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For a moment she couldn’t shake off the dream, and didn’t know where she was. Then, she realized the room wasn’t dark but filled with the pearly light of early morning. Her gaze took in the costly bed hangings, and she remembered.
She closed her eyes. Last night. Ripley, so passionate and so tender. It was like a dream, like the fantasies of her girlhood. He’d made her feel like a princess in a story. He’d made her wedding night perfect, as he’d promised. He . . .
. . . wasn’t here.
She sat up, chilled. She could see he wasn’t there, but she put her hand out to touch the pillow where his head had rested. The pillow was cold.
Yes, of course married couples had separate bedrooms. They shared a bed only for lovemaking. Of course. But did they separate on their wedding night?
He’d been so affectionate.
I love you madly.
She hadn’t dreamt that.
She hadn’t dreamt the barefoot dancing, or Ripley humming a waltz as he whirled her through her rooms. She hadn’t dreamt the lovemaking. Her body ached in places where it wasn’t used to aching. She hadn’t dreamt falling asleep in his arms.
All that was real. This was, too. Good grief, what a ninny she was! For all she knew, he’d only gone out to use the water closet. And if he’d gone to his rooms, maybe he’d only wanted to let her sleep undisturbed . . . which was perfectly normal and reasonable and even thoughtful. If not for the bad dream, she’d still be sleeping.
Set back from the busy streets on all sides, and with its extensive garden, the main part of Ripley House received more sunlight than many London town houses did. Though the sun rose at four o’clock at this time of year, and though it didn’t shine very brightly this morning, the angle of light and the quietness of the household told her she’d awakened hours earlier than she usually did. Her wedding night had extended long past midnight, she was sure.
If she didn’t want to look haggard, she ought to go back to sleep.
She remained as she was, sitting upright, staring at the mantelpiece, where the porcelain gentleman she’d pretended was Lord Mends sat at his little writing desk.
She told herself nothing was wrong.
Something was wrong.
She pushed to the edge of the bed and was about to climb down when she saw the folded piece of heavy paper on the bedside table.
My dearest girl,
By the time you read this, matters will be settled, for good or ill. You’ll be furious, I know, and call me a hundred synonyms for idiot. Believe me, could I behave in a more intelligent manner, I would. But my brain, you know. “Like his, more or less, though less defies the imagination.” You said that to me on Tuesday. Do you remember? I remember so clearly. I hear you saying it, your changeable eyes slightly unfocused, due to brandy, and I find myself grinning like a simpleton.
Had it been possible to avoid this morning’s imbecility, I vow I would have done it. However, I could not offer my friend the satisfaction he required. I regret betraying his trust. I regret the mortification he’s endured. For these I could apologize. But I don’t regret falling over head and ears in love with you. For all I know, I did this years ago, but was too stupid to realize it. At any rate, I know it now, and I refuse to apologize for failing to return you to him. When I think how close I came to doing so, and let myself imagine you as his wife instead of mine—but no. Let’s not imagine it. You’re mine, and I saved myself by the skin of my teeth.
Losing a friendship is certainly not too high a price to pay, when I would willingly lose my life for you. Not that I intend to, mind! But if things go badly for me, you must always remember that I regret nothing but any pain this day’s events may cause you. You must always believe that I would not give back a single minute of the last four days, for any consideration. You must always believe I love you, dearly, dearly.
Believe me, dear Olympia, my dear duchess,
Your adoring idiot,
Ripley
“You idiot!” Olympia cried.
She climbed down from the bed and rang for a servant. When nobody appeared instantly, she ran across the room, flung open the door, and shouted at the footman dozing in the corridor, “When did he leave?”
The footman Joseph stumbled up from his chair, blinking. “I beg Your Grace’s pardon?”
“The duke,” she said. “When did he leave?”
Joseph’s eyes darted back and forth, as though he expected to see Ripley pop out from under one of the corridor’s pier tables. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”
“Find out,” she said. “And have somebody rouse my maid and Wrenson. Now.” Wrenson was the house steward. It was his business to know everything about everybody at every minute.
Joseph looked panicked.
“Now,” she said. “Wrenson will know if anybody does. But if he doesn’t, or pretends not to know, you must make the porter tell you. And tell him I want a hackney cab—not a coach—waiting at the door in ten minutes. I don’t care if you wake all the household. We’ve not a moment to lose.”
She’d adopted the tone of voice she’d learned would quell males of all ages and ranks. The footman took off at a run.
She hurried back into her room and into the dressing room. She flung open wardrobe drawers and yanked out articles at random. “Jenkins!” she called. “Where the devil are you? How am I to find anything? Jenkins! For heaven’s sake, make haste!”
She was pulling dresses out of the drawers, and throwing them on the floor with their wrappings, when Jenkins hurried in, still tying her dressing gown, nightcap askew.
The maid’s eyes widened as she took in the destruction her mistress had wrought.
“I need something I can put on quickly,” Olympia said. “No bright colors.” If she wore bright colors they’d see her coming from afar, and she might be a fatal distraction. “Ten minutes, no more—and even then I might be too late.”
“Your Grace?”
“I’ll explain later. We haven’t time now.” Olympia looked out of the dressing room’s window. “We have a prayer of getting there before it’s too late. They wouldn’t start before six o’clock in summer. What time is it, Jenkins?”
“Close to half-past four, Your Grace.”
“Time enough,” Olympia said. “But I must be dressed in ten minutes—and that hackney had better be at the door.”
“Your Grace, you know it is impossible—”
“Make it possible, Jenkins. This is a matter of life and death. I’ll go in my chemise, if you can’t dress me quickly enough.”
The prospect of Her Grace of Ripley appearing in public in her chemise electrified Jenkins into doing the impossible.
It took a quarter hour, but Olympia had reckoned on twenty minutes at the very minimum for both the hackney and her attire. Jenkins had managed to dress both her mistress and herself in what amounted to no time because she insisted on joining Olympia, and Olympia said she wouldn’t wait for her.
And so the Duchess of Ripley and her lady’s maid left the house in good time—or as good as was humanly possible—perhaps not more than half an hour behind her husband, according to the porter.
The seconds would have to mark out and measure the ground, Olympia explained to Jenkins as the hackney made its way through the London streets. This could take time, because each second would want to place his man in the best position. A last-minute attempt to reconcile the combatants was possible, certainly. Though the meeting was likely appointed for six—the usual time in summer—it might be as late as seven. Either way, the actual fighting couldn’t start until all the formalities had been gone through and everything had been checked and agreed upon.
Olympia kept her mind on the technicalities of the duel, so as not to dwell
on the actualities of pistols firing deadly balls at two great blockheads who were supposed to be the best of friends.
Fortunately for her nerves, her hackney made good progress. Since Ripley House stood not far from Park Lane, they traveled the wider streets of the metropolis. The market wagons were making their way into London, but Olympia’s hackney reached Hyde Park Corner without hindrance. Before long it was rolling upon the Fulham Road, headed for Putney Heath.
On the way to the place of meeting, Pershore offered Ripley a bottle of soda water dosed with a small amount of brandy.
Ripley took it with a laugh. “Ah, the bracing-up.”
“You may not need it,” said Pershore. “I do.”
“Whether needed or not, it’s an agreeable stimulant at this hour.” Ripley drank. “I should have liked another hour or more of sleep.” With his wife in his arms. But at least he’d had his wedding and his wedding night. And such a wedding night it had been!
“A duel on the day after your wedding,” Pershore said. “That was ill done of Ashmont.”
“He deems it ill done of me to have married his bride.”
“If he’d waited longer, his temper would have cooled.”
“Then what?” Ripley said. “He’s the talk of London, which is nothing new, except that this time he’s wounded in a man’s tenderest part, his pride. He needs the meeting—and I confess I do, too. We’ve no other way to put the matter to rest.” They had to fight. Otherwise there would always be bad blood between them. No other remedy but for one or both of them to put a bullet in the other.
Barbaric, Olympia would call it. But men were barbaric.
If the seconds had found a way to reconcile them, Ripley would have been amazed as well as glad. The task, as he’d supposed, had turned out to be impossible. Since they hadn’t succeeded in making peace, he needed to focus on fighting and winning.
