“One of you has to make sure I get there on time, with the ring,” he’d said. “And the license and such. Everybody thinks I’m going to bungle it. I won’t.”
“I’ve already done a wedding,” Blackwood had said. “My own. I should like, this time, to look on, irresponsibly.” Having shifted the job to Ripley, Blackwood had smiled and waved them on their way, suggesting they both go home and get some sleep.
If he knew more about Ashmont’s urgent wish to be shackled, Blackwood hadn’t said. Not that he’d had time to say much of anything. Last night, Ashmont had done all the talking, and his tale had knocked Ripley on his beam ends.
In the first place, Ashmont had acquired his betrothed fair and square, in the usual manner of wooing and asking. In other words, the bride wasn’t pregnant. Second, and equally amazing, Ashmont had persuaded an attractive, eligible, and sane girl to accept his suit. Ripley would have bet a large sum that there didn’t exist in all of England a gently bred maiden desperate enough to take on Ashmont—or whose family would let her, in the event his looks and charm got the better of her wits.
As he’d boasted in his infrequent letters, Almack’s hostesses had barred him from their assemblies, the King had let His Grace know he wasn’t welcome at the Royal Levees, and the majority of hostesses in London had cut him from their invitation lists. For a good-looking, solvent duke, these sorts of accomplishments took some doing.
However, it seemed that Ashmont’s and Lady Olympia’s paths had crossed near the Clarendon Hotel some weeks ago. Somebody’s ill-tempered dog, taking instant dislike to His Grace, had tried to tear his boot off. Ashmont, being well to go, as usual, had tripped as he tried to shake off the dog, and nearly tumbled into the street—into the path of an oncoming hackney cabriolet going at top speed, as they usually did.
“But there was an umbrella handle,” he’d told Ripley. “It hooked about my arm, pulling me back. And in a moment I was stumbling back onto the pavement, trying to recover my balance. Meanwhile the dog was barking his head off. And she said, ‘Hssst,’ or something like that, and set the umbrella on the pavement, point down this time, with a sharp click. And do you know, the dog went quiet and skulked away!” Ashmont had laughed at the recollection. “And she said, ‘Are you all right, duke?’ And her maid was muttering something, trying to get her lady away from me, no doubt. I thought I was all right, but Olympia looked down and told me my boot was badly torn. I looked down. So it was. She said I couldn’t walk about London like that—heaven only knew what would get into the boot and onto my foot, she said. And then, of all things, she said, ‘My carriage will be here in a moment. We will take you home.’ Which she did, though her maid didn’t like it one bit. Neither did the coachman or footman but there was nothing they could do. Lady Olympia Hightower! Can you credit it? I couldn’t. How many times have we seen her at this do or that?”
Countless times, Ripley thought. A tallish girl, bespectacled, but not bad-looking. Good figure. No, make that very good. But she was a gently bred maiden, of very good family, and reputed to be bookish. She might as well have had the label Poison, with skull and crossbones, pasted over her fine bosom.
“She was kind,” Ashmont had said. “Not in a simpering, sentimental girl way at all, but very matter-of-fact and calm, rather like a fellow. And I must say, I was quite taken with her. And it was no use, when I mentioned her to Uncle Fred later, his telling me I wasn’t worthy of her or up to her brain level and other nay-sayings. ‘That’s up to her, isn’t it?’ I told him. Then I set about the wooing. It was uphill work, I tell you. But she said yes in the end, didn’t she? And wasn’t Lord Fred amazed when I told him. He even clapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘So you had it in you, after all.’”
Ashmont had been elated to get the better of his manipulative uncle for once. However, as Ripley saw it, Lord Frederick Beckingham had seen an opportunity and made the most of it. Telling Ashmont he couldn’t have or do something was a sure way to make him do it.
Not that it mattered, in the end, as long as Ashmont was pleased and the girl knew what she was getting into. Which she must do, if she was as intelligent as believed.
The problem was, the wedding didn’t seem to be proceeding as smoothly as it ought, Ashmont was bored with waiting, and a bored Ashmont was a dangerous article.
Ripley glanced at his brother-in-law. Blackwood—dark, like Ripley, but sleeker and better-looking by far—raised one black eyebrow in inquiry. Ripley lifted his shoulders.
Blackwood made his unhurried way to them.
“Don’t see what the fuss is about a hem,” Ashmont said. “At the bottom, isn’t it? Well, then.”
“If she trips on it and falls on her face—”
“I’ll catch ’er,” Ashmont said.
Ripley looked at Blackwood.
They both looked at Ashmont. He was in his altitudes, beyond a doubt. He had all he could do to stand upright.
If the bride didn’t appear soon, one of two things would happen: At best, the bridegroom would sink into a stupor and subside ungracefully to the floor. At worst, he’d pick a fight with somebody.
“’Nuff o’ this,” Ashmont said. “I’m goin’ t’ get her.”
He started for the door, and stumbled. Blackwood caught him by the shoulder. “Good idea,” he said. “No point hanging about in here.”
He caught Ripley’s eye. Ripley took the other side, and they guided their friend out of the drawing room.
With the guests milling about the trays of champagne, they encountered only servants in the passage.
“Where?” Blackwood said.
“Downstairs,” Ripley said.
“Not down,” Ashmont said. “She’s up. There.” He pointed, his finger making unsteady curlicues in the air.
“Bad luck,” Ripley said. “Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
“Was ’spectin’ to see her at the weddin’,” Ashmont said.
They led him toward the stairs, and then, not easily, down them.
“This way,” Ripley said.
Though he’d been in Newland House before, that was ages ago. He wasn’t sure of the ground floor layout. In an old house of this kind he’d expect a breakfast or dining room and, possibly, a library. Not that the type of room mattered.
They needed to get Ashmont away from drink as well as anybody he might decide to quarrel with, which was more or less everybody.
He and Blackwood guided their friend toward a door standing at a safe distance from the main staircase. Ripley opened the door.
The first thing he saw was white, miles of it, as though a cloud had slid into what he was distantly aware was a library. But clouds didn’t wear white satin slippers and clocked stockings, and did not stand upon a set of library steps.
“Oops,” Blackwood said.
“Dammit, Olympia,” Ashmont said. “What the devil are you about?” He tried to break away from his friends.
Ripley said, “Get him out of here.”
“No, you don’t, blast you,” Ashmont said. “Got to talk to her. Can’t botch this.”