Page 592 of From Rakes to Riches

She was now under his protection—and not in the way Bolton had gone about it with her mother.

The fact was Gemma didn’t have to be his mistress.

He needed to tell her that too.

But if not as a mistress, then as what?

That was the question. The one he hadn’t an answer for, truth told. Because the answer was…complex.

The answer, he suspected, would require him to upend every plan he’d made for the future.

It was an answer not arrived at easily. And yet…

Perhaps he already had.

He’d taken two steps into the taproom when his gaze caught on a familiar glint of red-gold hair peeking out from beneath a slouch hat.

Gemma.

She occupied a small table in the farthest corner of the room, engaged in intense conversation with two men. The one with the same hue of red-gold hair, Rake knew in an instant as her twin brother.Liam.But the other…

Dark of hair, he was dressed in clothes as fine as any dandy of theton. Bespoke clothes, to accommodate the width of shoulders that looked as if they belonged on a boxer.

Rake’s brow furrowed. What in the hellfire was going on?

Why was Gemma meeting such a man in a Newmarket taproom the night before the Two Thousand Guineas? A location and timing too close not to be suspect.

Perhaps the man was an owner and had seen Gemma on the track with Hannibal and was attempting to woo her away. Such goings-on happened the night before races all the time.

Or, perhaps, he was a friend of Liam’s.

Perhaps.

Rake should let it lie. It was none of his business. Except…

It couldn’t not be.

To lose Gemma the night before the race would be an unmitigated disaster. There was no time to try another rider with Hannibal.

Rake pivoted on his heel and jostled his way to the front desk through a newly arrived gaggle of young lordlings. He caught the innkeeper’s eye. The man immediately dropped what he was doing, which was handing a room key to another guest, and attended Rake. The Duke of Rakesley was known in all the racing towns.

“Your Grace,” said the man on a bow that bordered on the obsequious.

Rake gave an impatient nod of acknowledgement. “I need to know the room number for one of your guests.”

The man shuffled his feet and wrung his hands together. “It’s just that,” he began meekly, clearly fearing the ire of a duke. “I’m not supposed to?—”

“Gem is his name. The—”Woman, Rake just stopped himself from saying. “The man is my jockey, and I need to give him some last-minute instructions.”

It was a lie close enough to a truth.

Rake plunked a guinea onto the countertop, as to assuage any remaining scruples.

“Of course, Your Grace,” said the man, sliding the coin across oak and pocketing it before Rake could change his mind. “That’ll be Room 5.”

“And can you direct me toward the servants’ stairs?” It wouldn’t do to stride through the taproom to the main staircase in full view of all, including Gemma.

Confusion writ plain upon the innkeeper’s face, the man silently pointed Rake toward a short corridor.

---