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“Dammit, Olympia,” Ripley said. “You were supposed to be sleeping.”
She looked up. “Don’t speak to me.”
He sat up, wincing as he did so. He put his hand up to his head. “That stings, rather.” He took away his hand. It was sticky with blood. Blood oozed from the side of his head and covered half his face.
She put her head back down on her forearms again.
“We’ll have it mended in a jiffy, Your Grace,” said the man with the black bag. “Grazed the scalp. I believe Her Grace requires sal volatile.”
“No,” Olympia said. “I never faint.” How many times had she seen younger brothers bleeding? They were always falling out of windows or trees or into lakes or onto rocks. Or fighting. But this was different. “It seems he’s not dead.”
“Apparently not,” Ripley said. “Don’t feel dead.”
She turned away. She was furious and terrified at the same time. He laughed, but he would, while he had breath in his body. The surgeon made it out to be minor, but of course he would. Men made light of the most ghastly things and fell into a desperate state over trivia.
But there was so much blood. She remembered the way Ripley had acted about his sprained ankle. Men deemed it beneath them to be injured. They pretended they weren’t. They’d pretend at death’s door.
She edged away. She didn’t need to hover while the surgeon attended to her dolt of a husband. Ripley wasn’t at death’s door. She was merely overwrought. Her hands were shaking. She glared at them.
“Yes, best to let the surgeon get on with it,” Ashmont said. “Don’t want the bastard to bleed to death from a trifling hole in the head.”
“Trifling?” Ripley said. “Dammit, you almost killed me. What in blazes were you thinking?”
“You deloped!” Ashmont said. “You were supposed to shoot at me, you cheating bastard.”
“Cheating?” Ripley said. “What did you think I’d do? You almost killed me, you half-wit.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Ashmont said. “You didn’t even try to kill me.”
“Did you think I would?”
“Why not?”
While this went on, the surgeon went on calmly with his work. For once in her life, Olympia did not feel inclined to watch. At any rate, she had an idea what needed to be done. She would have cleaned the place and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. If it was as minor as the surgeon said, the bleeding would stop relatively soon. How long, she didn’t know.
But none of the men were at all concerned. She would have sensed tension, even if they didn’t show it. She sensed . . . relief?
Men.
“A hole in the head,” she muttered. “Are we quite sure it wasn’t already there?”
The surgeon threw her a faint smile. “The ball nicked His Grace’s ear very slightly and grazed the scalp. It seems a great deal worse than it is because head wounds bleed profusely.” He’d begun bandaging Ripley’s head. “The wound is not mortal, I’m glad to say. Very nice. Very clean.”
“He’ll live?” she said.
“If you let me,” Ripley said.
“You!” she said. “I’m not speaking to you.” She glared at Ashmont. “Or you.”
“I?” Ashmont said. “He was supposed to shoot at me. He didn’t even shoot in my general direction.”
“I couldn’t shoot my best friend,” Ripley said. “I told myself I could, but I couldn’t.”
“I was counting on you to shoot!” Ashmont said. “I would have missed you by a hair. But you put your curst arm up and spoiled my aim, damn you to hell.”
“How was I to know?”
“What else could I do?”
Olympia looked from one to the other in disbelief. “Do not tell me this was all for show.”
“Honor,” Ripley said.
“Honor,” Ashmont said.
“His,” Ripley said. “Mine.” He studied Ashmont’s face for a moment, then looked at her. “Yours, too, duchess.”
“Yours especially,” Ashmont said.
She stared at him. “I! As though I’d want such folly committed in my name.”
“Dammit, Olympia,” Ashmont said. “I couldn’t let you go without a fight.”
“A serious fight,” Ripley said. “Punch in the face was insufficient.”
“It would have looked better if you’d actually shot at me,” Ashmont told him.
“I daresay.”
“Looked better!” Olympia couldn’t believe her ears. She ought to. She had six brothers.
And exactly as her brothers would do, the two men regarded her with deeply puzzled expressions.
The surgeon quietly collected his bag and left.
Ripley said, “But don’t you see? If Ashmont didn’t fight over you, it would look as though he didn’t think you were worth it.”
“But you are,” Ashmont said. “Had to fight.”
“Heaven grant me strength.” Olympia threw up her hands and walked away.
Ripley and Ashmont watched her leave. She walked with more than a hint of impatience this time.
Ashmont said, “Can’t expect women to understand. You do, though.”
“Yes. Took me a moment. A bit complicated.”
“I daresay.”
“Give us a hand up, will you?”
Ashmont helped him up. “I did rather want to kill you,” he said. “Or wound you severely, at the very least. So I thought, at any rate.”
“I know. Why didn’t you?”
Why. Ripley had asked for an explanation, which one didn’t do.
Ashmont’s brow knit, and a long moment passed before he smiled again, crookedly, this time, and gave a shrug. “The letter she wrote. It was . . . kind.”
His blue gaze returned to Olympia, storming toward the footpath. “You’d better go after her. Awkward if she bolts. Again.”
He laughed and walked away to join the men who’d come with him.
Ripley went after his wife.
He found her waiting by the post chaise. Arms folded, she watched him approach. He took care not to limp. His head ached and stung, but he was not about to admit that.
“I suppose I’ll have to change the bandages,” she said. “And apply ice.”
“Certainly not,” he
said. “Snow will do it. Do you want to hurt his feelings?”
She looked at his valet. “You will return to Ripley House with Jenkins. The duke and I shall travel in the post chaise.”
Snow started to follow her orders—as men seemed unable to help doing—but caught himself and looked to Ripley.
“As Her Grace says,” Ripley said. “Means to ring a peal over me, I don’t doubt. Go, go. It won’t be your first journey in a hackney, and Jenkins won’t bite you. At least not very hard. Odds of infection quite small, I’d say.”
Snow went away.
Pershore had had sense enough to make himself scarce.
If Ripley had been Pershore, and seen Olympia coming at him, he would have run, too.
Ripley helped Olympia into the carriage, then climbed in beside her.
Silence and a decided frostiness of atmosphere reigned until they neared the Green Man public house, at the crest of Putney Hill.
“We can stop, if you like,” she said. “I know it’s traditional, after a duel.”
Ah. Thaw seemed to be in progress.
“Not today,” he said. “Had a small bracer before. Brandy and soda water. That’s traditional, too.”
“I wish I’d known,” she said. “That’s what I could have taken before the wedding. The first wedding. Brandy is well enough. Tea is well enough. But together, they’re not delicious. I’m glad to know you required a bracer. That shows some degree of sensibility.”
“I wasn’t insensible,” he said. “But I wasn’t afraid of Ashmont. Knew there was a chance he’d hit me. Still, the odds are small, you know, of fatality. One in fourteen. Merely one in six chances of being wounded.”
She looked at him over her spectacles. “Merely.”
“You’re the practical and sensible one,” he said. “Let’s look at this practically and sensibly. Let us divide a duelist’s body into nine parts. If a man’s positioned himself properly, the ball won’t kill him unless he’s hit in one of three of those parts.”
“Positioned himself properly. And that would be, say, in the next village?”
“Thing is, you don’t face your man full front. That’s ridiculous. But if you stand as we did, the chances against getting hit are five to one, and three to one against one of those hits doing for you.”
