The Duke's Downfall Read Free

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