A soft knock came at the door into the sitting room. Assuming it was a servant, he went to open it, only to find Hetty standing there with a vase of fresh-cut flowers. She looked harried and wan, yet still managed to look pretty, too.
“May I come in?”
“Of course.”
“How is she?” Hetty asked as he stood aside to let her pass.
“Sleeping. I was trying to decide when to wake her. I need to be at home. Have you heard anything from Lord Gabriel?”
“I’m afraid not.” Hetty walked over to place the vase on a table. “I brought her some lavender from our garden. Gabe said it was her favorite, and I thought it might cheer her. I had a time of it finding some, since someone has been cutting it like mad.”
He sees the woman who wants to be thought pretty and receive flowers . . .
A groan escaped him. “I am such an old fool.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I thought she was filling our vases with
our
lavender.” He shook his head. “I had some idiot notion that if I kept your grandson busy working in the stable, he wouldn’t have the chance to court her. Meanwhile, he was doing so right under my nose the whole time. I just saw what I wanted to see.”
Hetty busied herself with arranging the flowers. “We often do that.”
He shot her a rueful glance. “You don’t. You told me she had a passionate nature, but I didn’t see it. She’s always so responsible that I forgot she had other needs, a woman’s needs.” His voice wavered. “Something your grandson noticed better than I.”
Too late, he remembered Sharpe standing up for her with Hob, paying attention to what she wore, thanking her for the sandwiches . . . behaving like a gentleman.
If he examined the man’s actions honestly in the last week, he had to admit that Sharpe had always behaved like a gentleman. Indeed, he’d behaved better. He’d never once complained about mucking out the stalls, and he hadn’t done a slipshod job of it, either. He’d shown genuine interest in how Isaac trained his horses. And he’d offered a few tips of his own concerning feed for the Thoroughbreds.
The man was either a consummate actor or a gentleman. Isaac had been convinced of the former for so long it was hard to think of him being the latter. But last night had shaken his perceptions.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Isaac,” she said softly, “but I think they suit each other. Virginia has just enough fire to keep him interested, and he has just enough sense to listen to her when she’s setting him straight. They would make a good marriage, if you could see your way to allowing it. A better marriage than she could make with Lord Devonmont, I dare say.”
I can’t marry Pierce when I’m in love with Gabriel!
Hell and damnation. “She made it quite clear last night that she’ll never marry Pierce. That was something else I’ve been blind about.”
Had he really believed that those two could marry? He’d hoped they could, but somewhere deep inside, he’d known they behaved more like siblings than lovers. He’d just been so eager for the marriage that he’d ignored what his instincts told him.
He seemed to do that a great deal with his lambkin. “I’m used to giving orders, even with my granddaughter, and she bears it well. But you were right—love isn’t something even a general can dictate.”
“She loves Gabriel?” Hetty asked, her voice quavering.
“She says she does. But she thinks his guilt will keep him from loving her in return.”
“It might.” Hetty sighed. “I’m sorry for what I said to you last night about Roger lying. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“No, you were right to say it.” He dragged in a heavy breath. “I’ve had plenty of time to think since then. Virginia has always put Roger on a pedestal, and I had sanctified his memory fairly well myself. Roger liked to gamble and drink, and he lied to me about both on occasion. He was troubled, and I knew that. But I couldn’t do anything about it, so after his death, it was just easier . . .”
He swallowed hard. This was difficult to say, especially to her.
“To blame Gabe,” she murmured.
He nodded. Briefly, he related what he’d told Virginia about his conversation with Roger that night. “Roger said naught about being bullied or forced. That was my own contribution. But you were right, damn it. The fact that Roger rousted your grandson from bed for the race says much about who was at fault. I tried to tell myself Sharpe lied about that, but if he were lying, why not just claim that Roger laid down the challenge? Why admit to being so drunk?”
“Why tell Virginia he didn’t deserve her?” Hetty pointed out.
“He doesn’t,” Isaac bit out. When he saw her bristle, he added, “But no one does, in my estimation.”
A smile touched Hetty’s lips. “Perhaps you’re right. But I still say Gabe will make her a good husband.”
Sharpe married to his granddaughter. It griped him to think of it, but if she wanted him so very badly . . . He sighed. “Every general recognizes when he’s outgunned and outmaneuvered. Between you and Virginia . . .” He cast her a serious glance. “I only want her happiness, you know.”
“I know. I want that, too. For both of them.” She walked up close to him. “Thank you, Isaac, for keeping an open mind about it.”
She stretched up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, but before she could draw back, he caught her chin in his hand and kissed her squarely on the lips. When he lifted his head, she was staring up at him, eyes wide, with a blush turning her papery cheeks a youthful, rosy hue.
There was surprise in her gaze, and womanly awareness, as well.
He slipped his arm about her waist to steady her against him, then gave her a more thorough kiss. She melted, as he’d known she would, for Hetty was old enough to know how the battle was waged—and it wasn’t with words.
Surrender had never tasted so sweet.
A knock at the door made him release her regretfully. Especially when she slid a soft half-smile up at him before going to open the door.
Lady Celia hurried in. “Gran, I’ve been searching for you everywhere! I just saw Gabe—”
“He’s returned?” said Virginia as she came out of her bedroom, looking dazed. She was still wearing her clothes from yesterday, though they were rumpled as if she’d slept in them. “He’s here?”
“Not anymore. I couldn’t make him stay. He was headed out to race somewhere, but he gave me this to give to you.” She held up a sealed letter, but when Virginia hurried over to get it, she added, “I should warn you that he made me promise
not
to give it to you—unless something happened to him.”
As Hetty cursed, the blood drained from Virginia’s face.
“He’s never left a letter for anyone before,” Celia said, “so knowing what that might mean, I figured you’d better take a look at it. Perhaps it will say where he’s racing.”
As Virginia tore open the envelope and read, Isaac cursed under his breath. Sharpe was making it awfully hard to forgive him anything right now.
Virginia lifted her gaze to them, looking as if she might faint. Hetty took the letter from her, and read it aloud for his and Lady Celia’s benefit.
Dearest Virginia,
If you’re reading this, then the unthinkable has happened. I’ve lost the race and my life. I couldn’t bear to leave you wondering how it came about, the way you were left wondering about my race against Roger, so this is to explain.
Chetwin claims to know someone who can tell me what happened that night seven years ago. He won’t reveal the name unless I race him at Turnham Green, so I agreed.
Do
not
blame yourself for it. I did it so you would know exactly what sort of man you were marrying. Just make sure that Chetwin meets the terms of our wager, which is that he give me (or my representative should I die) the person’s name, regardless of who wins. If you finally learn the truth, my life won’t be in vain.
I only wish I could be there to give the truth to you myself. I would do anything to make that right for you.
“Anything except not race at Turnham Green,” Virginia said bitterly. She cast Poppy an urgent glance. “We have to stop him. If something happens to him . . .” Her voice broke.
“Of course.” He turned to Lady Celia. “How long ago did he leave?”
“Fifteen minutes or so.”
He glanced at Hetty. “We should take my gig. I already sent down to have it readied. But only three of us will squeeze into it.”
“I’ll stay here,” Lady Celia said.
Isaac nodded. “If we leave now, we ought to reach Turnham Green before the race begins. They won’t jump to it immediately upon his arrival, I imagine.” Turning to Virginia, he added, “And if we don’t make it, my dear, the lad has run that race three times now—surely he can escape it unscathed again.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Oh no, he can’t. Because he’ll have to face me afterward. And he will
not
escape
me
unscathed, I assure you.”
W
ITH HIS BLOOD
pumping and sweat beading his brow, Gabe stood watching for Chetwin.
Lyons frowned as he studied his pocket watch. “It’s ten after.”
“He’s playing with me,” Gabe bit out. “Trying to rattle me, that’s all.” Worse yet, it was working.
Never had a race meant so much to him. And that worried him. It meant he couldn’t get to that place of cold control that he needed in order to win.
He stared down the course to where the boulders loomed large. The last two times he was here, there had been so many people that the memory of his race with Roger had receded before the roar of the spectacle. And the time of day had been different, the season different. Nor had Lyons been present. He’d been abroad for the other two races with Chetwin.
But today was just like that day seven years ago. Summer. Noon. Nobody around but him and Lyons. Gabe was even suffering the effects of a night spent drinking.
Everything
was eerily the same.
A shudder wracked him. That shouldn’t bother him, but it did.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lyons asked.
That
was different—Lyons hadn’t asked him a damned thing before his race against Roger. Back then they’d all been far more foolish.
“I have no choice. It’s the only way to know what happened.”
“I always assumed that you did, that you were keeping silent because you didn’t want to tarnish his memory.”
“I know.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All these people attributing such noble motives to him, when all the while—
“I’m sorry I never questioned you both myself,” Lyons said. “I was half-asleep when we came out here. It was just another race; I didn’t care who’d laid down the challenge.” His voice held an edge. “For years I thought that if I had questioned it, if I’d just said something . . . But of course I didn’t, and you didn’t, and there you have it.”
A chill swept over Gabe. It had never occurred to him that Lyons might feel guilt over it, too. Given that, it was surprising that he’d come today.
“So this time I shall satisfy my conscience by asking again,” Lyons went on. “Are you
sure
you want to do this?”
Before Gabe could answer, the sound of hoofbeats came to them. He turned to see Chetwin driving his rig toward them with a soldier sitting next to him. Briefly, Gabe wondered if that might be the man Chetwin had mentioned. But his mysterious informant hadn’t been a friend—or so Chetwin claimed.
Chetwin reined in next to his rig.
“You’re late,” Gabe said as Chetwin’s friend got down and went to stand beside Lyons.
The smug smile Chetwin shot him confirmed his suspicions. “Worried I wouldn’t show up?”
“And lose a chance at making an arse of yourself?” Gabe gathered up his reins. “Not damned likely.”
That banished Chetwin’s smile. “We’ll see who’s the arse when this is over, and I’ve won.”
“Just remember what we agreed to,” Gabe drawled. “This is the last time you plague me to race you here, regardless of whether your horse picks up a stone or your axle breaks or any number of freak occurrences keep you from winning.”
That really got Chetwin’s goat. “Watch it, Sharpe, or I’ll change my mind about racing you, and you’ll
never
know the name.”
Gabe gritted his teeth. Baiting Chetwin was no fun when the man had something he wanted.
“Shall I recite the rules so we can get on with this?” Lyons asked.
“We know the rules,” Gabe said.
With a nod, Lyons took up the flag and went to stand between them.
Then Gabe heard more hoofbeats coming from behind him. With a scowl, he glared over at Chetwin. “Damn it, you said you wouldn’t tell anyone!”
“They’re not friends of mine, I swear,” Chetwin retorted.
Gabe shifted in his seat to look back, then cursed. Gran. Celia must have broken her promise, damn her.
Then his heart skipped a beat. Not just Gran. Virginia.
At the sight of her, his heart began to pound. She’d come to stop him. She’d cared enough to try to stop him—even after what he’d told her.
That made it imperative that he run this race. Because no matter how much she worried about him, she deserved the truth. And now he was certain he could do it.
For her. Only for her.
“Drop the damned flag, Lyons!”
Chapter Twenty-two
A
s the gig halted, Virginia heard Gabriel’s command. Jumping down and breaking into a run, she shouted at the duke, “If you drop that flag, Your Grace, I will shove it down your throat!”
Lyons blinked, no doubt unused to being threatened with violence by a woman. Then he broke into a smug grin and raised the flag higher.
She reached Gabriel in moments. “Don’t you
dare
run this race, Gabriel Sharpe, or I swear I will not marry you!”
“Lyons, you bloody arse,” Chetwin snapped, “if you don’t drop that flag, I’ll run it without him and declare that he forfeited!”
“Poppy!” she called.