And so the Duchess of Ripley and her lady’s maid left the house in good time—or as good as was humanly possible—perhaps not more than half an hour behind her husband, according to the porter.
The seconds would have to mark out and measure the ground, Olympia explained to Jenkins as the hackney made its way through the London streets. This could take time, because each second would want to place his man in the best position. A last-minute attempt to reconcile the combatants was possible, certainly. Though the meeting was likely appointed for six—the usual time in summer—it might be as late as seven. Either way, the actual fighting couldn’t start until all the formalities had been gone through and everything had been checked and agreed upon.
Olympia kept her mind on the technicalities of the duel, so as not to dwell on the actualities of pistols firing deadly balls at two great blockheads who were supposed to be the best of friends.
Fortunately for her nerves, her hackney made good progress. Since Ripley House stood not far from Park Lane, they traveled the wider streets of the metropolis. The market wagons were making their way into London, but Olympia’s hackney reached Hyde Park Corner without hindrance. Before long it was rolling upon the Fulham Road, headed for Putney Heath.
On the way to the place of meeting, Pershore offered Ripley a bottle of soda water dosed with a small amount of brandy.
Ripley took it with a laugh. “Ah, the bracing-up.”
“You may not need it,” said Pershore. “I do.”
“Whether needed or not, it’s an agreeable stimulant at this hour.” Ripley drank. “I should have liked another hour or more of sleep.” With his wife in his arms. But at least he’d had his wedding and his wedding night. And such a wedding night it had been!
“A duel on the day after your wedding,” Pershore said. “That was ill done of Ashmont.”
“He deems it ill done of me to have married his bride.”
“If he’d waited longer, his temper would have cooled.”
“Then what?” Ripley said. “He’s the talk of London, which is nothing new, except that this time he’s wounded in a man’s tenderest part, his pride. He needs the meeting—and I confess I do, too. We’ve no other way to put the matter to rest.” They had to fight. Otherwise there would always be bad blood between them. No other remedy but for one or both of them to put a bullet in the other.
Barbaric, Olympia would call it. But men were barbaric.
If the seconds had found a way to reconcile them, Ripley would have been amazed as well as glad. The task, as he’d supposed, had turned out to be impossible. Since they hadn’t succeeded in making peace, he needed to focus on fighting and winning.
He couldn’t go into this halfheartedly. Ashmont wouldn’t.
Ripley couldn’t dwell on his long history with Ashmont and Blackwood or the way they had saved one another at various times, but especially when they were three deeply unhappy boys during those first miserable days at Eton. It was like fighting one’s own brother. But one couldn’t think that way.
This was an affair of honor.
Honor demanded Ripley do his best to kill his friend and his friend do his best to kill him.
They reached Putney Heath in plenty of time. They arranged for the post chaise to wait in a sheltered place nearby, where the wounded or dead could be quickly taken. The post chaise also needed to be where it wasn’t likely to attract the attention of Metropolitan Police on the lookout for exactly this sort of illegal early morning encounter.
After taking out the pistol case, Pershore and Ripley walked the short distance to the agreed-upon spot.
They arrived first, as Ripley had hoped to do.
He coolly strolled about the dueling ground, as though he’d merely come ahead of the other guests for a party. His ankle still wasn’t altogether happy, but he refused to limp or lean on his walking stick.
The surgeon and Ripley’s valet, who’d arrived shortly after Ripley and his second, left him to his solitude and kept out of Pershore’s way. The latter was looking for obstacles to the line of sight when Ashmont and his second, Morris, emerged from one of the footpaths, surgeon and servant trailing behind.
Olympia’s hackney stopped at the Putney Bridge tollgate, where it seemed to take forever to pay the toll and another forever for the gate to open. They clattered over the crazy old bridge and into the High Street, past the White Lion.
Her mind painted images: she, falling into the water . . . Ripley carrying her to the inn, while the onlookers hooted and cheered . . . the dressmaker and her minions and their naughty corset . . . Ripley standing naked in a basin . . . the scene with Bullard in the courtyard . . .
So much, in a single day, and the time they’d spent in Putney was only a part of that unforgettable day.
It could not be over so soon.
They could not have found each other only for it to end now.
It could not end with his falling dead in a muddy field on a summer morning, the day after their wedding.
“I’ll kill you,” she muttered. “You can’t do this to me, Ripley.”
“Your Grace?”
“What time is it?” Olympia said.
The last effort at reconciliation failed, as it was bound to do.
His face a mask, Ripley strode calmly to his station and looked hard at Ashmont, who appeared as cold and calm as Ripley.
Pershore gave Ripley his pistol.
Ripley’s dueling pistols were always kept in pristine condition. The insides of the barrels held not an iota of rust. Locks and hair triggers were in order. Ripley knew to a nicety the throw of his pistols. Nonetheless, he’d checked them early this morning before leaving his house, and he and Pershore had checked them again when they were loaded. They were properly charged. He had no worries about misfires or other such accidents.
He, Blackwood, and Ashmont had been practicing since they were boys, and not simply shooting at targets. Using a rather complicated “dummy” operated by wires, which discharged a pistol—sans ball, of course—at them as soon as they shot, had taught them to be cool under fire. It was a skill Blackwood’s exacting father had impressed upon them. Though the previous Duke of Blackwood had abhorred duels, he understood there were times when they couldn’t be avoided. This being the case, a man ought to know how to carry it off properly.
Having seconded Ashmont in all too many affairs of honor, Ripley was as familiar with his ways as with his own. He didn’t underestimate him, drunk or sober. Today, he appeared sober. Even he wouldn’t be such a fool as to stay up all night drinking before a duel.
Ripley positioned himself sideways and exactly in line with his opponent, pistol in his right hand, the muzzle pointing straight down. He stamped his feet, to anchor himself firmly on the ground. He stood ramrod straight and raised his right arm, keeping his gaze, not on Ashmont, but on one of the buttons of his coat. He knew Ashmont was doing the same: choosing a small object to aim at, and concentrating on that.
They knew each other too well. They’d done this too many times, though this was the first time they’d aimed at each other.
The chances of their killing each other were exceedingly good.