Page 8 of How to Win a Duke’s Heart

“One of those English scunners lit a firework at the stable’s north end. Kilburn and McArdle are tryin’ to soothe the laddie. Other beasties are worked up too. It’ll likely affect the racin’ today. I’d be bound that miserable lot are countin’ on it.”

“Goddammit!” Evan didn’t give ten damns that he’d sworn in front of a lady. His care was for the horseflesh. In any event, he’d wager Miss Slater had heard far worse, considering the company she kept.

“That’s terrible. Simply unacceptable. There’s no excuse for such cruelty.” She narrowed her flashing blue eyes, and before Evan or her father knew what she was about, she stomped toward the rowdy young bucks. “You there.”

Four of the wastrels turned toward her. Slow, lascivious grins split their inebriated countenances.

The devil fly away with them.

“Yes, you feckless, reckless ruffians.” She gripped her parasol like a small, frilly saber and pointed it at them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

“Well, chaps, what do we have here?” the tallest fellow murmured, hands planted on his hips.

Evan fisted his hands into tight balls. God, how he wanted to punch him in the face and knock him into next summer. That would wipe away that lewd smile and the licentious glint from the cad’s eyes.

“A pretty little American, Radford, if I don’t miss my mark,” another libertine said, boldly ogling Miss Slater.

“You never miss your mark, Hastings.” The tall chap sniggered.

The four men passing the flasks around erupted in gales of laughter and slapped each other on the shoulders. Three other rapscallions crouched in a circle, attempting to light a firecracker.

Jesus Christ on the bloody cross.

Those rotters ought to be beaten black and blue for terrifying horses in such a vicious manner, not to mention discharging an explosive with so many people about. Sheer lunacy. Someone could’ve been maimed or killed.

He curled his lip in scorn.

Stupid, stupid sods.

“Sophronie. Come back here.” George Slater took off after his impetuous daughter.

No doubt he knew as well as Evan did that once the chit got a notion in her head, nothing short of the Almighty himself appearing and telling her to desist would dissuade her. In all likelihood, she’d argue with God himself if she believed herself right.

“Shite.” Forget what Evan had thought earlier about Sophronie Slater having a rational brain. He swung to face McFarland. “Find security and tell them I want that riffraff removed at once.” He stabbed a finger toward the chortling gentlemen. “They are banned from Belleisle.”

After all, Evan was a duke. A duke’s word went a very long way. No doubt there was a lord or two or three amongst those pasty-faced swains, and they’d balk at being expelled. Their papas would pad the right pockets, and the profligates would be back, causing trouble at the next event.

Nevertheless, they’d be banished for the rest of today, and that was sufficient for now.

“Have either San Sebastian or Heatherston arrived?” Both were also Scottish dukes and fast friends of Evan’s. Whenever their duties permitted them the time, they arranged to meet.

“Nae, Yer Grace.” McFarland spat on the ground to indicate his disgust with the snickering popinjays. “Someone needs to teach them bloody blighters manners.”

Or pound some common sense into the sots.

Mouth pursed, Evan swiftly strode after the dervish in striking green and pink. He tried his damnedest not to notice the enticing sway of her nicely rounded hips as she marched toward her quarry. A vibrant, enraged wee bird about to take on a pack of wolves.

“Sophronie!” her father called again when the firecracker’s fuse lit then sputtered out. Holding his hat, and his face creased in consternation, he quickened his pace. Slater had also seen the trio’s nefarious plot and realized the peril to his infuriated but oblivious daughter.

A pair of jockeys exited the stables, each leading a quivering horse well away from the troublemakers. One of the jockeys also spat at the scalawags and swore in French. “Imbéciles stupides.”

A young blood let out a triumphant whoop, and guffawing and hooting, the rest dashed several feet away.

Sophronie stumbled to a stop, her gaze riveted on the firework’s sizzling fuse.

Bloody hell.

“Miss Slater!” Evan broke into a sprint. “Sophronie, get away. Now!”