The Duke's Downfall (20 page)

From his vantage behind the palms, Julian watched Teddy converge on Betsy. He was not concerned with the puppy, however, only with Braxton, depositing his empty glass on a passing footman’s tray and striking off to intercept Lady Clymore

“You are a vision, my lady,” Teddy told Betsy.

“Thank you,” she muttered unhappily, observing Charles’s progress over the edge of her fan. “I’m glad someone notices. You can’t imagine how long it takes to transform oneself into a vision.”

Teddy slid his gaze in the direction Betsy looked and smiled. “I’m sure Chas has noticed. In fact, I’ll wager he’s remarking upon it to her ladyship even as we speak.”

Fat chance, Betsy thought glumly, knowing she should stop staring at Charles. She couldn’t seem to help herself, though, couldn’t drag her gaze away or swallow the lump in her throat. When he bowed ever Lady Clymore's hand and led her onto the floor for a waltz, Betsy thought she would burst into tears at the pink flush of pleasure staining her grandmother’s cheeks.

“I’ll wager,” she snapped waspishly at Teddy, “that you are mistaken.”

When he did not reply, she glanced sideways and saw him staring, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, at a point on the opposite side of the ballroom. Betsy craned her neck, but could not see Julian or anyone else she knew.

“Whatever are you looking at?”

“Not what, who,” Teddy replied woodenly.

“Well, who then?” Or was it whom, Betsy wondered, but couldn’t decide.

“Lady Caroline Cromley,” he announced gravely.

“Your country neighbor. Marvelous.” Betsy brightened at the recollection of Charles telling her Lady Cromley did what she could for orphans in the parish. “Where is she?”

With a tight-lipped nod, Teddy indicated a tall, handsome woman with chestnut hair piled in intricate curls atop her head. The picture she made, her fulsome figure gowned in saffron silk, amethysts at her throat and on her fingers, clashed with the image of dowdiness Charles had left in her head. He’d never said she wasn’t a great beauty, still it was hard to picture this regal creature wrestling dirty children or scrubbing their hair. Picturing her performing either task with Charles gave Betsy an uncomfortable stab.

“She’s—quite lovely,” she said haltingly.

“The loveliest widow in the entire parish.” Teddy spread his fingers over his eyes. “Chas will kill me.”

“Don’t be silly. He’ll be as delighted to see her as I will be to make her acquaintance.” Betsy closed her fan and draped it over her wrist. “Introduce me, Teddy. Lady Cromley and I have much to discuss.

“I’m sure you do,” he replied, catching her arm as she started forward, “but this is not the time or the place.”

Betsy cocked her head at him puzzledly. “To discuss orphans?”

“Oh . . . the orphans!” Teddy laughed giddily with relief. “I thought perhaps you wanted to scratch her eyes out.”

“Why on earth would I—?” Betsy’s breath caught in her throat as realization dawned. Charles called her Caro . . . and she was the loveliest widow in all the parish. What a fool she was. No wonder Charles had no wish to marry her. “Why is he going to kill you?”

“Because I forged a note in his hand inviting Lady Cromley to London.”

“Teddy!” Betsy rounded on him, aghast. “How could you?”

“It seemed a good idea at the time,” he admitted sheepishly. “But then I forgot I’d done it.”

“If Charles doesn’t kill you,” Betsy threatened, backing him into a close-by corner with her folded fan, “I will.”

Chapter Nineteen

Suicide, not murder, was the first thought to leap into Charles’s head when he glimpsed Caroline Cromley. So stunned was he that he missed the next step and trod upon Lady Clymore’s gouty foot.

“God’s teeth!” she howled, in a voice that nearly drowned out the orchestra.

A good portion of the guests heard her. Some twittered, one or two moved to help Charles and the countess crumpling in pain against his arm. Among them was Betsy, her eyes glittering. With anger or unshed tears Charles couldn’t tell.

“My lady, I’m so terribly sorry,” he apologized, helping Lady Clymore limp off the dance floor.

“Not your fault,” she said, wincing with each halting step she took. “It’s this demmed foot.”

Watching Betsy draw to a halt on the near sidelines, Charles wondered why he had the feeling she already knew who Caroline was. Then he caught sight of Teddy making his way toward them through the crowd and wondered no more.

“Come with me, Granmama.” Betsy held her hands out to take charge of the dowager. “I shall take you home."

“The devil you will. Finish this waltz with Braxton.”

“I’d rather not,” Betsy replied distastefully, “but I’m sure Lady Cromley would be delighted.”

“Lady who?” The countess blinked curiously.

“My neighbor at the hail,” Charles replied, emphatically and solely for Betsy’s benefit.

“The loveliest widow in all the parish.” She addressed herself to her grandmother, but gave him a reproachful glare. “A great expert on orphans.”

"Excellent.” Lady Clymore stepped out of Charles’s embrace and into Betsy’s. “Then perhaps she’ll take that noisome boy off our hands.”

“I believe she already has, Granmama.” Betsy leveled a contemptuous look on Charles, then turned her back on him to put an arm around her grandmother and lead her away.

Charles would have gone after her, but a hand settled gently on his sleeve and he turned around. All thoughts of choking, kissing, or merely shouting at Betsy vanished at the sight of Caroline Cromley, and so did the peal he thought to ring over her when she withdrew a letter from her reticule. He recognized the script and asked puzzledly, “When did I write that to you, Caro?”

“You didn’t,” she replied, handing him the letter. “I don’t know who did, but I thought you should know someone is impersonating you. It’s why I’ve come to town.”

Quickly Charles scanned the note and looked up. A short distance away, Teddy stood shifting uneasily from foot to foot, a doomed expression on his face. When Charles crooked his finger he came. Not readily, but he came.

“Good evening, Lady Cromley.” He bowed deeply, then faced Charles. “Yes, Chas?”

“Explain this,” he said, showing him the letter.

"I can't," Teddy admitted, “other than to tell you I had a brilliant plan in my head at the time. Unfortunately I can’t remember what it was.”

“I had no idea,” Lady Cromley said, with a laugh, “that forgetfulness runs in the family.”

“So do hot tempers and a tendency to throttle meddlers,” Charles growled.

“Then before you quiz her on it,” Teddy went on hurriedly, “let me confess I never heard Lady Cromley say anything. I only heard what Lesley said and repeated it.”

“To what purpose?”

“To pry you away from your books, Chas. You were becoming as musty as an old tome.”

“At least that’s the truth.”

“Well, of course it’s the truth. Why would I lie?” When Charles arched a brow at him he flashed. "Touché. But I give you my word I’ve no other schemes in the works.”

“For the moment at least,” Charles replied, slipping a hand beneath Lady Cromley’s elbow. ‘While we dance this waltz, I expect you to correct the misconstruction Lady Betsy has made.”

“I tried, Chas, I truly did,” Teddy said earnestly. “But she wouldn’t believe me.”

“Fancy that,” Charles observed dryly.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Cromley said worriedly. “Not that old drivel again?”

“Not to worry, Caro. Teddy will see to it.” He paused and gave his brother a humorless smile. “Won’t you, Teddy?”

“This instant.”

Wheeling away, he hurried after Betsy, who was settling her grandmother in a chair among the other chaperones. Once Teddy reached her side, Charles led Lady Cromley onto the floor.

“I had no idea my presence would cause a problem,” she said.

“Think nothing of it, Caro. It’s a pleasure to see you, as always,” he replied, leading her into the dance, but watching over the top of her head as Betsy rounded on Teddy and jabbed a finger into his cravat.

“She is very lovely.”

Charles dragged his gaze away from Betsy and saw Lady Cromley smiling at him knowingly.

“Her name is Elizabeth Keaton,” he told her. “She’s kindness itself, capricious as the wind, amazingly intelligent, silly as a goose, and utterly infuriating.”

“And you are madly in love with her.”

“Yes, God help me.”

“I couldn’t be happier for you, though I can’t say love becomes you.” Lady Cromley smiled, her eyes shining with amusement. “You look an absolute wreck.”

“Would you believe that since I’ve met her I’ve been knocked senseless twice by her dog, had a sleeve torn out of my coat, been hit in the jaw with her reticule, threatened with a dagger, and bashed over the head with a copy of Ovid’s
Amores
?”

“How utterly famous.” Lady Cromley laughed gaily. “She’s perfect for you, Charles.”

“Yes, I know.” He grinned at her.

One of the violins—or was it one of the horns— hit a sour note just then. At least that’s what Charles thought it was until he heard it again.

“Someone did not tune their instrument properly,” Lady Cromley remarked, glancing at the orchestra set up on a dais in one of the far corners.

“I don’t think so. I’ve never heard anything like it, but I don’t believe—”

And Charles couldn’t a moment later, when Boru came bursting through one of the French windows. Sliding on the slippery floor, he sat back on his haunches, threw back his great head, and loosed a mournful howl that drew screams from the women and brought the orchestra to a screeching, bleating halt.

“Good heavens!” Lady Cromley gasped. “What is that?”

“Boru!” Betsy cried joyfully, her voice ringing across the ballroom. “Boru! Here, boy!”

Scrambling up on all fours, the hound flung his head around. When he saw Betsy, he gave a deep, throaty bark and launched himself straight across the dance floor with kite strings still trailing from his coat. Couples scrambled to remove themselves from his path, skirts billowed, gentlemen spun in circles, and shrieks rang. As Boru galloped past, slipping and sliding, his nails unable to find a purchase on the marble floor, Charles foresaw disaster as Betsy had foreseen it the day before in Hyde Park.

“Excuse me, Caro,” he said, breaking into a run to intercept the hound.

The footing was no better for him than it was for Boru. Or for Betsy and Teddy rushing toward him from the opposite direction. Marble floors were simply not made for running. Projecting Boru’s course, Charles realized the punch table and Lady Featherston lay directly in his path to Betsy. The countess, an ample matron in a plum-colored gown, stood rooted to the spot with a cup of punch half raised, her mouth agape at the huge, shaggy creature pelting toward her.

“My lady, move!” Charles shouted at her.

She did, slamming her cup down and hiking her skirts to flee, but too late. The last-second course correction Boru attempted failed and he went crashing into the punch table. The leg he collided with snapped in two and stacks of crystal cups toppled. The punch bowl rolled heavily on its side and spewed its contents all over Lady Featherston.

The shriek the countess gave silenced all the others. No one dared to even twitter at the sight of her, dripping with punch and quivering with fury. The guests held their breath—as did Charles—waiting to see what she would do, which was nothing but quiver and drip until Betsy went down on her knees to embrace Boru. Then the countess spun toward her, flicking drops of punch from her fingertips.

“Is that beast yours?” she demanded.

Slowly Betsy rose to her feet, her face pale but her chin lifted. “Yes, my lady,” she replied, catching Boru’s collar firmly in her hand.

Lady Featherston said nothing else, simply turned her back on Betsy. A second matron followed suit, then a third, along with her portly escort.

The cut direct.

Betsy felt her heart plummet to her toes and a wave of hot shame flood her face. A fourth couple and then a fifth turned their backs on her, but she lifted her chin higher and bit back tears. When Teddy stepped boldly up beside her, she shot him a panicked glance.

“Turn away from me this instant.”

“I won’t,” he said, glaring defiantly about the ballroom. “And neither will Charles.”

“Oh, no,” Betsy moaned, turning away from Teddy to see Charles striding purposefully toward her, pushing his way, and none too gently, through the about-faced crowd.

Through his peephole in the palms, Julian saw him, too, but couldn’t believe it. Braxton should not be moving to intervene, he should be cutting Betsy direct with the rest of the ton. It was the hinge pin of his plan. What in blazes was wrong with the man? Didn’t he realize, didn’t he care, that he, too, would be a social outcast?

In point of fact, Charles did not. He cared only for Betsy and the undeserved humiliation being heaped upon her. That stopping before her and offering his hand was the perfect way to redeem himself with her never occurred to him.

“My lady,” he said. “I believe this is our waltz.”

A gasp or two sounded in the crowd close by, but Charles ignored them. Teddy grinned, closed his hand over Boru’s collar, and gave Betsy a nudge in the ribs with his elbow.

She shot him a glare, then looked squarely at Charles. “You needn’t do this, Your Grace. I don’t care a fig for any of these people.”

But she did, for Charles could see it in the paleness of her face and the quiver of her lips.

“Neither do I, but I do care for you, dearest Betsy. Far more than is prudent, which is the reason I keep making a fool of myself, I’m sure.” Charles smiled and offered his hand again. “Now waltz with me, my darling.”

“Oh, Charles,” Betsy breathed, hardly able to believe what she was hearing.

“At last, you say my name.” He grinned, tucked her hand in the curve of his arm, and led her onto the dance floor.

With a sharp look aimed at the orchestra, the music began again as quickly as it had stopped. A tear spilled from Betsy’s right eye, but Charles brushed it away with his thumb and took her into his arms. They danced the first three bars alone, then Teddy swung Lady Cromley onto the floor. Boru, Charles saw over Betsy’s head, was safely in the grasp of Lady Clymore.