position. Do you know the trouble you’ve caused, with your little spying glass?”
Owsley remaining sullen, Ashmont told him.
Over the course of the narrative, the MP’s sulks gradually altered to stunned disbelief. “I didn’t know. I never thought— No, it can’t be as you say. Lady Bartham wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“She did, and you gave her the ammunition.” Ashmont looked at Keeffe. “What sort of blackguard passes on stories that blacken a lady’s name?”
“I dunno, Your Grace. The kind as belongs at the bottom of the river?”
“Was it gentlemanly of you?” Ashmont asked his prisoner.
“You! To talk of gentlemanly behavior. That’s a laugh.”
Ashmont considered. “Fair enough. I ask you then, Was it sporting?”
After a moment, Owsley said, “No, no, it wasn’t. Nor gentlemanly, either.” He rubbed his head, though it ought to have been his gut that ached. “This is not right. I am not right. This isn’t like me.”
“Oh, it’s very like you,” Ashmont said. “It’s all of a piece with your Sabbath bill and not getting behind a bill that would actually do some good. You’re wrongheaded.”
“I! You should not have let the lady inside your house. Had you behaved as a gentleman, I should have had nothing to tell anybody. Had you only gone away—”
“Wouldn’t do you any good. She doesn’t want you. She doesn’t want your poetry.”
Owsley’s head jerked back, as though he’d been punched. “She told you about that?”
“She told me you gave her a poem. She told me it made her realize she liked me. You started it, you sanctimonious blockhead. You settled it for her. That’s why she came here.”
Owsley closed his eyes. He said nothing for a long time.
Ashmont looked at Keeffe, who shrugged.
At last Owsley let out a long breath. “I see. I have allowed myself to be played, like a—”
“Barrel organ?” Keeffe said. “Or maybe it’s more like the organ grinder’s monkey?”
“Yes.”
Ashmont moved to the window and looked out into the garden, mainly a large expanse of varying degrees of darkness.
He did not know what to do with this man. He would have known, say, a month earlier. He would have fought him. At dawn at thirty paces.
Or maybe he wouldn’t have done something so civilized. He would have fought with his fists, the way he’d tried to fight Ripley. The way he’d fought scores of males, on the smallest provocation.
This wasn’t small.
But the method didn’t strike him as useful at present. Owsley would still be a sneaking jackass, with an even smaller brain than Ashmont’s. Hell, he made Ashmont feel like a genius, another Newton or one of those other big-brained fellows.
He turned back to Owsley.
“We had better settle this like gentlemen,” Ashmont said.
Owsley went white.
“Not that,” Ashmont said. “Drink your brandy, damn you.”
Hand trembling, Owsley brought the glass to his lips and drank.
“You will give me your word of honor as a gentleman,” Ashmont said, “never to breathe even a hint of this business to anybody. You won’t utter a word about it ever again to that poisonous snake of a female. I doubt she’ll be wanting to bring up the subject at this point, but bile might get the better of her. She seems to have plenty of that. But if she does bring it up, you won’t know what she’s talking about. You’ll stare at her as though she’s sprouted horns—which, by the way, wouldn’t surprise me. Is that clear?”
Owsley nodded. “I’ll be happy never to speak to her again.”
“Good idea. Then I have your word?”
“You have my word.”
“Then we’re done,” Ashmont said. “Although I recommend you discover a strong urge to travel to foreign parts. Soon. And stay away for a long time.”
“But my constituency—”
“They’ll muddle along. Somebody else will take your seat. You’re young enough yet. Find another career. A rich wife. I don’t bloody well care what you do, only keep well away from me—and my duchess. You heard that, right? My duchess. You keep away from my family or I won’t be so filled with loving kindness next time.”
Chapter 19
—We understand that the matrimonial alliance between the Duke of Ashmont and Miss Pomfret, eldest daughter of Lord deGriffith, will take place in a few days.
—Foxe’s Morning Spectacle, 7 August 1833
The wedding took place at St. George’s, Hanover Square, on the following Saturday. This was eight weeks to the day, and very close to the hour, after the Duke of Ashmont crashed into Cassandra’s life.
A dejeuner followed, attended primarily by family members but also by a handful of illustrious persons, including the Duke