Ripley turned his chair to face that way, expecting Olympia.
But it was only one of the footmen, hurrying to his mistress.
Her ladyship was wanted at the house, he said. Lord Frederick Beckingham had come.
His lordship had been quickly ushered into the drawing room and Lady Olympia summoned to join them.
The greetings had been cordial enough, though postures were tense.
While Ripley could understand Olympia’s stiffness in the presence of her betrothed’s uncle, and while Ripley himself wasn’t entirely at ease, thanks to a decrepit conscience that decided now was the time to grow lively, the odd manner of the other two baffled him.
“I apologize for arriving without notice,” Lord Frederick was saying, “and worse, coming to you in all my travel dust. But my nephew was in so great a state of agitation that I thought it best to waste no time. He is, in fact, so greatly agitated that I advised him to write instead of bursting upon you again, and to let me be his emissary.”
In short, Uncle Fred had advised Ashmont to stay out of it and let his lordship do the talking. This was by no means a bad plan. Uncle Fred was a skilled courtier who somehow contrived to make himself equally welcome in both the King’s company and that of the King’s archenemy, his sister-in-law the Duchess of Kent. The mother of the Princess Victoria, present heir to the throne, loathed His Majesty. The feeling was mutual.
“Agitated?” said Aunt Julia. “Is that what you call it? What I saw yesterday was that Lucius had been drinking beyond what is good for him, as has seemed to be the case for some time now. He’d been in a fight—another pernicious habit—which I’ve little doubt he started, because he always does. And it is a laugh, I admit, your speaking of the dust of travel, knowing you’ve scarcely a speck upon you . . .”
She paused to give Lord Frederick a quick survey, and his blue eyes lit—but with anger or amusement or another emotion, Ripley couldn’t tell.
“Naturally you had your valet with you,” his aunt continued. “And you made sure to pause for a freshening up before driving the last mile or two.” She took a seat, on the hardest chair in the room, and invited her guest to sit. Lord Frederick only moved to the fireplace, and stood with his back to it, as though this were the dead of winter and he needed his backside warmed.
Lady Olympia remained standing, too, near a window farthest from the others. Ripley wondered whether she’d try to escape by that method again.
“I wish I could say the same for your nephew,” Aunt Julia went on. “Regrettably, he arrived in a state beyond disgusting, and which must be an insult to any lady, and most especially his affianced bride.”
“Yes, well, that’s one of the reasons I advised him to stay in London,” Lord Frederick said, his usual imperturbable self but for the odd light in his eye. “Lucius truly was agitated, though, greatly so. The word I left out, I believe, was disgusting.”
The footman Joseph entered, bearing the tray of refreshments Aunt Julia had ordered while returning to the house.
Nobody said anything until the footman had gone out.
Olympia sipped and set her glass down on the table nearby.
Lord Frederick took a surprisingly long swallow. But then, he’d been traveling for several hours, the day was warm, and he was bound to be thirsty.
Aunt Julia, too, took more than her usual sip.
The thing Ripley had been trying to remember niggled in his mind, but it hung out of reach.
“Very nice,” Lord Frederick said, nodding at his glass. “You always did keep a good cellar at Camberley Place as well as in London. But you have not been much in London of late.”
“I haven’t been to Town at all,” Aunt Julia said. “I’m thinking of changing my ways, however.”
A muscle in Uncle Fred’s jaw twitched. He set his glass on the nearest table and said. “As fine a beverage as it is, Lady Charles, I must remember my mission. The urgent business that brings me here demands I keep my wits about me. I am charged with giving Lady Olympia a letter from my nephew.”
From the interior of his far-from-travel-stained coat, Lord Frederick withdrew a surprisingly thick letter. Surprising in that, having come from Ashmont, it contained more than a single sheet of paper.
“With your permission, Lady Charles?” said Uncle Fred. “Or did you wish to read it first?”
“Certainly not. I am not Lady Olympia’s mother. In any event, she is of age, and the letter is from her betrothed.”
Lord Frederick nodded. He crossed to Lady Olympia. “I am to give this to you with the deepest apologies. Ashmont would have come himself had I not advised against it. He regrets making an exceedingly poor impression upon Lady Charles.” He bowed in Aunt Julia’s direction. “He did agree with me, eventually, that the best way to overcome the unfortunate impression was to resolve to respect a lady’s sensibilities and not show himself until he’s fit to be seen. In the meantime, he wishes to leave you in no doubt whatsoever about his feelings.”
Lady Olympia took the letter from him. She seemed calm, but for the faint flush along her cheekbones. She adjusted her spectacles, though they couldn’t be straighter, and opened the letter. She moved a little nearer to the window to read it, and Ripley found himself eyeing the latch, and wondering if it would offer the same difficulties as the one at Newland House . . . if she decided to make a run for it.
But why would she do that? She had nothing to run from. Ashmont was safe away in London and Uncle Fred, diabolical as he could be under the smooth surface of urbane good breeding, wasn’t proposing to take her back with him.
Well, his lordship couldn’t, could he? Aunt Julia must accompany her, or another respectable lady—or her mother. In any event, if Lady Olympia wanted to go back to London she would, and if she didn’t she wouldn’t, and none of it was up to Ripley, was it?
In that case, you could marry me.
How will you feel in a year, in five years?
Ripley was dimly aware of Lord Frederick moving to his aunt’s side, and taking a chair nearby, and murmuring something, and Aunt Julia making some sort of answer. But that was the background, and they might as well have been the paintings hanging on the wall.
All Ripley truly saw was Olympia, her head bent over the letter, adjusting her spectacles from time to time. Her hair was not falling down, exactly, but it wasn’t nearly as neat as it had been when she’d come into the library before . . . before . . . before . . .
Not so neat as before he’d kissed her and done more than he had any right to do, than was honorable to do though it was so little, not nearly enough . . .
You could marry me.
How will you feel . . .
At last Lady Olympia refolded the letter. The elders in the room must have been watching her without seeming to, because they fell silent.
She set the letter down on a table near the door.
She went out of the room.
Chapter 13