’s deuced aggravating.”

“We are not matrimonial prizes,” Blackwood said.

“That’s what Uncle Fred said. He was right, too, curse him. I had to use the library on her. And even then I had to do a devil of a lot of talking.”

“Well, then.”

Ashmont slammed his tankard on the table, sloshing ale. “But Ripley didn’t. He didn’t do all the work. And now . . .” He considered. “No, wait. I told him to look after things. If she did bolt, and this wasn’t his joke, he’s looking after her. He’d better be looking after her. Because she’s the one. I found her.”

“It isn’t as though she wasn’t in plain sight, year after year.”

“But we didn’t see. Least I didn’t. But then I did. And I wooed. So I get her. Not Ripley. If she bolted . . .” His jaw set. “Then I’ll simply have to mend whatever it is needs mending and—and bring her round.”

“You’ll do it,” Blackwood said.

“Need to find her first. What do you think? London?”

“I do think it’s London,” Blackwood said. “Very likely Gonerby House.”

“Not the wedding house, then?” Ashmont said. “But no, probably not. Damned shame they had to have it in Kensington. Would have been harder for her to bolt from Gonerby House. Maybe I should have waited for the renovations to be done.”

“You would have waited a year, maybe two. Because I promise you, they won’t be done in less than a twelvemonth.”

Ashmont shook his head. “No, why wait? Found her. Wooed her. She said yes. No point in—now what?”

The innkeeper’s wife had entered the parlor. “It’s Twickenham, Your Grace. The postboy’s back and he says they changed at Twickenham. And they were going on to Guildford.”

Ashmont looked at Blackwood. “What the devil?”

“Guildford,” Blackwood repeated blankly. Then, “He’s taking her to Camberley Place. To Alice.” He laughed. “This should be interesting.”

Ashmont bolted up from his chair. “Curse him. Now I’ve got to chase the numskull to Guildford.”

“Yes, and pry Lady Olympia away from my duchess and her aunt. That’ll be fun, that will

.”

But Ashmont was already storming out, demanding his horse.

Moments later, as he was about to swing up into the saddle, a red-faced man ran out into the inn yard, yelling about a stolen dog.

Ashmont didn’t care about the dog or anything the fellow had to say about the Duke of Ripley. He wasn’t in the best mood, and he wanted to be off. But the man made an unpleasant observation about the lady who’d been with Ripley.

There was another delay while Ashmont tried to kill him.

Chapter 8

Ripley saw stars, then, as he opened his eyes, mud under his face.

He struggled to rise, and pain shot up his right leg.

He swore.

A cry made him lift his head, and he watched Lady Olympia run across the field to him, skirts flying, black lace fluttering.

With more effort than it should have taken, and sharp protests from his right side, he rolled over and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

His right foot throbbed, and that side of his body ached and stung in sympathy. Not pleasant. Not convenient. But not likely to kill him, either.

It’s nothing, he told himself. Get up.

She crouched by his side. “Don’t move,” she said.

“I damned well will,” he said. “In a moment. As soon as the stars stop whirling about my head. Stepped into a rabbit hole, is all. Probably belonging to the one leading Cato a merry chase.” He put his weight on one arm and tried to get up. His leg wobbled and pain arced upward.

She set a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Don’t.”

Hearing the Voice of Command, he stilled, instinctively. Then he laughed at himself. So ridiculous. He’d heard her sharp whistle—pitched precisely to summon boys and dogs—and like any boy or dog, he’d stopped short and turned to her.

And tripped. And fallen on his face. In a muddy field.

“I’m all right,” he said. “Fell down wrong.”

“Do not move,” she said. “Let me look.”

“Nothing’s broken,” he said, more for his own benefit than hers. He would not allow any fractures. He hadn’t time. “But my hat’s over there, in the cow dung and—” He tried to rise, and won himself a pain parade up his leg. He sucked in air and let it out. “Damn.”