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She turned to Olympia. “I’ve been out of touch for three years and more, ever since Charles fell ill. I always used to see Hugh and his friends as wild boys, and I made allowances, as I told you. But it dawned on me today that they’re men, and it’s well past time they took stock of themselves. In short, I cannot in good conscience hurry you back to your intended. You are welcome to stay as long as you like, my dear. When you wish to return to London, only say the word, and I shall accompany you.”
She stalked out of the Great Hall, her footsteps echoing on the ancient oak floor.
Ashmont had come, after all, as Lady Charles and Ripley had insisted he would. Now he was gone.
A part of Olympia wanted to jump up and down with frustration. Another part wanted to jump up and down with joy.
This state of mind being unacceptable, she set about organizing and cataloguing her disorderly feelings about the two men in her life.
What Ashmont looked or smelled like or what his attitude was didn’t especially trouble her. Lady Charles’s comments in this regard were not revelatory. They were consistent with what Olympia had expected when she’d agreed to marry him.
She had no illusions. How could she have them? She’d been out in Society long enough, had heard and seen and read enough, to understand what manner of man he was. Still, no matter what he looked, smelled, or acted like, he was the Duke of Ashmont.
Had she stayed at Camberley Place today instead of chasing Ripley, she would have let Ashmont take her back to London and make her his duchess. What choice had she? If she’d returned with him, all her mad actions of yesterday wouldn’t count anymore. Society would shrug off the excitement. It would merely be one more prank in Their Dis-Graces’ lengthy repertoire. Above all, Mama and Papa and the boys wouldn’t suffer for what Olympia had done.
But if she had stayed at Camberley Place, Ripley would have gone on to London and worsened his injury . . . and the kiss wouldn’t have happened, and all she’d ever know of passion would be what her imagination painted. That, she now knew, fell far short of reality.
As Lady Charles made her irate exit, Olympia came back to the moment, and to the facts of her life: improvident parents and their unprovided-for sons.
Look on the bright side, she told herself.
The Duke of Ashmont still wanted to marry her, apparently.
She had experienced passion.
All she had to do now was try to keep Ashmont from changing his mind, although the evidence pointed to his being too obstinate and possessive to do so.
As to kissing Ripley, she would not let her conscience trouble her overmuch. Compared to what Ashmont had done over the past decade, and would no doubt continue to do after he was wed, her moment of passion was nothing. Except to her.
Besides, for all she knew—which, in this case, was nothing—any handsome, experienced young man could, under the right circumstances, arouse a similar ardor.
She hurried after her hostess. “Lady Charles, I do beg your pardon,” she said. “I ought to have said—”
“My dear, after such trials, I wonder you can speak anything but gibberish,” said the lady, slowing her pace. “Those three are the outside of enough. Wherever he and Blackwood stopped for the night, Ashmont might have had the servants clean his clothes. He ought to have shaved. Perhaps he assumed it would seem as though he was too eager to see you to bother with niceties of dress. However, if this were the case, one would think he’d have been too eager to see you to bother with fighting and drinking.”
“So one would think, but men are not always logical.”
They had reached the bottom of the staircase. Lady Charles stopped and patted Olympia’s arm. “Make him work, my dear,” the lady said. “Make him pay attention and make an effort. He needs more management than I had supposed, though I don’t doubt you are capable.”
Olympia had no choice but to be capable. She said, “In the circumstances, I should be a great fool not to accept your kind offer and remain where I am, at least for a day or two.”
“Good. It will do him no harm to stew a bit.” Lady Charles started up the stairs.
“I know you know best about him,” Olympia said.
“They were the sons I never had,” the lady said. “Unfortunately, they weren’t actually my sons, and I could exert only so much influence. I might as well tell you, since it’s no great secret, though it happened so long ago that few remember. Ashmont’s father fell into severe melancholia after his wife’s death, and would have nothing to do with him. Blackwood’s father was a rigid martinet who did nothing but find fault with him. Ripley’s father suffered some sort of brain fever that left him irrational: He believed he was completely impoverished, and everybody was trying to steal from him. This house became their refuge. That is why I know them so well.”
Olympia stood stock-still. “I didn’t know.”
Lady Charles paused and turned to her. “They all inherited too young. But they’re grown men now, and I’m done making excuses. I understand that you acted on impulse. You felt panicky, I don’t doubt.” She smiled a little. “The brandy gave you a push, the dose of courage or recklessness or whatever it was you needed to act. Yet running away may have been the wisest thing you could have done. You need time to reflect and plan, away from the influence of your family and that stupid boy who wants to marry you. Camberley Place is the right place for calm reflection.”
And this lady was the right guide, Olympia saw. Mama and the aunts were loving, but they did not have Lady Charles’s intellect or her grasp of human nature.
In a few words, she’d given Olympia valuable insight. And eased her conscience a little.
“Thank you,” Olympia said. “I do need to stay. And think. And I had better write some long-overdue letters. It’s well past time the duke heard from me. I do believe, after all, it would be best we discuss matters directly with each other.”
Lady Charles regarded her for a moment. “Yes, that would be best.”
Ashmont House, London, that evening
The Duke of Ashmont had been dressing to go out when the two letters arrived, express, from Surrey.
Ripley’s missive, typically, consisted of one line: For God’s sake, come and get her.
The other was from Lady Olympia. Being thicker by several closely written pages, it was rather more daunting. This was Ashmont’s second time reading it. He sat at his dressing table, clutching his head and disarranging the artfully windblown coiffure his valet had created.
The duke was debating whether to give the letter a third try or summon Blackwood for help when his valet hurried in and said, “Lord Frederick is here, Your Grace.”
Ashmont bolted up from his chair and debated a quick exit via the window. “Tell him I’m not at home.”
“Ah, but you are, Lucius,” came his uncle’s cheerful voice.
The valet quickly got out of the way of the voice’s owner. When Lord Frederick made a small dismissive gesture, the servant went out of the room, gently closing the door after himself.
“I heard you’d returned,” said his lordship.
Ashmont longingly eyed the decanter standing on a small table by the fireplace. The trouble was, if he poured himself a drink, he’d have to offer one to his uncle, and that would encourage him to stay.
“Only a few hours ago,” he said. “You’ve wondrous good ears if you heard it already. I hardly knew it myself.”
“You’ve returned without the future Duchess of Ashmont,” said Uncle Fred.
“Erm . . . yes. As to that.” Ashmont glanced at the letter. “A trifle complicated. Comedy of errors, as Lady Charles said.”
For an instant, Lord Frederick’s customary composure disintegrated and a haunted look came into his blue eyes. But it was gone almost as soon as it had come, and he reverted to his usual unflappable self.
“You have been to Camberley Place,” he said. He picked a bit of fluff from his coat sleeve.
Once Uncle Fred was there, he wasn’t to be got
rid of by any means until he was good and ready to go. Since he wouldn’t be good and ready until he’d scraped Ashmont’s brain clean, the duke briefly described the previous day’s search for Ripley and Lady Olympia as well as today’s visit to Lady Charles Ancaster.
As Ashmont came to the end of that part of the tale, he saw his uncle’s attention shift to the dressing table, where the letter lay, its pages spread out, in plain view of all the world—or rather, of busybody, all-seeing, all-knowing uncles.
The duke moved casually to the dressing table to block his relative’s view of the missive.
Too late.
“That looks like Lady Olympia’s hand,” his uncle said.
“Does it?”
“I should know it anywhere,” Lord Frederick said. “Quite distinctive. We corresponded regarding a fifteenth-century volume. Boethius’s De Consolatione Philosophiae, I believe it was. It would appear that she is speaking or, rather, writing to you. I take that as a promising sign.”
“Erm, yes. The thing is, she’s still at Camberley Place.”
