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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Deborah Gonzales
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First Pocket Star Books paperback edition December 2011
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Cover illustration by Jon Paul Ferrara
Handlettering by Iskra Design
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN 978-1-4516-4240-7(print)
ISBN 978-1-4516-4248-3 (eBook)
To Susan Williams, who’s always been there for me.
Thank you for all the wonderful years!
And to my beloved brother, Craig Martin, the adrenaline junkie of the family, who inspired Gabe’s character.
Stay safe!
Contents
Acknowledgments
Much thanks goes to Nicole Jordan, for her invaluable input concerning horses and racing. You’re a doll, Nicole, for reading it so quickly!
And to Deb Marlowe for loaning me her books on horse racing in England and for giving me her usual helpful information. What would I do without you?
Dear Readers,
I am at my wits’ end with my grandson, Gabriel. It is because of him I demanded that all my grandchildren marry within a year or be disinherited. His best friend died racing Gabe, yet nearly seven years later, the reckless lad broke his arm racing another fool on the same treacherous course! That is what set me off. And no wonder—people call Gabe the Angel of Death precisely because he courts it at every turn.
Now, his best friend’s sister, Virginia Waverly, has some notion about seeking vengeance by beating him in a race on that same course, and instead of ignoring the girl’s mad challenge, Gabe wishes to court her! I believe he may have lost his mind. Granted, she is a spirited, pretty little thing, but her grandfather, General Waverly, will never approve the marriage. The man is too stubborn and willful for words. Why, the cavalry general had the audacity to call me a “she-devil”! No man gets away with that, no matter how handsome and spry he may be for his age.
But I digress (General Waverly distracts me unduly). I cannot decide what I think about Gabe’s interest in the pert Miss Waverly. I do want him to marry, but he is still grappling with his guilt over what happened to her brother—how can I be sure that she won’t make that situation worse? My only consolation is that she seems as fascinated by my grandson as he is by her. Only today General Waverly and I stumbled upon them after what may very well have been an intimate encounter! Her lips were decidedly red, and Gabe looked as if someone had just jerked his horse out from under him. The man is clearly unused to dealing with respectable women.
Meanwhile, I am getting too old for this. If this courtship does not turn out well, I may just have to tie Gabe up in the barn until he sees sense. Wish me luck, dear friends!
Sincerely,
Hetty Plumtree
Prologue
Ealing, April 1806
P
eople were yelling again.
Seven-year-old Gabriel Sharpe, third son of the Marquess of Stoneville, tried covering his ears to blot out the sound. He hated the yelling—it made his stomach knot up, especially when Mother yelled at Father.
Only this time Mother was yelling at his oldest brother. Gabe could hear it plain as day, because Oliver’s bedroom was right below the schoolroom. Gabe couldn’t make out the words; they just sounded angry. It was strange for Oliver to be yelled at—he was Mother’s pet. Well, most of the time. She did call Gabe “her darling boy,” and she never called his brothers that.
Was that because they were almost grown? Gabe scowled. He should tell Mother he didn’t like being called “her darling boy” . . . except that he did. She always said it right before she gave him lemon tarts, his favorite.
A door slammed. The yelling stopped. He let out a breath, and something loosened up inside him. Perhaps everything would be all right now.
He gazed down at his primer. He was supposed to be reading a story, but it was stupid, about a robin who got killed:
Here lies Cock Robin,
Dead and cold.
His end this book
Will soon unfold.
It told about all these creatures who did things for the dead Cock Robin—the owl who buried him, and the bull who tolled the bell. But though it said how Cock Robin died—the sparrow shot him with an arrow—it never said why. Why would a sparrow shoot a robin? It made no sense.
And there were no horses, either. He’d flipped ahead through the pictures, so he knew that for sure. Lots of birds and a fish and a fly and a beetle. No horses. He’d much rather read a story about a horse running a race, but there were never any children’s stories about that.
Bored, he glanced out the window and saw his mother head for the stables with long, strong strides. Was she going to the picnic to tell Father on Oliver?
Gabe would love to see that. Oliver never got into trouble. Meanwhile, Gabe
always
did. That’s why he was sitting in this stupid schoolroom with this stupid book, instead of having fun at the picnic—because he’d done something bad and Father had ordered him to stay home.
But Father might forgive him if he had Oliver to be mad at. If Mother was going to the picnic, Gabe might even convince her to take him, too.
He glanced across the room; his tutor, Mr. Virgil, was dozing in the chair. Gabe could easily sneak out and ask Mother. But only if he hurried.
Keeping an eye on his tutor, he slipped off his chair and edged toward the door. As soon as he reached the hall, he broke into a run. He ran down the stairs, then half-slid and half-ran along the tiled hall at the bottom before vaulting out into the Crimson Courtyard.
A quick dart across and he was in his favorite place in the whole world—the stable. He loved the sweaty smell of the horses, the crunch of hay underfoot in the loft, the way the grooms talked. The stable was a magical place, where people spoke in quiet, even voices. No yelling, because it bothered the horses.
He looked around, then sighed. The stall holding Mother’s favorite mare was empty. She was gone. But he didn’t want to go back to the schoolroom and that stupid book about Cock Robin.
“Good day, young master,” said the head groom, Benny May, who was shoeing a horse. He used to be a jockey for Gabe’s grandfather, back when the Sharpes put lots of horses in races. “Lookin’ for someone?”
Gabe wasn’t about to admit he’d wanted Mother. Instead, he puffed out his chest and tucked his thumbs in the waistband of his breeches like the grooms did. “Just wondering if you need help. Looks like the grooms are gone off.”
“Aye, to the picnic. I imagine a lot of folks will be tramping in and out this afternoon. The fine ladies and gentlemen will tire of the outdoors before long.” Benny kept his gaze on the horse’s foot. “Why aren’t you at the picnic?”
“Father wouldn’t let me go on account of my putting a spider in Minerva’s hair and refusing to apologize.”
Benny made a choking sound that turned into a cough. “So he said you could come to the stables instead?”
Gabe stared down at his shoes.
“Ah. Gave Mr. Virgil the slip again, did you?”
“Sort of,” he mumbled.
“You ought to be nicer to your sister, y’know. She’s a sweet girl.”
Gabe snorted. “She tattles. Anyway, I came to check on Jacky Boy.” That was Gabe’s pony. Father had given it to him on his birthday last summer. “He gets cranky sometimes.”
Benny’s hard stare softened into a smile. “Aye, that he does, lad. And he always settles right down for you, don’t he?”
Trying not to show his pride at the compliment, Gabe shrugged. “I know how to curry him the way he likes. Does he . . . um . . . need grooming?”
“Well, now, it’s funny you should ask, because I do believe he could use a little care.” He jerked his head toward the tack room. “You know where we keep the combs.”
Gabe sauntered off to the tack room. He quickly found what he needed, then let himself into the stall. Jacky Boy sniffed him, hoping for a lump of sugar.
“Sorry, old chum,” Gabe murmured. “Came out here in a hurry. I didn’t bring you anything.” He began to curry the pony, and Jacky Boy relaxed.
There was nothing better in the whole world than grooming Jacky Boy—the soothing motion of the comb, the pony’s breathing quieting to a soft rhythm, the feel of Jacky Boy’s silky coat beneath his fingers . . . Gabe never tired of it.
Out in the stable, people came and went, but in the stall it was just Gabe and Jacky Boy. Occasionally, something would disturb his reverie—a haughty gentleman demanding a change of mounts, a groom apologizing to some rude lady for not getting her mount as quick as she liked—but for the most part, it was silent except for the sound of Benny’s hammer tapping another shoe into place.
Even that sound ended when Benny was called away to help with an approaching carriage. For a few minutes Gabe was in a state of pure bliss, alone with his pony. Then he heard boots tromp down the aisle.
“Anyone here?” a man’s voice called out. “I need a mount.”
Gabe shrank onto the floor in the front corner of the stall, hoping not to be noticed.
The man must have heard him, for he cried, “You there, boy. I need a mount.”
He’d been discovered. When the man came closer, he called out, “Sorry, sir, I’m not a groom. I’m just looking after my horse.”
The man stopped outside the stall. Since Gabe sat on the floor with his back to the stall door, he couldn’t see the man. He hoped the man couldn’t see him, either.
“Ah,” the man said. “One of the Sharpe children, are you?”
His stomach got queasy. “H-How did you know?”
“The only children who would own horses stabled here are the Sharpe children.”
“Oh.” He hadn’t thought of that.
“You’re Gabriel, aren’t you?”
Gabe froze, frightened of the clever man. He was in for it, if his father heard of this. “I-I . . .”
“Lord Jarret is out at the picnic, and Lord Oliver chose not to go. That leaves only Lord Gabriel. You.”
The man’s voice was soft, even kind. He didn’t say things in that lofty tone grown-ups usually used with children. And he didn’t
sound
as if he wanted to get Gabe into trouble.
“Do you know where the grooms are?” the man asked, his voice moving away.
Gabe relaxed now that the subject was off him. “They went to meet a carriage.”
“Then they probably won’t mind if I saddle my own mount.”
“I guess not.”
Oliver saddled his own mount all the time. So did Jarret. Gabe couldn’t wait until he was big enough to saddle a mount. Then he wouldn’t have to ask Father’s permission to ride Jacky Boy.
As the man chose the horse from the next stall, all Gabe could see was his beaver hat showing above it. After he rode off, Gabe started to wonder if he should have found out the man’s name, or at least tried to get a better look at him. Sudden panic gripped him. What if the man was a horse thief, and Gabe had just let him ride right off?
No, the man had known Gabe’s name and all about the rest of them. He
had
to be a guest. Right?
Benny came back in the stable and, before Gabe could say anything, called out, “The guests are returning from the picnic, lad. You’d best run up to the house if you don’t want your father catching you here.”
Gabe’s panic returned. If Father learned he’d snuck out of the schoolroom again, he’d get his hide tanned. Father was strict about their studies.
He ran for the house. When he reached the schoolroom, his tutor was still snoring. With a sigh of relief, Gabe settled into the chair and took up the boring book again.