Yes, here. Now. All Ripley knew was rage. It was all he could do not to tear Ashmont from Blackwood’s grip and pound him senseless.
“Here will do,” Ashmont snarled. “Here in the street, where everyone can see what a swinish, cheating, craven snake he is, my so-called friend.”
“Swinish! Who was the one too bloody drunk to go after his own—”
“Not here, blast you,” Blackwood said, keeping his voice low. “Do you want her name dragged through the mud, along with yours?”
That got through. Barely. Ripley made himself unclench his hands. Ashmont shook his head. “No, not here. You know where, then. And when. Dawn. Pistols for two and breakfast for one, Ripley. I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow. Putney Heath.”
“No, you won’t,” Blackwood said. “Pull yourself together. Ripley’s no saint. None of us are saints. You would have done the same.”
“To my friend?” Ashmont said.
Friend. No, that was over, dead. Deeds done that couldn’t be undone. Words uttered that couldn’t be unsaid: Cheating. Craven. Words and acts churning in a mad, consuming rage, blinding, mind-crushing. Yet she was there, too. Somewhere in the murderous turmoil was Olympia . . . the expression she’d worn before Ripley left her today. And somewhere in the roiling fury, he remembered he was at fault.
He’d debauched the woman Ashmont wanted to marry.
Only one thing, Ripley understood, would make it right between them. Only one, irrevocable thing. Olympia wouldn’t understand. She couldn’t. She was a woman.
Sorry, my dear girl.
To Blackwood, Ashmont said, “You’ll act for me.”
“I damned well won’t,” Blackwood said. “He’s my brother-in-law, remember? Alice would get wind of it. You know she would. And she’d kill me. As it is—but no. Find another way to settle this. I won’t stand by and watch you two shoot each other.”
“Then go to hell,” Ashmont said. “I’ll send someone to you, Ripley.”
“I supposed you would,” Ripley said. “But I won’t fight you tomorrow. I’m getting married.”
Ashmont’s head went back as though Ripley had hit him, as Ripley still wanted to do, in spite of everything, because his friend was a bloody damned fool and a wreck, and he needed to be knocked on his arse.
Ashmont started for him, but Blackwood pulled him back. “Leave it,” he said. “Use your head. They have to marry now. Quiet the scandal. Everybody saw them together, and you were too late. It’s over, my boy. Let it go.”
“No,” Ashmont said. “It isn’t over.”
There was no way it could be over. What had happened was all too public. Ashmont’s pride couldn’t bear it. He wanted to kill Ripley, and he had good reason. Ripley had stolen the girl, cheated his friend, and made the friend a laughingstock.
Only one way to wipe the slate clean. Only one way Ashmont could hold his head up again.
Pistols at dawn.
“I know,” Ripley said. “But not until after tomorrow.” Leaning on his stick, he limped away, up to Piccadilly.
Behind him he heard Ashmont shout, “What are you lot looking at? Go to the devil!”
Chapter 16
The following day
The rain-streaked letter lay open on the Duke of Ashmont’s dressing table.
He had his hand wrapped about the stem of a wineglass. His fair hair, through which he’d dragged his fingers repeatedly, stood on end.
He read, for the tenth or twentieth time:
Dear Duke,
This is the letter I should have written the last time, had I not been too great a coward. The best way I can think of to put it right now is to put it plain: I cannot marry you.
I am so very sorry for treating you so unkindly and unfairly. It was wrong of me to promise I would marry you in the first place, when my heart wasn’t as fully yours as it ought to be. It was wrong again not to break off cleanly after I ran away. It is not your fault that I did not know my own heart. I never meant to give it to Ripley, and I know the last thing he wanted was to steal it from me, but it’s his now.
You deserve a responsible and dutiful lady who could live up to the honor you wish to bestow. Regrettably, my character is headstrong, ill-behaved, and selfish. I beg you not to blame Ripley for what has happened. He tried to keep your friendship first in his mind and heart. He tried to do what was right, but he came up against my unruly nature. He was the one I wanted to be with, and when he tried to get away, I prevented him.
It’s so clear now—as it ought to have been before—that I could never make you happy. Though I wish I had realized this before I caused you distress, it cheers me to know I have spared you, though you may not appreciate that at present. And knowing I’ve done you a favor gives me the courage—or perhaps the better word is audacity—to ask you to do me the very great kindness of giving Ripley and me your blessing. He is your friend, still, and he loves you dearly, I know. Please do not let my poor judgment destroy an old and true friendship.
With best wishes for your happiness,
Believe me yours,
Very sincerely,
Olympia
“Blessing,” he muttered. “Wants my blessing. She’s got bigger bollocks than any of ’em. Dammit, Olympia, I can’t.”
Blackwood stormed into the room. “Have you taken leave of your senses at last? You can’t truly propose to fight Ripley. The lady doesn’t want you. Leave it at that and don’t be a bloody fool.”
“Who let you in?”
“Am I barred? Have you added me to the traitors list, too?”
Ashmont drank. “Leave me alone. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“I’m your friend, you jackass.”
“Not friend enough to second me.”
“Instead you chose that blackguard Morris? I saw him as he left the house, and he told me.”
The Earl of Bartham’s son had jumped at the chance to act as Ashmont’s second, no doubt hoping to replace Ripley in Ashmont’s affections, such as they were.
“He’s done good work,” Ashmont said. “Four letters exchanged and everything settled.” He folded up Olympia’s letter. “Dawn tomorrow. Putney Heath.”
“You hope to make her a widow the day after the wedding? Do you think she’ll fancy you after that? What is wrong with you?”
“They’ll never stop laughing at me if I don’t.” Ashmont refilled his glass. “They’ll be telling the story for years. I won’t be a joke.” He drank.
“Why do you care, suddenly, what anybody thinks or says about you?”
“This is different. Between Ripley and me. I trusted him. Completely. He made a fool of me. Lied to me. ‘Come and get her,’ he wrote. Next thing I know, he’s back in London, planning a wedding. His.”
“You never gave him a chance to explain.”
“Ripley doesn’t explain.”
Blackwood shook his head. “Why did I come? Why did I think I could reason with you?”
“Because you’re afraid of your wife?”
A dangerous silence ensued.