“Oh, them,” he said, and his mood darkened abruptly, as often happened. “Damned right. Not here.”
He walked on unsteadily, Ripley on one side and Blackwood following. Ashmont went on talking as they made their way through the club. “Everybody laughing behind my back. Nobody dares say a word to my face. Think I’m deaf, dumb, and blind. As though I’d never hear about what they write in White’s betting book. Odds against me and in favor of guess who? No, don’t try. You’ll never guess. Mends. Do you believe it? Sixty if he’s a day. And everybody knows those aren’t his own teeth. The ones in his drooling mouth came off the fields of Waterloo, off some poor sod got himself killed defending King and country. That’s not a fraction of the entertainment. Foxe’s Morning Spectacle pillory me over half the paper, every day, and in the extra editions.”
“Must say, they’ve outdone themselves,” Blackwood said.
“No girl in her right mind would have me, they say,” Ashmont went on. “Satirical prints, with me as a drooling ogre, and Olympia running for her life. Not that they’ve the bollocks to print my initials, let alone my name. No ‘D of blank’ for them. It’s ‘an infamous peer,’ and ‘a notorious nobleman’ and a ‘titled libertine.’ As though I’d waste my time suing the smug blackguards. And last night—”
He broke off as a group of men passed nearby.
“Ripley, you had your own annoyances, I understand,” Blackwood said, before Ashmont could continue with his grievances. “A fuss of some kind at the White Lion.”
“Over a dog,” Ripley said. He outlined the excitement in Putney while they collected their hats and made their way out of the hubbub of Crockford’s and into the hubbub of St. James’s Street.
Mist shrouded the street.
At the bottom of the stairs Ashmont stopped. “She went after the brute,” he said with a laugh. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, he wouldn’t say, would he?” Ripley said. “She demanded the whip. And he gave it to her.”
His friends laughed.
“Knew she was well above the common run of females,” Ashmont said. “Obvious, once I spent five minutes with her. But I taught him a lesson.”
“The one I administered was insufficient?” Ripley said.
“The brute accosted us, ranting about the dog,” Blackwood said. “Now I see why he was so incensed. A girl got the better of him.”
“Made remarks about Olympia,” Ashmont said. “Couldn’t let ’em pass.”
“Thus the stinker,” Ripley said.
Ashmont touched his bruised eye. “No, that was later. Fell down some stairs. But I’m not the only one damaged in the cause of Olympia, I hear. Ankle, she wrote.” Unsteadily, he bent over to stare at Ripley’s ankle. The wrong one. Then he swayed upright again and eyed the walking stick.
“A sprain,” Ripley said. “No great matter, but the women made a fuss, and when I tried to get away . . . Ah, but it’s a long story. I’ll tell you when we find some quiet.”
London’s streets were noisy most of the time, and the St. James’s neighborhood, shortly before midnight, was no exception. Men on horseback, carriages rattling on their way to this rout or that ball, pedestrians talking loudly, to be heard above the clatter of hooves and wheels on the paving stones.
He was aware of passengers staring at them through the windows of passing vehicles. He was aware of men gathering at Crockford’s windows as well, anticipating some kind of excitement, as usually happened when Their Dis-Graces were in the vicinity. Before long, word would magically reach White’s, across the street, as it so often did, and the famous bow window would frame another sea of faces.
Raindrops began to fall, spitting here and there, casually, as though it were an afterthought.
Looking away from the windows, Ripley found Ashmont staring at him, eyes narrowed.
“What are you looking at?” Ashmont said.
“Bloody audience,” Ripley said.
Ashmont looked about. “Jeering and mocking behind my back. Think I don’t know.”
The rain came down harder.
“Let’s get a hackney,” Ripley said.
“Good idea,” Blackwood said. “The damn rain’s back.”
“To hell with them,” Ashmont said. “To hell with the rain. Let me have the letter.”
Yes, of course. Had to be now. “Now?” Ripley said. “You’re going to read Lady Olympia’s letter in the dark? In the rain? With all these idiots looking on and speculating what’s in it?”
“Can we at least get out of the wet?” Blackwood said. “And go somewhere we can get a drink? You’re not going to be reading love letters in the middle of the street, are you?”
Oh, but Ashmont would.
Ripley must have been mad to promise Olympia he’d deliver the letter, when there wasn’t the slightest assurance one could get Ashmont to read it in a rational state of mind—or even in private, like a normal person. “Get a hackney if you’re afraid of melting in a drizzle,” Ashmont said. “I want the letter.”
Of course. It had to be like this. A public street, in the rain, with an audience. Because that was the way Ashmont was. Unpredictable. Volcanic. Always so bloody damned exciting.
“Rain’s one thing,” Ripley said. “But I want to get out of the street, out of the uproar, and to a place where I’m not the night’s entertainment.”
“Give me the bloody letter!”
“Can we get out of the blasted rain?” Blackwood said.
“You get out of the rain,” Ashmont said. “Get a hackney. Give me the bloody, goddamned letter!”
“Christ. Give it to him, Ripley.”
Ripley withdrew Olympia’s letter from his coat and held it out to his friend. Ashmont took it and walked to the nearest lamppost. He unfolded the letter and read, squinting. Rain fell on the paper, blurring the lines of ink.
There weren’t many, not by Olympia’s standards, at any rate.
After what felt like an eternity, Ashmont looked up at Ripley. “Is this a joke?”
“I don’t know what’s in it,” Ripley said.
“You know,” Ashmont said, his voice low and hard. “You bloody well know.”
“I know it’s no joke. Very much not. She was upset when she wrote it.”
“Upset? Upset? That’s what you call it? And you had the bollocks to look me in the face and smile and tell stories, knowing—”
“I didn’t plan to deal with this in bloody St. James’s Street! I came to take you home and—”
“What the devil?” Blackwood said. He grabbed the note from Ashmont and read it. “For God’s sake. Ripley.”
“You bastard,” Ashmont said. “You swine. You traitorous, lying sack of shit! I trusted you.”
He launched himself at Ripley, knocking him back against the stone fence in front of Crockford’s.
Ripley bounded back and went for him.
Men started pouring out of the clubs.
Ashmont swung and Ripley dodged. Swearing, Ashmont tried to grab him by the throat. Ripley blocked him.
Before Ripley could throw him into the street, Blackwood pulled Ashmont away. “Not here, damn you both.”