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 friend.
The numbness broke, and she ran acr
oss 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.
“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.”