A Duke in Shining Armor

Ashmont looked about. “Jeering and mocking behind my back. Think I don’t know.”

The rain came down harder.

“Let’s get a hackney,” Ripley said.

“Good idea,” Blackwood said. “The damn rain’s back.”

“To hell with them,” Ashmont said. “To hell with the rain. Let me have the letter.”

Yes, of course. Had to be now. “Now?” Ripley said. “You’re going to read Lady Olympia’s letter in the dark? In the rain? With all these idiots looking on and speculating what’s in it?”

“Can we at least get out of the wet?” Blackwood said. “And go somewhere we can get a drink? You’re not going to be reading love letters in the middle of the street, are you?”

Oh, but Ashmont would.

Ripley must have been mad to promise Olympia he’d deliver the letter, when there wasn’t the slightest assurance one could get Ashmont to read it in a rational state of mind—or even in private, like a normal person. “Get a hackney if you’re afraid of melting in a drizzle,” Ashmont said. “I want the letter.”

Of course. It had to be like this. A public street, in the rain, with an audience. Because that was the way Ashmont was. Unpredictable. Volcanic. Always so bloody damned exciting.

“Rain’s one thing,” Ripley said. “But I want to get out of the street, out of the uproar, and to a place where I’m not the night’s entertainment.”

“Give me the bloody letter!”

“Can we get out of the blasted rain?” Blackwood said.

“You get out of the rain,” Ashmont said. “Get a hackney. Give me the bloody, goddamned letter!”

“Christ. Give it to him, Ripley.”

Ripley withdrew Olympia’s letter from his coat and held it out to his friend. Ashmont took it and walked to the nearest lamppost. He unfolded the letter and read, squinting. Rain fell on the paper, blurring the lines of ink.

There weren’t many, not by Olympia’s standards, at any rate.

After what felt like an eternity, Ashmont looked up at Ripley. “Is this a joke?”

“I don’t know what’s in it,” Ripley said.

“You know,” Ashmont said, his voice low and hard. “You bloody well know.”

“I know it’s no joke. Very much not. She was upset when she wrote it.”

“Upset? Upset? That’s what you call it? And you had the bollocks to look me in the face and smile and tell stories, knowing—”

“I didn’t plan to deal with this in bloody St. James’s Street! I came to take you home and—”

“What the devil?” Blackwood said. He grabbed the note from Ashmont and read it. “For God’s sake. Ripley.”

“You bastard,” Ashmont said. “You swine. You traitorous, lying sack of shit! I trusted you.”

He launched himself at Ripley, knocking him back against the stone fence in front of Crockford’s.

Ripley bounded back and went for him.

Men started pouring out of the clubs.

Ashmont swung and Ripley dodged. Swearing, Ashmont tried to grab him by the throat. Ripley blocked him.

Before Ripley could throw him into the street, Blackwood pulled Ashmont away. “Not here, damn you both.”

Yes, here. Now. All Ripley knew was rage. It was all he could do not to tear Ashmont from Blackwood’s grip and pound him senseless.

“Here will do,” Ashmont snarled. “Here in the street, where everyone can see what a swinish, cheating, craven snake he is, my so-called friend.”

“Swinish! Who was the one too bloody drunk to go after his own—”

“Not here, blast you,” Blackwood said, keeping his voice low. “Do you want her name dragged through the mud, along with yours?”

That got through. Barely. Ripley made himself unclench his hands. Ashmont shook his head. “No, not here. You know where, then. And when. Dawn. Pistols for two and breakfast for one, Ripley. I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow. Putney Heath.”

“No, you won’t,” Blackwood said. “Pull yourself together. Ripley’s no saint. None of us are saints. You would have done the same.”

“To my friend?” Ashmont said.

Friend. No, that was over, dead. Deeds done that couldn’t be undone. Words uttered that couldn’t be unsaid: Cheating. Craven. Words and acts churning in a mad, consuming rage, blinding, mind-crushing. Yet she was there, too. Somewhere in the murderous turmoil was Olympia . . . the expression she’d worn before Ripley left her today. And somewhere in the roiling fury, he remembered he was at fault.

He’d debauched the woman Ashmont wanted to marry.

Only one thing, Ripley understood, would make it right between them. Only one, irrevocable thing. Olympia wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t. She was a woman.

Sorry, my dear girl.

To Blackwood, Ashmont said, “You’ll act for me.”

“I damned well won’t,” Blackwood said. “He’s my brother-in-law, remember? Alice would get wind of it. You know she would. And she’d kill me. As it is—but no. Find another way to settle this. I won’t stand by and watch you two shoot each other.”

“Then go to hell,” Ashmont said. “I’ll send someone to you, Ripley.”

“I supposed you would,” Ripley said. “But I won’t fight you tomorrow. I’m getting married.”

Ashmont’s head went back as though Ripley had hit him, as Ripley still wanted to do, in spite of everything, because his friend was a bloody damned fool and a wreck, and he needed to be knocked on his arse.

Ashmont started for him, but Blackwood pulled him back. “Leave it,” he said. “Use your head. They have to marry now. Quiet the scandal. Everybody saw them together, and you were too late. It’s over, my boy. Let it go.”

“No,” Ashmont said. “It

isn’t over.”

There was no way it could be over. What had happened was all too public. Ashmont’s pride couldn’t bear it. He wanted to kill Ripley, and he had good reason. Ripley had stolen the girl, cheated his friend, and made the friend a laughingstock.

Only one way to wipe the slate clean. Only one way Ashmont could hold his head up again.

Pistols at dawn.

“I know,” Ripley said. “But not until after tomorrow.” Leaning on his stick, he limped away, up to Piccadilly.

Behind him he heard Ashmont shout, “What are you lot looking at? Go to the devil!”

Chapter 16

The following day

The rain-streaked letter lay open on the Duke of Ashmont’s dressing table.

He had his hand wrapped about the stem of a wineglass. His fair hair, through which he’d dragged his fingers repeatedly, stood on end.

He read, for the tenth or twentieth time:

Dear Duke,

This is the letter I should have written the last time, had I not been too great a coward. The best way I can think of to put it right now is to put it plain: I cannot marry you.

I am so very sorry for treating you so unkindly and unfairly. It was wrong of me to promise I would marry you in the first place, when my heart wasn’t as fully yours as it ought to be. It was wrong again not to break off cleanly after I ran away. It is not your fault that I did not know my own heart. I never meant to give it to Ripley, and I know the last thing he wanted was to steal it from me, but it’s his now.

You deserve a responsible and dutiful lady who could live up to the honor you wish to bestow. Regrettably, my character is headstrong, ill-behaved, and selfish. I beg you not to blame Ripley for what has happened. He tried to keep your friendship first in his mind and heart. He tried to do what was right, but he came up against my unruly nature. He was the one I wanted to be with, and when he tried to get away, I prevented him.