Prologue
London
The Duke of Ashmont was not a very good duke—rather an awful one, actually. And so nobody could be in the least surprised
to see him, drunk as an emperor—that was to say, ten times as drunk as a lord—staggering down the steps of Crockford’s Club
on the arm of one of his two best friends.
This one was Hugh Philemon Ancaster, seventh Duke of Ripley. Where Ashmont was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and angelic-looking,
Ripley was dark. Unlike Ashmont, he did not appear to be spun of dreams and gossamer, and women did not follow his movements
with the moonstruck expressions they accorded His Grace With The Angel Face.
Furthermore, though his slightly older title ranked him a notch or two higher in precedence than Ashmont, Ripley was merely
as drunk as a lord. He could still distinguish up from down. When, therefore, His Grace of Ashmont showed an inclination to
stumble in the downhill direction, toward St. James’s Palace, Ripley hauled him about.
“This way,” he said. “Hackney stand up ahead.”
“Right,” Ashmont said. “Can’t miss the wedding. Not this one. It’s me doing it. Me and Olympia. Have to be there. Promised.”
“You will be,” Ripley said as he led his friend across the street. The wedding had been news to him. He’d been on the Continent
for the last year, and returned to London only yesterday.
No, the day before, because today was yesterday now. Here was dawn already, halfheartedly lightening the gloom . . . and he’d
come to Crockford’s . . . why had he come?
His chef.
Ripley House hadn’t been completely prepared for the master’s return. This meant the kitchen wasn’t in perfect order, which
meant that Chardot had fallen into hysterics. That left Crockford’s for dining. No one could match Ripley’s genius chef, but
Crockford’s Ude was the next best thing.
Chardot would sulk, but he’d get over it. On account of the wages.
Money mended everything.
Usually.
Before Ripley could decide whether the exceptions mattered, four men spilled out of a narrow court, one crashing into Ashmont,
with force enough to dislodge him from Ripley’s light grasp and push him into a shop front.
Ashmont bounced back with surprising energy. “You clumsy, bleeding, halfwit! I have to get married, you bloody arsehole!”
At the same moment, he drove his fist at the fellow’s face.
One of the fellow’s friends tried to butt in. With a sigh, Ripley grabbed him by the back of the collar. The fellow swung
at him, obliging Ripley to knock him into the gutter.
What happened after that was what often happened when Ashmont was about.
A lot of filthy language and filthy fighting, and men rushing out of the clubs, shouting bets, and a female or two screaming
somewhere.
Then it was over. Their foes lay strewn about the pavement. Ripley didn’t wait to count or identify them. He collected Ashmont
from the railing he’d slumped against and trudged to the corner with him. He signaled, and the first in line of the hackneys
plodded their way. He threw Ashmont into the decrepit coach and directed the driver to Ashmont House.
Servants waited up, as they were accustomed to do, for Ashmont. They bore him up the stairs to his bedroom and undressed and
washed him without fuss. They were old hands at dealing with their master’s little foibles.
After he’d seen His Grace safely tucked into bed, Ripley left.
He needed a bath, a nap, and a change of clothes.
He had to a wedding to attend in a few hours.