A Duke in Shining Armor

  Happily, the setback had occurred early in the trip, near an inn he’d patronized time and again. True, he and his friends had behaved as badly here as they did elsewhere. True, also, that they always paid the damages.

  The White Lion kept an account for him. This wasn’t unusual in the case of a gentleman who frequently traveled the king’s highway in search of excitement: boxing and wrestling matches, horse and boat races, and every sort of game on which one could bet.

  What wasn’t usual was the duke’s agent’s settling accounts—not on quarter days or twice yearly or annually or, in the grand tradition of the aristocracy, never at all—but monthly.

  All accounts, paid in full, every single month.

  This little eccentricity of his kept people quiet and made them cooperative. Instead of bolting the doors and windows and putting up Gone Fishing or Closed Until Further Notice signs when they heard he was coming, all the tradesmen flung open their doors and rushed out to greet him with open arms and, sometimes, their daughters.

  It was good to be a duke, but best to be a solvent one.

  Money mended everything, usually.

  It would soon mend the current problem, and Ripley would get Ashmont’s bride to Twickenham in plenty of time.

  She would not take a chill and develop pneumonia.

  This was June, not November. The weather was mild, and she’d fallen into not two feet of water.

  He became aware of water dripping on the stairs as she climbed them.

  His mind came back to the present, and he realized she was wet to the skin. Her petticoats had to be soaked through. Otherwise, her skirts couldn’t have plastered themselves to her bottom and thighs.

  He recalled the way her body felt pressed to his, and the way she felt in his arms when he’d carried her up to the inn.

  Of course he remembered. He was a man, and she was a shapely young woman.

  And of course she was shapely. Ashmont wouldn’t dream of wooing any other kind of female.

  And since Ashmont had wooed and more or less won her, the shapeliness belonged to him. Which was as it should be. Beyond a doubt she was exactly what he needed. Lady Olympia would never let him walk all over her. She might walk all over him, which probably would be fun . . .

  And let’s not think about how much fun it would be, Ripley counseled himself when his imagination started to stray in that direction. Not a useful train of thought at present.

  For the present, what he needed, first, was a thorough wash, and second, a hat—and they had better find something suitable. Third, he needed—as was perfectly reasonable and natural after months of unnatural abstinence—a shapely female who did not belong to one of his best friends. The first and second would be dealt with soon and the third this evening, he promised himself.

  Meanwhile, being a man and by no means a saint, he did not tell himself to stop looking at Lady Olympia’s muddy ankles.

  Ripley waited until Lady Olympia was safely in her room with two of the inn’s servants, Molly and Jane, on guard.

  He’d taken them aside to tell them her ladyship had had a trying morning and was not as clearheaded as one could wish. Therefore he expected them to remain clearheaded and vigilant on her behalf.

  They were to forestall any attempts by her ladyship to climb out of windows or make other sudden changes in travel plans. Their task was to get her clean and dry and fed and into fresh clothes. Under no circumstances were they to let her out of their sight. If by some bad chance she slipped away from them, they must tell him instantly. He would be next door.

  Having addressed all contingencies, he waited until the door had closed behind the trio, then summoned the landlady.

  “Send somebody to the dressmaker Mrs. Thorne,” he said. “Make sure she understands that the lady had an accident and needs fresh clothing quickly, quickly. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

  The landlady dashed away.

  Then he folded his arms and leaned against the door frame of his room.

  Another trick he’d learned through experience.

  People performed their tasks more speedily when a large, intimidating nobleman stood waiting for them to do whatever he’d told them to do.

  Servants bustled up with kindling and buckets of coals.

  More servants followed, with pitchers of hot water.

  Still, he waited. Time passed. His clothing stopped dripping and subsided to a sodden second skin.

  He stepped out into the gallery overlooking the inn yard. He leaned against a supporting post and watched the activity below. In the humid air, his clothing gradually went from sodden to damp. He was growing increasingly bored and impatient when at last three women hurried into the yard. The most elegant of the three looked up anxiously at him.

  He nodded.

  She started up the stairs, the other two close behind, bearing large, muslin-wrapped parcels.

  Then and only then did he enter his room.

  In Olympia’s large room, a fire blazed in the hearth.

  In June.

  Two immense pitchers, filled with hot water, arrived about the same moment the flames began to bounce over the coals.

  Though the White Lion was a busy place, two of its overworked maidservants attended to one bedraggled lady.

  Countless other servants—virtually all of those belonging to the inn and, very likely, its neighbors—ran about, attending to His Grace’s whims.

  Indeed, it was good to be a duke.

  Or, more precisely—and Olympia was a precise person, normally—if you were going to fall into a river in your wedding dress, it was good to be in a duke’s company when it happened.

  She was annoyed with herself for falling out of the boat.

  She was annoyed with herself for letting him rattle her in any way.

  She should not have been bandying words with him. What she should have done was watch what she was doing and where she was going and thereby get off the boat in a graceful manner.

  But what she’d done instead was done and couldn’t be undone. She’d behaved stupidly and ended up being carried by one of the most notorious peers in all of Great Britain along Putney’s High Street, in front of the entire village population, watermen, coachmen, travelers, stray children and dogs—everybody, in short—and into the hotel.

  She was hot all over, even inside her head.

  She hoped that was simply the ridiculous fire—in June!—and the exertions of the maids, who scrubbed her from top to bottom. To distract her mind from imagining satirical prints of the recent episode, she turned her attention, as best she could, to the Next Step.

  Though the brandy’s effects seemed to have dwindled and her mind was not as fuzzy as before, it took her a while to determine what the step ought to be.

  What to say to Aunt Delia?

  Good grief, where did one begin?

  But Olympia would have to begin somewhere. Looking on the bright side, composing a satisfactory explanation—and there had to be one—would keep her mind fully and usefully occupied.

  She worked on the problem while Molly and Jane rubbed her with warm towels, and helped her into a dressing gown. Olympia was still trying and discarding explanations when they sat her at a small dressing table and began combing out her hair.

  They were patiently untangling knots when the dressmaker turned up.

  Yes, an actual dressmaker, with a pair of seamstresses in tow, bearing what looked like a shopful of garments.

  They all made deep curtseys. The most elegant of the group introduced herself as Mrs. Thorne while the two anonymous lesser beings untied their parcels and laid out clothing on the bed.

  “How distressed we were to hear of your ladyship’s accident!” said the dressmaker. “I should have made haste, in any event, to see what assistance I could render, even before I received His Grace’s message. By a stroke of great good luck we had a few garments nearly ready, and two on the display. It is nothing, I assure your ladyship, to make alterations. We’ll have your ladysh
ip ready in no time at all, and I trust your ladyship will not be dissatisfied. We are not in London, precisely, but our patterns come from Paris, and I am sure my seamstresses—Oh, I do beg your ladyship’s pardon. May I present Miss Ames and Miss Oxley. I believe you’ll find them a match for any girls from London.”

  Olympia had often fought bitterly with her mother about her wardrobe, leaving dressmakers to negotiate. She could well imagine the hours seamstresses must spend hurrying to satisfy the whims of their overprivileged clientele. She rather doubted any seamstress could match London ones for stamina and resilience under extreme tension and, no doubt, abuse.

  As to present company’s level of skill: At the moment her main concern was wearing a dress not impregnated with mud. She didn’t care if the stitches were crooked.

  If she said so, though, she’d hurt the dressmaker’s feelings.

  She said, “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  Ripley had snapped his fingers and ordered clothes, and here was the result.

  One of the inn’s servants must have run out into Putney and into Mrs. Thorne’s dressmaking shop. And she had dropped everything to do His Grace’s bidding.

  It was not in the least strange, Olympia told herself. To be able to say a duke patronized one’s establishment was a great coup. Most shopkeepers, especially in villages, would do what Mrs. Thorne had done.

  But really, did he need to be spoiled more than he was already?

  “I hope you weren’t obliged to close your shop,” Olympia said.

  “Not at all, my lady,” said Mrs. Thorne. “So good of your ladyship to think of it, but everything is in hand, and the shop will be looked after until we return. Not but what I wouldn’t have hesitated to close it, if necessary. But if your ladyship will forgive the interruption—only a moment, please, if your ladyship would be so good as to stand, and we might take your size.”

  Olympia stood, and was instantly surrounded.

  While the women held up this and that against her, she wondered whose garments they’d brought. Yes, one or two might have been display articles, although more usually a fashion print or a length of fabric, artfully draped, would appear in the shop window.

  A modiste was unlikely to keep a supply of dresses ready, awaiting a customer. Garments were made to order.

  On the other hand, when, for instance, certain customers who had large bank accounts and a reputation for paying promptly—or dukes—demanded something in a hurry, the dressmaker might alter clothing meant for another client.

  Mrs. Thorne laid out a chemise and a corset.

  They were shockingly beautiful, unlike anything Olympia had ever seen before. The chemise, of the finest linen, was embroidered with colored silk and trimmed with lace along the neckline and edges of the sleeves. The corset, of equally costly fabric, was even more scandalous. It was stitched in pink and black. Pink trim traced the sides of the busk. There was pink lacing for adjusting the bust line area, tied with tiny pink bows. Even the back lacing was pink!

  Olympia had never worn—or seen, for that matter—anything but white undergarments in all her life.

  She must have looked as astonished as she felt because Mrs. Thorne said quickly, “Some of our clientele are London ladies.”

  “Indeed,” Olympia said. She wondered what sort of London ladies ordered underwear so excessively French.

  She told herself it didn’t matter.

  She needed clean, dry clothing, and if the underthings seemed more suitable for a brothel, that wasn’t surprising, considering who’d ordered them.

  Her too-active mind envisioned a brothel, in the style of a Turkish harem. In it lolled women whose bodies matched those of Greek and Roman statues or perhaps women in Rubens’s paintings. They lounged about on cushions and rugs in their lacy, colorfully embroidered underwear. Men like Ripley would saunter in and . . .

  Best not to imagine that.

  Better leave it to the satirists. No doubt they’d put Lord Gonerby’s only daughter in a scarlet corset and petticoats.

  Good grief, the look on Papa’s face when he saw those pictures—

  No, she would not think about that.

  She would look on the bright side. There always was a bright side, though sometimes one had to look carefully indeed and use a magnifying glass or a microscope.

  And the bright side was . . .

  She’d lose the title of Most Boring Girl of the Season.

  While she contemplated brothels and her new public character, the women got her out of the dressing gown and into chemise and drawers. They tied ribbons and arranged ruffles and smoothed fabric with as much care as if these underthings were made of silk and diamonds.

  The corset straps needed adjustment, but Miss Oxley went to work, rapidly unstitching and re-stitching. Meanwhile Mrs. Thorne set Miss Ames to take in the petticoat.

  Olympia was fascinated. In London, professional seamstresses were usually kept hidden in another part of the dressmaker’s shop. When they did emerge from the workroom, it was to show an item of clothing or assist the dressmaker. She’d never seen them truly at work. The speed with which their needles flew, making the tiniest stitches, seemed superhuman to her.

  She had always found books more interesting than needlework.

  She hadn’t more than a moment to observe, though, because they needed to finish dressing her. The maidservants helped her into stockings and tied garters, apologizing for hurrying her—“but His Grace said we must make haste, and he is so good, you know, we—”

  “So good!” Olympia said.

  “Oh, yes!” Molly said. “I’d be ashamed to disappoint him, I would.”

  “Good!” Olympia said. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. What’s he done? Don’t tell me he takes in wounded birds and nurses them back to health. Saves kittens from drowning, perchance? That must be it.”

  “But truly, my lady—”

  “Good,” she repeated. “Ripley. I vow, it hurts my head to put that adjective in his vicinity. The same goes for the other two nonsensical excuses for dukes. No, it’s no use. I cannot wrap my wits about the idea.”

  The servants smiled and one of the seamstresses tittered. Mrs. Thorne glared at her, and the girl bent to her work.

  “I know they say His Grace is wild, my lady, and he is,” said Jane.

  “Such goings-on,” said Mrs. Thorne, shaking her head.

  Yet Olympia caught a hint of an indulgent smile.

  “But when my father fell ill, His Grace sent a doctor, you know,” said Molly. “And paid the fee.”

  “And people may say what they like about Their Graces—and such doings as they get up to!” said Jane. “But whatever gets broke or burnt up or falls into the river, you know—or whoever—they do pay.”

  “The bed linens that time,” said Molly. “Covered in blood, I vow. Still, we thought we could get it out—”

  “Covered in blood?” Olympia said.

  “The duels,” said Miss Ames.

  “Hush,” said the dressmaker.

  “His Grace did mention duels,” Olympia said.

  “Battersea Fields, you know,” said Miss Ames. “Sometimes Putney Heath.”

  “But mostly the gentlemen come upriver some,” said Jane. “To get patched up quiet-like.”

  “Not usually so bloody, though there was that one time—”

  “The Duke of Ashmont—”

  “When I saw the blood, I thought Lord Stewkley had shot his ear clean off!”

  “But he’d only nicked his head, His Grace said, and how he laughed! Like it was nothing.”

  “And His Grace of Ripley said head wounds bleed like pigs—”

  “They bleed like the very devil, is what His Grace said.”

  “Mind your tongue,” said Mrs. Thorne.

  “Not on my account,” Olympia said. “I have six brothers.”

  “Boys will be boys, as we all know,” said Mrs. Thorne.

  “More like boys will be little savages,” said Olympia. “I
’m not sure they ever become entirely civilized. Anyone who tries to shock me with the mad doings of boys will have their work cut out for them. Nothing seems to change much as they grow up, does it? I only marvel at their living long enough to grow up. What was the duel when Lord Stewkley almost blew off the Duke of Ashmont’s ear?”

  “That was a very long time ago,” said Mrs. Thorne repressively as the others opened their mouths. “Nearly ten years, I believe.”

  “That long?” said Jane.

  “In any case, they were young, hardly more than schoolboys,” Mrs. Thorne said. “I’m sure nobody remembers what it was about. And I’m sure we have too much to do, to waste time gossiping about ancient history.” She cast a warning look toward the other women.

  The subject was dropped, and everybody concentrated on their work while Olympia digested recent information.

  People tried to hush up duels because they were illegal, but it was nearly impossible to hush them up completely. Still, Olympia couldn’t remember anything in particular regarding Ashmont and Lord Stewkley.

  Hardly surprising. Their Dis-Graces had created so much scandal so often that extracting one—from a decade ago—would be like getting treacle out of a boy’s hair.

  The thought of treacle reminded Olympia she was hungry.

  “I wonder if somebody would bring me a bite to eat,” she said.

  “Certainly, my lady,” said Jane. She hurried out of the room.

  The others installed Olympia in the naughty corset, made final adjustments, and laced her up. Then came the petticoat, which matched the other articles.

  Then the dress, at last.

  Olympia was vaguely conscious of a mass of pink silk and bows and lace, but by this time her mind was on food, and wishing the maid would hurry. A single piece of bread or cheese or a biscuit would do.

  But no, Olympia had arrived with the Duke of Ripley, sainted in these parts, evidently, and the cook must be preparing turtle and lobsters and a fatted calf.

  It wasn’t until Mrs. Thorne draped a black mantelet over her shoulders that Olympia truly paid attention. She looked down at the bodice and skirt.