Chapter 1 #2
Ripley had assumed it would be years and years before Ashmont married, unless he was so careless as to have that sort of accident.
Furthermore, Ripley, like everybody else, would have reckoned steep odds against Ashmont’s finding a remotely suitable girl
so desperate as to take him, dukedom or not. Or whose family would let her, if his looks or title or charm got the better
of her wits.
As Ashmont had boasted in his infrequent letters, Almack’s hostesses had barred him from their assemblies, the King had let
His Grace know he wasn’t welcome at the Royal Levees, and the majority of hostesses in London had cut him from their invitation
lists. For a good-looking, solvent duke, these sorts of accomplishments took some doing.
Still, Ripley hadn’t expected Blackwood’s wedding, either.
It only went to show . . .
What, exactly?
He glanced that way. Blackwood—dark, like Ripley but sleeker and better looking by far—raised one black eyebrow in enquiry.
Ripley lifted his shoulders.
Blackwood made his unhurried way to them.
“Don’t see what the fuss is about a hem,” Ashmont said. “At the bottom, isn’t it? Well, then.”
“If she trips on it and falls on her face—”
“I’ll catch ’er,” Ashmont said.
Ripley looked at Blackwood.
They both looked at Ashmont. He was in his altitudes, beyond a doubt. He had all he could do to stand upright.
If the bride didn’t appear soon, one of two things would happen: At best, the bridegroom would sink into a stupor and subside
ungracefully to the floor. At worst, he’d pick a fight with somebody.
“’Nuff o’ this,” Ashmont said. “I’m goin’ t’ get her.”
He started for the door, and stumbled. Blackwood caught him by the shoulder. “Good idea,” he said. “No point hanging about
in here.”
He caught Ripley’s eye. Ripley took the other side, and they guided their friend out of the drawing room.
With the guests milling about the trays of champagne, they encountered only servants outside the drawing room.
“Where?” Blackwood said.
“Downstairs,” Ripley said.
“Not down,” Ashmont said. “She’s up. There.” He pointed, his finger making unsteady curlicues in the air.
“Bad luck,” Ripley said. “Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
“Was ‘spectin’ to see her at the weddin,’” Ashmont said.
They led him toward the stairs, and then, not easily, down them.
“This way,” Ripley said.
He’d been in Newland House before, but that was ages ago. He wasn’t sure of the ground floor layout. In an old house of this
kind he’d expect a dining room and, very likely, a library. Not that the type of room mattered.
They needed to get Ashmont away from drink as well as anybody he might decide to quarrel with. That included everybody.
He and Blackwood guided their friend toward a door standing at a safe distance from the main staircase. Ripley opened the
door.
The first thing he saw was white, miles of it, as though a cloud had slid into what he was distantly aware was a library.
But clouds didn’t wear white satin slippers and clocked stockings, and did not stand upon a set of library steps.
“Oops,” Blackwood said.
“Dammit, Olympia!” Ashmont said. “What the devil are you about?” He tried to break away from his friends.
Ripley said, “Get him out of here.”
“No, you don’t, blast you,” Ashmont said. “I’ve got somethin’ to say.”
“Bad luck,” Blackwood said. “Bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”
As he hauled the protesting Ashmont back into the corridor, he said over his shoulder to Ripley, “He put you in charge of
wedding details. Do something.”
“The ring,” Ripley said. “The license. The vails and such. Not the bride.”
“Do something,” Blackwood said.
* * *
Once more Ripley opened the door.
The library steps nearby held nobody. A sound drew his gaze to the windows. He saw a flurry of white. She was struggling with
the window latch.
He crossed the room in a few long strides.
“Funny thing,” he said. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a wedding?”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “You might give the blushing bride some help. The latch is stuck.”
He caught a whiff of brandy mingled with a flowery fragrance.
Though his brain wasn’t at its sharpest at the moment, he could sum up the situation easily enough.
Drunken bride at window with the aim of getting out.
There was a problem here.
“Why?” he said.
“How should I know why it’s stuck?” she said. “Do I look like a plumber to you? Or what-you-call-it. Glazier.” She nodded.
“Window person.”
“Not being a window person, I may not be qualified to help with this sort of thing,” he said.
“Rise above yourself,” she said. “I’m the damsel in distress. And you—” She turned her head to look at him. She stared at
the knot of his neckcloth, approximately at her eye level. Then her eyes narrowed and her gaze moved upward.
Behind the spectacles, her grey eyes were red-rimmed.
She’d been crying.
Obviously Ashmont had said or done something to upset her. Nothing new in that.
“Plague take it,” she said. “You’re one of them. Go away. I only want a breath of air. In . . . erm . . . Kensington Gardens.”
“In your wedding dress,” he said.
“I cannot take it off and put it back on again as though it were a cloak.” She spoke with the extreme patience more usually
applied to infants of slow understanding. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s raining,” he said with matching patience.
She turned her head and peered at the window. Rain droplets made wriggly rivulets down the glass.
She gave him a grandiose wave of dismissal. “Never mind—if you’re going to fuss about every little thing.” She turned back
to the latch and recommenced trying to strangle it. This time it surrendered.
She pushed open the window. “Adieu,” she said.
And climbed through, in a flutter of satin and lace.
* * *
Ripley stood for a moment, debating.
She wanted to go, and he deemed it unsporting to hold women against their will.
He could go back and tell Ashmont his bride was bolting.
He could go back and tell one of the men in her family.
She wasn’t Ripley’s problem.
She was Ashmont’s problem.
True Ashmont had put Ripley in charge of the wedding, and Ripley had promised to care of things: hold onto the ring, supply
coins as needed, make sure Ashmont did what he was supposed to do.
Retrieving the bride wasn’t in the agreement.
She oughtn’t to need retrieving.
Just because she’d been drunk and crying . . .
“Damn,” he said.
He climbed through the window.