Julian named a figure that made the jarvey’s eyes positively glow. “Wha’do I ‘ave t’do fer it?”
“Nothing much.” Julian smiled. “Simply rent a better carriage for tomorrow evening, one with a larger boot, and make yourself available to drive me to a ball.”
Chapter Eighteen
When Charles reached Bond Street, Lesley was in the library. Still in his greatcoat, the whip Lady Clymore had so admired thwacking against one boot, a thunderous expression on his face.
“The bounder gave me the slip,” he blurted, rounding on Charles when he came through the door. “Knows the streets like the back of his hand, damn him to hell.”
“So we’ve no idea,” Charles summed up, “of Dameron’s direction or Boru’s whereabouts?”
“None,” Lesley snapped angrily. “But I’ll know the blackguard’s cattle when I see ‘em again, and I plan to be on the streets at first light.”
“And I will be as well,” Charles said with a frown.
“No offense, Chas, but I think this business is best left to Teddy and I.”
“None taken, for I meant that I would be on my way to Berkeley Square to gainsay Betsy.”
And he was, at scarce ten of the clock the next morning, the headache that was fast becoming an old friend thudding in his temples. He sent a note ahead announcing his arrival and was ushered straight into the Blue Saloon by Iddings, where Lady Clymore awaited him with the tea tray and Betsy.
Her heart, which had leapt with hope at receipt of his note, sank with her first glimpse of Charles’s face. He looked handsome as ever, but unrested and harried.
“Unfortunately,” he announced, once he’d seated himself, “the jarvey managed to escape Lesley last night. No easy task, but apparently he’s a clever fellow.”
“So we do not know Julian’s direction,” Betsy said, with a sigh of disappointment.
“I fear not, but Lesley and Teddy have resumed the hunt this morning.”
“Then I shall join them,” she said, rising resolutely from the settee.
“I strongly advise against it,” Charles replied, getting to his feet with her. “Lesley is unknown to Dameron—and the jarvey, for that matter—while you, my lady, are not. And they are already wise to the fact that someone followed them last night.”
Betsy thought about that for a moment. “Then I will disguise myself.”
“I forbid it!”
It was the wrong thing to say, and Charles knew it even as he uttered the words. But it was too late, for Betsy was already rounding on him with flashing eyes.
“You have no power to forbid me anything, my lord.”
“Forgive my poor choice of words, my lady,” he apologized hastily. “But old habits are hard to break.”
“Are you referring to your habit of ordering people about merely because you are a duke?”
“I have never,” Charles snapped at her, the pain in his temples flaring, “ordered anyone about merely because I am a duke."
“Oh, I see.” Betsy folded her arms and tapped the toe of one slipper. “Then you must be referring to your habit of ordering people about because you are a tyrant.”
“I am not a tyrant!"”
“Really?” Betsy’s toe tapped faster. “Are you not shouting at me like one?”
“I am shouting,” Charles replied, gritting his teeth to keep from doing so, “because I am angry, not because I am a tyrant.”
“Are you not angry because I refuse to bend to your will?”
“Indeed not!” Charles gave up trying not to and shouted. “I am angry because you are behaving like a featherheaded little chit!”
“Featherheaded!” Betsy stamped her foot and shouted back at him. “How dare you!”
“Someone must to keep you from haring off dressed as God knows what and risking your own safety, not to mention that of Boru!”
“As if you care!” Betsy retorted scathingly. “Since you cannot deny that just yesterday you were trying to throttle him!”
“The hell I was! I was merely trying to keep my feet!”
“Is that why your hands were around his throat?”
“If I’d intended to throttle him,” Charles returned, striving to regain a measure of composure, “would I have enlisted Teddy and Lesley to search for him?”
“To ease your guilty conscience,” Betsy shot back, “I believe you would do anything!”
“Then you must still believe the world is flat!”
“But not nearly so fiat as your excuses, my :Lord!”
“Go on, then!” Charles gave an irritable wave of his hand. “Rig yourself out as a footman or a page and prove to Dameron and the rest of the ton that all the rackety things he says about you are true!”
It was an unkind remark—and the very thing he’d been trying to save her from. Charles could not believe he’d said it, pressed a hand to his splitting head, and watched her face harden into a mask of icy fury.
“Since my acquaintance with you, my lord, has given me such a vast knowledge of the animal,” Betsy retorted viciously, “I believe I will disguise myself as a goat herd!”
“There are no goatherds in London!”
“Only goats masquerading as dukes!”
“Enough!” Lady Clymore got to her feet and thumped her cane. “Put a period to this at once, before you both say things you will regret!”
“I regret,” Betsy seethed, “only that I allowed you to kiss me!”
“What?” Lady Clymore squawked, her gaze flying from Betsy to Charles and back again. “When was this?”
“You allowed nothing!” Charles shot back, ignoring the countess. “You nearly cracked my skull with that damned heavy volume of Ovid!”
“Who the blazes is Ovid?” her ladyship demanded.
“Come near me again,” Betsy threatened, clenching her fist at Charles, “and I will crack your head!”
“Do so,” he returned angrily, “and no one will believe we are engaged. Not even Dameron!”
“Good! For we are not and never will be!”
“The hell you say! I do not renege on my word!”
“Liar!” Betsy shrilled at him. “Last eve you said you do not force unwilling females into marriage!”
“Rest assured, I have no intention of marrying you, but I do intend to keep my word, which is to maintain the facade until Dameron makes another match!”
“I do not need your assistance to rid myself of Julian!”
“Perhaps not, but you shall have it!”
“We shall see about that, Your Grace!” Betsy bobbed him a curtsey, snatched up her skirts, and flung herself toward the door.
Charles rounded on his heel to follow her, but stopped, stricken to the bone at the glimpse he had of her profile. Her lips quivered and unshed tears glistened on her lashes. It hit him then, much as her tiny fist had the day before, that what he’d taken for anger and loathing of him was perhaps guilt and hurt, the very feelings he was experiencing himself, more sharply and painfully than he’d ever felt anything before.
He’d been a fool again, an idiot, had let the banked fires let loose in him the day before, blaze unchecked. When the saloon door slammed shut behind Betsy, Charles sprang after her and reached the bottom step of the staircase just as she reached the landing.
“Betsy, wait—” he began, but she whirled on her heel, snatched up a vase resting on a shelf, and hurled it at him.
Flinging up an arm, Charles ducked and felt the vase whiz past his head. When it exploded against the wall behind him, he raised his head, saw the empty landing, and a moment later heard the echoing slam of a door somewhere on the corridor above.
“If she’d been herself, she wouldn’t have missed,” Lady Clymore told him.
Sagging wearily against the banister on his left arm, Charles looked at the countess framed in the saloon doorway. Hands cupped on the head of her cane, she cocked her head to one side and arched an eyebrow at him.
“Would you do me the honor, Lady Clymore, of thrashing me with your cane?”
“Rest assured, Braxton, that if you don’t think of a way to patch this up I most definitely will.”
Charles bent his elbow and dragged his hand through his hair. "How do you know she didn’t mean what she said?”
“That’s the crux of the problem, you silly man. She doesn’t believe you genuinely want to marry her. And why should she, when you just told her you didn’t?”
“But that’s not at all what I meant to say.” Charles raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s this damnable headache.”
“I’m sure you did not,” Lady Clymore responded kindly, “anymore than Betsy meant to compare you to a goat.”
“No, my lady.” Charles lowered his hand and gave her a rueful glance. “I’m reasonably certain she meant that. The question is how do I convince her I’m not?”
“I cannot help you there. I can only do this.” Lady Clymore moved to a nearby bellpull and gave it a tug.
A moment later, Iddings appeared. “Yes, my lady?”
“Lady Betsy is in her room. Lock her in and do not let her out, no matter what she threatens.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Iddings bowed and moved past Charles up the stairs.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, with a sigh, turning and downing the step to the foyer. “That’s one less thing I have to worry about.”
“I suggest you do not escort us to the Countess Featherston’s this evening. Betsy will not expect it after this, and in her present mood, I think it unwise to throw the two of you together in a closed carriage.”
“I cannot, my lady, for I told Dameron—”
“Hang Dameron,” Lady Clymore cut in. “Concentrate on redeeming yourself with Betsy and let me worry about getting her there.”
“Very well, my lady. I bow to your superior wisdom.” As he did over the hand she offered him, gritting his teeth against the sickening thud in his temples.
“I am not wise, Braxton, I am merely an old woman anxious to see her granddaughter settled.” Her ladyship gave him a stern look when he straightened. “Make no mistake about that.”
“Not for an instant, ma’am,” Charles told her feelingly, certain that in the short space of time he’d known Betsy Keaton he’d already made enough mistakes for a lifetime.
* * * *
A feeling of doom hung heavy on Charles’s shoulders when he returned to Bond Street to dress for the evening, but it was no heavier or gloomier than the pall shrouding Betsy’s heart. She’d spent the day so deep in the dismals that she hadn’t even attempted to leave her bedchamber—and so had no idea the door was locked until she rang for her Abigail and she heard the key turn in Soames’s hand.
“Who locked my door and why?” she demanded, springing to her feet from the bed when the maid entered.
“Her Ladyship, of course,” Soames replied, “t’keep you from runnin’ off lookin’ fer Boru dressed like a shepherd.”
“Goatherd,” Betsy snapped, flinging herself down at her glass.
Her reflection showed her flushed cheeks and glittering, overbright eyes. She knew very good and well whose idea it was to lock her in, for her grandmother had never dared such a thing before. The tyrant. The arrogant, insufferable prig. The overbearing, high-in-the-instep Duke of Braxton.
She’d show him, Betsy vowed, giving her cheeks a good hard pinch to redden them even more. The Countess Featherston’s ball was the event of the Little Season, the last great fete before the ton retired to the country for the shooting and holiday seasons. Only the crème de la crème received invitations, and Betsy was suddenly determined to outshine them all.
Just as determined as Julian Dameron was to ruin her once and for all. And by nine of the clock, the stage was set for it.
Lord and Lady Featherston’s Grosvenor Square mansion was ablaze with torches, the streets were crammed with carriages, the steps leading to the house carpeted in green velvet and dotted with jewel-gowned debutantes like autumn leaves scattered across a lawn.
Behind a mother and two daughters, Julian made his way into the house, pleased to see over his shoulder that absolutely no one noticed Owens drive his team into the mews behind the square. No one but Davey, riding in the box of the Clymore coach with Silas and George, and he kept it to himself until Betsy and the countess were safely delivered to the door. Then he tugged George’s sleeve and whispered in his ear.
A more perfect setting couldn’t be had, Julian decided, for everyone who was anyone packed the saloons to overflowing. He recognized them all, for he’d taken Lady Clymore’s advice and studied who was who (or was it whom?) among the beau monde. Carefully, he kept himself in the thick of the crush. Since being followed from Berkeley Square, he had no wish to be pinned in a corner by Charles. At the proper moment, yes, but not until then.
At length he reached the ballroom, awash in the glow of thousands of candles glittering among the crystal facets of several chandeliers. Already the flowers artfully arranged in tall Grecian vases and upon marble pedestals were beginning to droop in the heat.
Four pairs of French windows stood open to admit the cool night air. Just as Julian had known they would. Beyond the frothy panels billowing in the light breeze, the fairy lights strung around the garden twinkled like stars. Their reflections danced in Julian’s eyes while he fetched himself a glass of champagne and drank it behind a tall screen of greenery, waiting and dreaming of the first ball he and Betsy would hold at Clymore.
Bending a palm frond or two gave him a view of the entrance and Lady Clymore arriving with Betsy. The dowager had abandoned the cane she’d used the night before, which caused Julian only a moment’s disappointment, for his mouth fell open at the sight of his cousin. At last he understood her appeal, for there wasn’t a hint of the rackety hoyden he knew at Clymore in the bewitching creature gowned in spun-sugar pink dotted with pearls.
Julian’s jaw was not the only one to come unhinged at the sight of Betsy, but Charles’s was the only one to clench. Not in vexation but in pain, for the headache was pounding full force in his head and the glass of nauseatingly sweet punch he’d chosen was only making it worse. His drawn-together brows and an errant lock of hair gave him a satyric look that caused Julian to retreat further into the shrubbery when Charles stopped in front of him to flag down a footman and exchange his punch for champagne.
The duke’s resemblance to the mythological creature was not lost on Betsy as he tossed off the contents of his glass, looked up, and met her gaze. A jolt of awareness shot through her at the contact but she looked pointedly away and snapped open her fan. If only he weren’t so handsome in his dark evening dress with his hair gleaming like a raven’s wing. It would be so much easier to despise him.