Page 575 of From Rakes to Riches

As it stood, she must’ve looked more akin to an eccentric woman.

Blessedly, talk returned to turf gossip, and Gemma considered the plate of sliced beef smothered in a luscious brown sauce and the creamed potatoes before her. She experienced a pang of longing for Mam, who could’ve easily prepared this meal. That was how tasty tonight’s fare was. It was Gemma’s highest praise.

Just now, a name was spoken… A name that pulled Gemma from her gustatory reverie and froze every muscle in her body. Her gaze fixed on her plate, she listened. Surely the name had been a trick of the ear…

“Where does the Deverill name hail from, anyway?” asked Lady Artemis.

“Ireland?” replied Lord Ormonde on an indifferent shrug.

“They call him Lord Devil,” supplied Lady Beatrix, who bore a striking resemblance to a fox with her quick eyes that missed nothing. “Word has it that he has spies in every excellent racing stable in England. You might even have one in yours, Rake,” she finished with a little waggle of her eyebrows.

Rake snorted, dismissive.

He would be.

To his detriment.

“Not at Somerton,” he said, so certain. “Wilson keeps the lads in line and the stables clean. He’s already routed two spies this year.”

A ringing started in Gemma’s ears, and a flare of heat struck through her. It was ever so when she became distressed. The beef turned to bland dust in her mouth.

“Anyway, there’s always some such fellow with more money than sense,” he continued. “Gets a goer in his stables and thinks he’ll sweep the season. But a single horse doesn’t a stable make. There’s no depth.”

Lady Artemis smiled, teasingly. “I’ve heard this Deverill looks like Lucifer himself.”

Lord Ormonde snorted. “Pointy horns and all?”

Lady Beatrix’s expression went from vulpine to feline. “She’s saying he’s the most beautiful of all God’s creations.”

“Too beautiful to behold directly is what I’ve heard,” corrected Lady Artemis. “’Tis said his blue eyes are so striking, they pierce to the quick of a lady’s soul.”

Rake snorted again.

Gemma held her peace.

What was there to say, really? Beyond the fact that she was a spy for Lord Devil, of course, and had been sending him two reports a week on Somerton’s operation.

“What folderol.” Rake pointed a faux-serious finger toward Lady Artemis. “And I forbid you from marrying him.”

Sudden laughter burst from the lady. “I shall marry precisely no one, so don’t concern yourself there, brother. Our dear, sweet mother taught me young about the consequences of ill-advised, unsuitable matches.” An uncharacteristic edge of bitterness ran along her next laugh.

Rake didn’t seem to notice. “The fact of the matter is that a filly with Little Wicked’s lineage has no business in the stable of a man like Deverill.”

Lady Beatrix’s eyes narrowed. “And what is a manlike Deverill? Not an aristocrat like yourself?”

“Not a man of the turf,” returned Rake. “Racing is a lark to someone like him. And last time I checked,LadyBeatrix, you were the daughter of a marquess.”

Lady Beatrix pursed her mouth and nodded, conceding the point. “Touché.”

“And Bolton?” asked Lord Ormonde.

The ringing in Gemma’s ears turned into the panicky clanging of an alarm bell.

Bolton.

Surely, he was speaking of a different Bolton.

“I heard he’s entering a colt in the Two Thousand Guineas,” continued the marquess as if he hadn’t just flipped the room upside down. “Bloody Hell is his name, I believe.”

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