Page 521 of From Rakes to Riches

She simply did.

Rake stampedhis wax seal on the final letter of correspondence for the day and sat back in his capacious leather chair.

The subject that had been hovering at the edges of his mind all day as he’d traveled up to London and back immediately swooped in and filled the void as it had been waiting to do.

Gem.

What was he going to do about Gem?

He snorted.

Gem wouldn’t even be her real name, as it was a man’s name. For the sake of expediency, Gem would do, for now. But the question remained.

What the blazes was he going to do about Gem?

The possibilities for her deception had only multiplied over the course of the day, plunging him into a foul mood that no amount of new saddlery or drinks at Brooks’s with friends could soothe.

Most of those possibilities cast Gem in the light of a scoundrel.

Again, he snorted. There he went again thinking of Gem as a lad—and Gem was no lad, but a lass.

And not merely a lass, but a woman.

As a lad, Gem looked to be of sixteen or seventeen years. But as a woman, Rake would put her in her twenties…

A woman.

A woman who was lying to him.

But here was the crucial thing—he didn’t want to sack her. She was the most talented jockey he’d ever seen.

With Gem riding Hannibal, they were going to win the Two Thousand Guineas—and then on to the Race of the Century. However…

If London society discovered Gem to be a woman, it would be Rake’s reputation in tatters.

And he would become a laughingstock.

The idea had his hands wanting to clench into fists.

Nay, notidea…

Memory.

The fact was he’d once been made the laughingstock of London by a woman.

Felicity.

Julian had spoken of Rake’s single-mindedness in choosing who he loved, and Felicity was the reason. With her, he’d chosen wrongly and very publicly—and had become the butt of London’s favorite joke for a week or two until society moved on to some other unfortunate wretch.

But the experience had stayed with Rake, and he was none too keen to repeat it.

So…

Gem had to go.

That certainty was the true source of his foul mood—for deep in his gut, he’d known all day.

She was a woman.

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