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He couldn’t go into this halfheartedly. Ashmont wouldn’t.
Ripley couldn’t dwell on his long history with Ashmont and Blackwood or the way they had saved one another at various times, but especially when they were three deeply unhappy boys during those first miserable days at Eton. It was like fighting one’s own brother. But one couldn’t think that way.
This was an affair of honor.
Honor demanded Ripley do his best to kill his friend and his friend do his best to kill him.
They reached Putney Heath in plenty of time. They arranged for the post chaise to wait in a sheltered place nearby, where the wounded or dead could be quickly taken. The post chaise also needed to be where it wasn’t likely to attract the attention of Metropolitan Police on the lookout for exactly this sort of illegal early morning encounter.
After taking out the pistol case, Pershore and Ripley walked the short distance to the agreed-upon spot.
They arrived first, as Ripley had hoped to do.
He coolly strolled about the dueling ground, as though he’d merely come ahead of the other guests for a party. His ankle still wasn’t altogether happy, but he refused to limp or lean on his walking stick.
The surgeon and Ripley’s valet, who’d arrived shortly after Ripley and his second, left him to his solitude and kept out of Pershore’s way. The latter was looking for obstacles to the line of sight when Ashmont and his second, Morris, emerged from one of the footpaths, surgeon and servant trailing behind.
Olympia’s hackney stopped at the Putney Bridge tollgate, where it seemed to take forever to pay the toll and another forever for the gate to open. They clattered over the crazy old bridge and into the High Street, past the White Lion.
Her mind painted images: she, falling into the water . . . Ripley carrying her to the inn, while the onlookers hooted and cheered . . . the dressmaker and her minions and their naughty corset . . . Ripley standing naked in a basin . . . the scene with Bullard in the courtyard . . .
So much, in a single day, and the time they’d spent in Putney was only a part of that unforgettable day.
It could not be over so soon.
They could not have found each other only for it to end now.
It could not end with his falling dead in a muddy field on a summer morning, the day after their wedding.
“I’ll kill you,” she muttered. “You can’t do this to me, Ripley.”
“Your Grace?”
“What time is it?” Olympia said.
The last effort at reconciliation failed, as it was bound to do.
His face a mask, Ripley strode calmly to his station and looked hard at Ashmont, who appeared as cold and calm as Ripley.
Pershore gave Ripley his pistol.
Ripley’s dueling pistols were always kept in pristine condition. The insides of the barrels held not an iota of rust. Locks and hair triggers were in order. Ripley knew to a nicety the throw of his pistols. Nonetheless, he’d checked them early this morning before leaving his house, and he and Pershore had checked them again when they were loaded. They were properly charged. He had no worries about misfires or other such accidents.
He, Blackwood, and Ashmont had been practicing since they were boys, and not simply shooting at targets. Using a rather complicated “dummy” operated by wires, which discharged a pistol—sans ball, of course—at them as soon as they shot, had taught them to be cool under fire. It was a skill Blackwood’s exacting father had impressed upon them. Though the previous Duke of Blackwood had abhorred duels, he understood there were times when they couldn’t be avoided. This being the case, a man ought to know how to carry it off properly.
Having seconded Ashmont in all too many affairs of honor, Ripley was as familiar with his ways as with his own. He didn’t underestimate him, drunk or sober. Today, he appeared sober. Even he wouldn’t be such a fool as to stay up all night drinking before a duel.
Ripley positioned himself sideways and exactly in line with his opponent, pistol in his right hand, the muzzle pointing straight down. He stamped his feet, to anchor himself firmly on the ground. He stood ramrod straight and raised his right arm, keeping his gaze, not on Ashmont, but on one of the buttons of his coat. He knew Ashmont was doing the same: choosing a small object to aim at, and concentrating on that.
They knew each other too well. They’d done this too many times, though this was the first time they’d aimed at each other.
The chances of their killing each other were exceedingly good.
Sorry, Olympia.
But that was the only moment of sentiment Ripley allowed himself. There was no place for emotion on the dueling ground.
The seconds retired to a safe distance behind the duelists.
The surgeons took position not many feet behind them.
The servants moved back, behind the surgeons.
Ripley cocked his pistol and raised it.
All his mind, his being, was focused on hitting Ashmont. He knew Ashmont was doing the same, shutting out every other thought, every regret, every memory.
“Ready, gentlemen?”
“Ready,” said Ripley and Ashmont at the same time.
When Olympia glimpsed the post chaise, nearly hidden among the trees, she made the hackney driver stop, and she was pushing down the ancient window, reaching for the door handle before the coach had quite stopped altogether.
She leapt into the road and ran toward the post chaise, Jenkins behind her.
“Where?” she said to the postilion. “Where are they?”
“Dunno,” he said.
“You do know. They’re—”
She broke off, hearing voices.
“Best not go in there all wild, missus,” said the postilion. “Dunno what you’ll get in the middle of. They been there a good while yet.”
He was right. She had no idea what had happened, and the last thing she wanted was to make a distraction and be the cause of somebody getting killed by accident.
As opposed to getting killed on purpose, damn them.
But, oh, please let them still be fussing about ground and distance.
She made her way as quietly as she could along the path the men must have taken . . . and came to a sudden, shocked stop as the clearing opened up before her.
They were already in place, raising their pistols.
It was like the nightmare, where she’d been frozen, unable to move or speak. Now she didn’t dare. She could only remain perfectly still, hoping Ripley hadn’t noticed her out of the corner of his eye. It was too late to stop him. She mustn’t distract him and throw off his aim.
All this went through her mind in no time but seemed like an eternity while she stared helplessly at the tableau: Ripley’s hand holding the pistol pointed at his friend. Ashmont’s pistol pointing at Ripley. Both men standing so rigid. From where she stood, they seemed to be made of stone.
A voice called out, “Ready, gentlemen?”
At the same moment, the two men said, “Ready,” while she covered her mouth and held back the scream inside her: Nooooooo!
She saw the handkerchief fall. So slowly it seemed to fall, hanging in the air and fluttering down, down, down. Two blasts rent the morning’s quiet, one an instant after the other.
In the same endless moment she saw Ripley’s arm go up, his pistol firing into the air. Birds exploded, screeching, from the trees while she watched helplessly as he spun and fell to the ground.
Chapter 18
Olympia remained immobile, unable to believe what her eyes told her.
The world was so quiet, but for the birds, still squawking.
Numb, she watched Ashmont give his pistol to a man nearby and run to Ripley. Another man was moving that way, but Ashmont pushed him aside.
She moved then, on stiff muscles.
She saw Ashmont kneel on the ground and lift Ripley’s head up. Something dark spread over the side of his face and down his neck.
She saw Ripley’s body convulse. Ashmont’s body shook, too, as he bent over his f
riend.
The numbness broke, and she ran across the clearing.
She flung herself at Ashmont, shoving him so hard, he fell over.
“Get away from him!” she cried. “Leave him alone!”
She knelt beside her husband, whose body, on its side, was in spasms. Blood. So much blood. She wanted to be sick.
She was aware of another man there, opening a black bag, but he was simply there, like the indignant birds. Noise. Background.
She became aware of another sound, too, completely discordant.
It took a moment to recognize what it was.
Laughter. Great, rolling guffaws. She looked down at her husband’s blood-streaked head. He was curled up, laughing.
She looked over at Ashmont, who’d rolled onto his knees. He was holding his stomach and laughing, too.
“I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you both.”
She fisted her hands and pounded Ripley’s arm. “You idiot! What is wrong with you?” She hit him and hit him. She was crying and she hated it, but she couldn’t stop.
Finally Ripley grabbed her hand. “It’s all right,” he gasped.
“It isn’t,” she said. “Nothing is right. Look at you. What’s wrong with you?”
Ripley was grinning. Blood trickled over his face.
“Ripley!”
“S-sorry, m’dear.” He let out a snort. Ashmont made the same sound.
“I hate you both so much,” Olympia said.
“If Your Grace would be so good as to allow me to examine His Grace,” said the man with the black bag.
She moved aside. She drew up her knees and folded her arms on them. She rested her forehead on her arms and tried to catch her breath. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
