in extreme pain. Now, his ribs secured, he’ll be wild to get moving again. Even if he’s in pain. Even if it threatens his recovery. He won’t be reasonable.”
“I’ll speak to him,” Ashmont said.
She stared at him.
“Man to man,” he said. “I’ll offer to break a few more ribs if he doesn’t follow orders.”
“Break a few—”
“Manly pride,” Ashmont said. “No shame for him if I offer violence. I’m three times bigger and a duke. He can grumble then do what I give him no choice but to do.”
He went out again.
She went after him.
Ashmont had something to do. He’d been waiting for it. He’d ordered an inn servant to keep watch for the surgeon.
The lady had told him to make himself useful. He was happy to. A piece of the amends he needed to make.
He should have known he wouldn’t be allowed to get away easily.
He paused. “I won’t hurt him. You needn’t worry.”
“If you do, I’ll shoot you,” she said. “One of the few enjoyable actions I can perform to universal approbation.”
As though he’d lay violent hands on the little fellow. What kind of blackguard did she think he was?
Stupid question.
The more interesting one was whether she’d shoot him.
No, that one was easy, too. He’d seen her handle the runaway horses. From what he’d been able to make out, she’d kept as calm as any man—no, calmer than most—even when the reins broke. She’d taken a bad fall and not let out so much as a whimper. She’d hit him, and walked right over him, and then when he didn’t get up quickly enough, she’d emptied a bucket of water on him.
Yes. She’d shoot him, and her hand would be as steady as that stony gaze of hers.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” he said. “I’m only going to look like I’ll do it.”
She lifted the hard, grey gaze to his face. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t believe you capable of playing the ugly brute. At present, however, given your wrinkled and muddied splendor of dueling black, coupled with the bruises, dirt, and general air of not having bathed in a week, you appear fully qualified.”
“That bad?” He bent his head and sniffed at himself. Well, more than a little sweaty, with overtones of spilled brandy. Grime and grass stains marred his “dueling black.” He’d better send somebody for a toothbrush and tooth powder. “There you’re wrong. Had a bath this morning.” He ran his hand along his jaw. A trifle stubbly. “And a shave.”
“Wanted to look your best when you sent your dear friend to eternity, did you?”
“How did you . . .” Another stupid question. It didn’t take a giant brain to do this sum. All the world knew about Ripley and Olympia. Miss Pomfret knew Ashmont had fought a duel this morning. Who else would he have fought it with? “Thing is, it was an even chance he’d send me.”
“You didn’t kill him.” Her voice was lower now. “If you had, I expect you’d be on your way to France by now.”
He shook his head. “Nobody dead, no thanks to him.”
“Any injuries? You didn’t fall and hit your head on a rock, by any chance, and have a concussion?”
“You like to look for the silver lining, I see.”
“Is Ripley all right?”
Ashmont truly did not want to talk about the duel. He’d fought half a dozen, but it had never been like this. The scene played over and over in his mind, an endless series of encores. If he didn’t look out, he’d have nightmares.
He started down the corridor, and she went with him.
He touched the side of his head. “Trifling head wound. Skull too thick. Bullet bounced off, I reckon. Bled like a pig, though.”
Any of a hundred well-bred maidens would have swooned at this.
“Scalp wounds do,” she said. “You’re both idiots, by the way.”
“Olympia pointed that out.”
“I cannot decide whether she had a narrow escape or jumped out of the pan into the flames.”
“You do know how to lift a fellow’s spirits.”
“I don’t care about your spirits,” she said. “You came within ames ace of killing my dearest friend’s brother. He’s as worthless as you are, but Alice is unaccountably fond of him. Within hours of that piece of pointless behavior, you nearly killed three other people and two horses. My carriage is in pieces, and my father will never agree to replace it, because he hates my driving it. He’ll wish now he’d thought to crash it himself. Thanks to you, I am obliged to remain