A Duke in Shining Armor

This was unfair to Ludford. Not only was he no more of a bully than most older brothers but he had as well, on countless occasions, taken the blame and even the punishment for his younger siblings’ mischief.

When Ludford turned to glare at Clarence, Andrew used the moment to dart to the staircase ahead of them. He ran down the stairs and into a passage and through a door and down one of the numerous back staircases that riddled the old house. Promising hell to pay, Ludford followed, or tried to.

Clarence, who chased Ludford down the main stairs, managed to get ahead of him on the first floor before sprinting for the servants’ passage. Seeing guests near the drawing room doorway, and not wanting to call attention to himself and add to the gossip already in full spate, Ludford chose the path of discretion, and followed his younger brother.

They passed a few servants on the way to the ground floor, but nobody was startled. The servants were used to high-spirited children underfoot.

By the time Ludford reached the garden, Andrew was well in the lead, with Clarence not far behind.

“Look out, Olympia!” Andrew cried. “The hounds are in pursuit!”

Clarence carried on with the shouting, much in the same vein, as though dastardly foes hunted their sister, instead of her own older brother, who only wanted to know what was wrong.

Ludford’s problem at present was that said sister had read too many romantic adventure books to the little ones in the nursery. Now they read them on their own, and created elaborate schemes involving blood-curdling exploits and near-brushes with death among gallant knights, Vikings, pirates, highwaymen, and so forth.

It took Ludford a while to realize his brothers had led him in circles. He hadn’t been in Newland House’s garden in an age, while they’d been let loose there whenever the family visited.

By the time he reached the garden’s back gate, he found the two young villains holding on to the lacy ironwork and looking out into the street beyond.

Ludford looked, too.

Neither his sister nor Ripley was in sight.

After directing several ugly oaths at his siblings, and heedless of the damage to his wedding day finery, Lord Ludford climbed over the wall and set off, at speed, down Horton Street.

“Not the steam vessel,” Ripley said. “At the moment, the passengers are too busy shoving and cursing and trying to get aboard to care about anybody else. Once settled, though, they’ll be looking for entertainment, and we’ll be it, with you in the starring role.”

He grasped Lady Olympia’s hand and pulled her toward the watermen congregated by the Battersea Bridge stairs.

His once-perfect neckcloth and his shirt’s beautifully starched ruffles hung limp. Rain and mud spots adorned his coat and trousers. His shoes, never meant for hard use out-of-doors, bore scuffmarks and mud.

Still, he was not only a man but a duke, as well. What others thought didn’t signify . . . though he did hate being hatless.

She wasn’t a man and a duke.

Along with the rain-spotted, dirt-spattered, grass-stained wedding dress, mud-caked slippers, and torn and dirty bridal veil drooping over her arm, she was bareheaded. In spite of the pomatum, her damp hair was curling in a wild and wanton manner.

And there were her spectacles, perched on her narrow nose, looking so very serious amid all the shipwreck of bridal finery.

“Yes, of course,” she said. She adjusted the spectacles, though these, so far as he could see, were perfectly straight. “This way we entertain only the men plying the oars. We can tell them we were on the way to the wedding when we were waylaid by highwaymen.”

“We tell them nothing,” he said. “It’s their business to take us where we want to go and our business to pay the fare.”

He eyed the vessels waiting along the shore, and settled on one of the four-oared wherries. Its watermen had rigged an awning as a rain shelter.

He led her toward it.

“But what if we’re followed?” she said. “If we get the watermen’s sympathies, they’re less likely to betray us.”

“I’ve found that money speaks louder than words,” he said.

Betrayal didn’t trouble him. Half the world recognized him, and people couldn’t help noticing her, and people would talk. But as long as she was safe in Twickenham before nightfall, Ripley could manage the situation.

No, it wasn’t the simplest prank he’d ever played. Too many elements out of his control, Ashmont being the main problem. He could be getting drunker, for all one knew. Or had already reached the unconscious stage. That increased the odds of her family being on their trail instead, a less amusing development.

Ripley didn’t fancy listening to a lot of accusations and demands for explanations. He’d never seen any reason to explain himself to anybody, including himself.

They reached the boat and oarsmen he’d decided on. Thanks to ready money and a ducal manner that did not invite questioning or hesitation, he settled business matters in short order.

Then he had to get her into the boat.

This ought not to have been difficult. The watermen’s boats had a long, narrow prow, allowing passengers to climb aboard without getting wet.

Ripley had chosen a large vessel, meant for more than two passengers, and oarsmen who appeared to be the strongest and most trustworthy of those awaiting passengers.

She stared at the wherry and said, “Is that it?”

“The Lord Mayor’s barge was otherwise engaged,” he said. “My yacht is at Worthing, last I heard. This is the boat.”

The two fellows looked on with interest. That they did so silently testified to the fee Ripley had offered for speed and silence. Thames watermen were not renowned for bashfulness.

“It seems very low in the water,” she said.

“That’s the way they’re made,” he said. “For stability and . . . Never mind. I can explain the science of boat building to you later. Just step into it, will you? And try not to fall off before you get to the seat. If you do, you’re not likely to drown, because the water here isn’t deep enough. But somebody will have to fish you out, and while I doubt I can get any wetter, I don’t fancy wading into that muck.”

He’d do it, of course. He would not let either of these two rough fellows put their hands on her.

“I feel dizzy,” she said.

“Were you thinking of going back and having a pleasant lie-down?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

If she wasn’t sure, he’d take her back. He would say it was all one of Their Dis-Graces’ famous jokes, and that would be that. No, it wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as making Ashmont chase her to Twickenham. Still, even Ripley wouldn’t knock her unconscious for the fun of carrying out a more elaborate prank.

“At this point it would be silly,” she said.

“Right,” he said. “And certainly, your being here, now, instead of—let’s say, at a wedding breakfast? That couldn’t possibly—I’m only speculating—that doesn’t strike you as imprudent?”

She peered up at him. “Do you think so? And you find nothing out of the way in your being here with me?”

“Perfectly in order,” he said.

“Is it?”

“Didn’t you tell me you were a damsel in distress?” he said. “I’m your knight in shining armor.”

Her eyebrows went up.

“It makes for a change,” he said.

“I should not call it a change,” she said. “In your case I should call it . . .” Her eyebrows settled again and a glint of humor lit her eyes. “An apocalypse.”

“Do you mean to get into the boat or shall I do what another, less knightly, very hungry fellow might do, and drop you off the bridge?” he said.

She looked up at the wooden bridge, which had stood, in defiance of the laws of physics, never mind aesthetics, for sixty years. It had been built at an awkward angle to the river’s current, and boasted some eighteen narrowly spaced piers. Vessels crashed into it all the t

ime. As more than one critic had noted, Battersea Bridge was built for the convenience of those going over the bridge, and the inconvenience of those going under it.

The only bridge on the Thames that could compete for awkwardness and stupidity was the next one upriver, at Putney.

“Or we could simply wait here,” Ripley said. “If we wait long enough, Ashmont might come along to rescue you from me.”

He glanced back at the crowd awaiting the steamboat. No signs of pursuit yet. But time was passing. How long had they traveled in the hackney? On horseback or in his own carriage, Ashmont could make better time—if (a) he was conscious and (b) he could put a clue or two together and (c) come to a fairly obvious conclusion.

Not terribly likely, in other words.

When Ripley brought his attention back to the bride, he found her watching him. Her eyes had turned blue.

“No,” she said. “The die is cast. My fate is sealed. I’m not getting married today and that’s that.”

Very well. No turning back now. Good. No turning back promised to be more interesting, at the very least.

“Are you going to help me into the boat?” she said. “Or were you wishing to watch me fall into it?”

“Watching you fall into it would be more entertaining,” he said. “The trouble is, it would amuse the watermen and bystanders as well, and we’ve already called enough attention to ourselves.”

“I thought that was what you lived for,” she said. “Calling attention to yourself. Or does that happen by accident? Because otherwise that would mean you thought about it and actually . . .” Her brow wrinkled. “Never mind. Best not to imagine what goes on in your head. At any rate, I can’t think too hard because it’s too hard. Is that a conundrum?”

“Don’t imagine. Don’t think. Just—”

“It does explain a great deal about the behavior of certain gentlemen who shall remain nameless. The effects of intoxicating spirits—”

“Get in the boat,” he said.

He grasped her elbow and steered her to the prow. That was the easy part. After that came some stumbling and more French muttering and a prodigious amount of lacy veil fluttering about and skirts tangling with ducal legs and a couple of collisions between bride and groomsman. During these few minutes, he had the devil’s own time not falling out of the boat, laughing, or, much worse, doing something unbridesmaidlike because, after all, he was not only a man but one who wasn’t in the habit of behaving himself.