The Duke's Downfall (2 page)

“‘Ow’d I ‘elp?”

“By making my horses run even faster.” Betsy stretched her hand a little farther and smiled. “You’ve earned it, along with my thanks.”

A prideful grin lit the boy’s dirty face and he accepted the coin, lifting it from Betsy’s palm and tucking it in the folds of the rags he wore for clothes.

“S’all right, miss. Right fun it wuz.”

“Yes, it was right fun. Thank you again.”

The boy nodded, tugged on the dog’s string to turn away, but wheeled abruptly back to look at Betsy. “You he goin’ out again soon, miss?”

“On the morrow,” she replied, with a smile. “I’ve some shopping to do.”

“So do me an’ Scraps.” He grinned again, flashed the coin from the depths of his rags, then darted away down the square with his little dog limping on three legs behind him.

Chapter Two

When Betsy and her grandmother left Berkeley Square the next day in a smart yellow phaeton with shiny black wheels, Boru was between them on the leather squabs and Silas at the ribbons. Neither the dowager nor her granddaughter saw the brown-haired boy and his scruffy dog leap up from the curbside to scurry along in their wake, but Boru did.

With an excited whine, he lifted his ears and turned his head. Betsy shifted on the banquette to see what had caught his attention and glimpsed the boy and Scraps nipping and darting through the crowds on the flagway to keep pace with the phaeton.

The little terrier was still hopping on three legs, which caused Betsy to frown until she saw the happy wagging of his tail and the jaunty salute tossed her by the boy. She smiled then, raised her hand to wave at him, and received a sound rap on the wrist with the dowager’s fan.

“Ouch!” Betsy shook her hand and glared at her grandmother.

“A polite nod,” Lady Clymore scolded as she leaned around Boru, “is sufficient to acknowledge an acquaintance on the street.”

"Yes, Granmama." Betsy sighed with feigned resignation, settled back on the squabs, and gave Boru an unseen pat of gratitude.

Already her plan was working. Quite satisfactorily, she thought, as she admired the welt swelling on her stinging wrist. She’d expected a battle when she’d suggested bringing Boru, but her grandmother had surprised her by agreeing.

“Capital idea,” she’d approved. “With all the rabble flocking to town since the end of the war, he’ll serve as an excellent deterrent to cut purses."

“But, Granmama,” Betsy had reminded her innocently, “Boru won’t bite his own fleas.”

“You know that and so do I,” the dowager had replied, with a cat-in-the-cream smile, “but the footpads do not.”

Falling victim to a cut purse was probably too much to hope for, but Betsy, her reticule stuffed to bursting with an odd assortment of items smuggled to town in her hatboxes, was prepared for any contingency. Her father’s pistol, its firing pin safely removed, would create a suitable sensation on the off-chance they should happen to be waylaid. And if Fate failed to throw a thief in her path, she was equally well armed with her grandfather’s reading spectacles or his jeweled snuffbox, either one of which could be whipped out for suitable effect at a moment’s notice.

Only as a last resort did Betsy plan to be shocking, for she had no wish to disgrace herself or her grandmother. Outrageous, yes, shocking only if it became absolutely necessary, but she did not think it would be to turn Julian Dameron’ s mercenary affections. Her intent was merely to avoid marriage—to her upstart cousin or anyone else—until her heart decreed otherwise.

There were heiresses aplenty to fill Julian’s pockets with blunt, and all Betsy had to do to convince him she was a poor choice was behave like a Keaton. An easy task, since she had a lifetime of practice. His overweening pride and scrupulous desire to always be and do the proper thing would see to the rest. Betsy was sure of it—just as certain as she was that despite his agreement with her grandmother, Julian had every intention of following them to town to protect his interest in her considerable portion.

Ergo, Betsy was ready. With her reticule full of oddments and Boru beside her, she was invincible. Whatever remote possibility she may have overlooked in her planning, ever lovable and overzealous Boru could be counted on to deal with in the most unexpected and outlandish fashion imaginable, for he, too, had a lifetime of practice.

Looping her arm around his neck, Betsy smiled and settled back on the banquette to enjoy the city sights. When she wasn’t glancing over her shoulders to see if the boy and Scraps were still following, she studied the occupants of the carriages they passed, particularly the ladies and the cut and style of their gowns. Their first stop was the modiste, and Betsy wished to be seen in the highest kick of fashion. It would make the part she intended to play seem even more incongruous.

When Silas reined the grays to avoid a near collision just ahead, she was deeply engrossed in the deftly tucked bodice of a blue merino walking dress making its way along the flagway on a plump young matron. If her arm hadn’t been draped around Boru, she would’ve been pitched headlong onto the floor by the sudden stop. The jolt snapped her head up sharply, just as it did to the gentleman occupying the carriage drawing to an equally abrupt halt beside the phaeton.

As he lifted his head from whatever held his attention below the level of the window, Betsy caught her breath at the glimpse she had of his handsome profile. His very dark hair was wind-tossed, due to the breeze billowing through the lowered window and the fact that he was hatless. Odd as it was to see a gentleman sans chapeau, it was even more astounding to see one raise a book to carefully mark his place before closing it.

A very thick book, Betsy noted, all but gasping with astonishment. Intrigued, she watched him lean toward the window and peer about as if looking for someone, the cool sunshine streaking his wind-blown hair with blue highlights.

His eyes were blue—no, green—and he was clearly looking about for something. Or someone, Betsy thought, just as his gaze lifted and locked with hers. His eyes were neither blue nor green, but a mix of the two. And they were, she thought, the most intelligent eyes she’d ever seen.

If he felt at all taken aback by finding himself nearly nose-to-nose with her, it did not show in his expression. He did blink, but only as he turned his head to take quick, keen stock of their carriages stopped side by side in the midst of Oxford Street. When he looked back at her, the corners of his eyes had lifted, along with those of his mouth, in a smile of bemused surprise.

“Good day, my lady,” he said, unlatching the carriage door and swinging it open to jump down. His deep voice was pleasant and matter-of-fact, as if meeting in the middle of a busy London street were as common as dust.

“Good day, sir,” Betsy replied, matching his calm tone despite the quiver of excitement his smile sent racing up her spine.

Beside her, Boru whined and began to tremble. She laid a hand on his shoulder to soothe him, but he only whined again and gave a short, throaty bark that caused both teams to flatten their ears and back in their traces. It also alerted the coachman to the untoward creak of the springs, and turned him in his box to call urgently to his passenger, “No, no, Yer Grace! We’re no where’s near Piccadilly!”

“Your Grace!” Betsy breathed, her eyes widening. Why, he’s a duke, she thought amazedly, quite the nicest—and the youngest—she’d ever met.

“Yes, Fletcher, I’m aware of that,” he replied, patient reassurance in his voice as he looked up at his driver.

“Betsy! How many times must I tell you—” The dowager leaned around Boru and froze in midscold as she beheld the duke’s face. “Good heavens, Braxton! You are half in and half out of your carriage!”

“Yes, Lady Clymore, I am.” He stiffened then, as if suddenly remembering something, and shifted his gaze to address the dowager countess. His eyes, which only moments before had sparkled with humor and quick intelligence, now looked vacant and clouded with bewilderment. “I am?” he repeated, making a question of it. “I mean, I am, Lady Clymore. But you see, I thought this was Piccadilly.”

“Yes, of course,” her ladyship replied, with an ironically arched brow. “Soho is so often mistaken for it.”

Only by a complete dolt, thought Betsy, which the Duke of Braxton was not. The unanswerable question was why on earth he was trying to pass himself off as one.

His blacks chose that moment to chafe at the delay by rearing in their traces, which sent the carriage rocking, the duke weaving precariously to-and-fro, and Boru springing up on all fours. Vexed by the blacks and the hound’s barking, Betsy’s grays tried to bolt. The phaeton lurched forward before Silas could regain control, and Boru, before Betsy could restrain him, launched himself at the carriage.

The dowager valiantly flung herself across the banquette to catch him, but succeeded only in bumping so hard into Betsy that she sent her granddaughter tumbling to the floor. Only when both conveyances had stopped pitching and both teams had been calmed, did Betsy dare pick herself up to see what had happened. She had to sweep Boru’s tail aside to look, and when she did, she cringed and groaned.

Pinned against the squabs by Boru, who was stretched between the phaeton and the duke’s carriage, the countess turned her head as best she could against his shaggy flank and glared at Betsy.

“Get this oaf off me,” she said between clenched teeth.

“This instant, Granmama.” Betsy bolted from the phaeton, calling to Silas as she rounded the boot, “Hold them steady!”

George jumped down from the box and met her beside Boru. The crowd that had gathered to watch the argument between the two drivers who’d nearly collided but had settled the matter and moved on, now drifted down the flagway to gape and twitter at the huge dog strung between the two vehicles. Boru, clinging to the carriage window by his toenails, turned his head toward Betsy and whined imploringly.

“I’ll have him down in a wink, m’lady.” George raised his arms over his head, gripped Boru’s front legs, and glanced at the duke’s coachman. “Pull away real slow, guv.”

The man nodded and did so. As the carriage inched forward, George lowered Boru’s front paws onto his shoulders. The veins in his neck bulged with the effort of supporting the hound’s weight, but slowly he managed to back Boru into the phaeton. Once all four of his feet were firmly planted on the banquette, Boru leaped into the countess’s lap, leaned over the side, and licked George’s face.

Her grandmother shrieked furiously, the crowd cheered, and Betsy raced toward the Duke of Braxton’s carriage. The coachman had set the brake and climbed down to place the steps when Betsy reached the door, flung it open, and saw the duke sprawled inelegantly on the floor of the coach.

The sight of him made her heart lurch. Her plan was working, all right, far too well. This was no mere baronet spread-eagled and semiconscious before her, this was a duke! This was not outrageous, this was disastrous. Thinking only of her grandmother’s wrath if she saw him, Betsy impulsively reached into the carriage, clutched the duke’s forest green left sleeve in both hands, and pulled.

“Up, Your Grace!” she urged, tugging and puffing at his weight. “Quickly—up!”

With a groggy shake of his head, he tried to push himself up on his right arm. Encouraged, Betsy dug the heels of her soft kid half boots into the paving stones, leaned back to give herself more leverage, and nearly fell backward in a heap when the shoulder seam of his coat gave way with a loud r-i-i-p.

Horrified, Betsy clapped her gloved hands over her mouth as the duke sat up abruptly, shook his head to clear it, and raised his left arm. The cuff of his sleeve drooped off his fingertips and the snowy white lawn of his shirt gaped through the tear in his shoulder. He gazed at it a moment, nonplussed, then raised his eyes to Betsy’s face.

“Was I not quick enough?”

“Oh no, Your Grace! The stitches simply gave way! I’m so dreadfully sorry! But I’m sure it can be repaired. Why, a clever seamstress—” clasping the hem of his wilted cuff, Betsy tugged the sleeve back into place to show him—”with a stitch here, a stitch there—”

Her overstuffed and very heavy reticule, sent swinging like a pendulum from her left elbow, at that moment reached the farthest point of its arc— which just happened to coincide with the space occupied by the Duke of Braxton’s face. He caught the blow squarely on his jaw, with a solid clunk that sent him reeling backward.

“Your Grace!” Betsy shrieked, appalled. “Pray, are you hurt? I’m so very sorry! Oh, please, let me help you!”

As she reached out to take hold of him again, the duke scrambled quickly backward and away from her.

“There’s no need,” he said, lifting his sagging sleeve to rub his jaw. “I thank you for your concern, but I’m all right. Please feel free, young lady, to rejoin Lady Clymore and get the devil—er— continue on your way.”

Young lady! Betsy’s cheeks scalded and her temper flared. He was addressing her as if she were a child. “I am a lady, Your Grace, but not an especially young one, for I shall be one and twenty on my next birthday.”

The duke arched one brow as Betsy, too late, bit her tongue on the faux pas. To tell him her age, she might as well have told him the color of her petticoat. But having said it, she had no choice but to brazen it out, and so went on haughtily, “I own it is my stature—or lack of it—which is deceptive. Though I am quite mature, I am often taken to be much younger.”

“Perhaps it is your demeanor rather than your stature that causes the confusion,” he suggested. “It would appear that you and your pet are well suited. Is he often mistaken for a horse?”

“Only,” Betsy retorted, stung by his setdown, “by the very ignorant or the very shortsighted.”

“Young lady,” the duke replied flatly, “I am not so lacking in wit or vision that I cannot recognize a menace to public safety. In future, kindly curb your pet. With a sharp bit and leathers if necessary.”

“I am not a young lady, and Boru is not a menace! But you, sirrah, are a—”

“That is quite enough, Betsy.” Lady Clymore appeared at her side, her hastily righted bonnet perched atop her frayed hair like a hen on a haystack. “Before you cut up too stiff, allow me to present you to the Duke of Braxton. Charles Earnshaw, my granddaughter, Elizabeth Keaton.”