see Turnham just ahead, and judging from the crowd, the course is on this side of town.”
“Yes, but look at how many people are lining the course. We can’t get through.”
The sound of a pistol shot rang in the air, and they both knew what that meant.
“Oh, Giles!” she cried, grabbing his arm. “We’re too late!”
“He’ll be fine.” He maneuvered his curricle off the road to skirt the crowd, trying to get closer to the makeshift track. “Your brother has a knack for escaping death.”
That didn’t seem to reassure her. She clung to his arm as he’d never seen her do with any other man.
Reining in, he leaped from the curricle and reached up to help her down. Then he left the curricle to his tiger and headed through the crowd with Minerva at his side. It took them several minutes to push their way through. They reached the front just in time to see Gabe enter the boulders just ahead of Chetwin.
“Good Lord . . .” She breathed, gripping his arm, her face pale.
An odd protectiveness surged through him. He covered her hand with his and squeezed. How he wished he could spare her this.
How he wished Gabriel Sharpe had less family honor and more good sense.
They held their breaths until Gabe shot free of the boulders.
“Thank the good Lord,” Minerva whispered, her fingers a manacle about his arm.
Then they caught their breaths again until Chetwin had passed between the boulders safely, too. Once he was out he tried to make up the time, but Gabe had the clear lead to the finish line. The crowd surged toward the two posts marked with red ribbons.
“Lord Gabriel is winning!” cried a voice near them, and others took up the cry.
“He always wins, damn his eyes,” grumbled a man with his back to them. “They all do.”
When the man turned and headed down the road to Turnham, Giles got a good look at his profile and gave a start.
“Minerva,” he said in a low voice. “What the hell is your mother’s cousin doing here?”
Chapter Six
Minerva missed Giles’s remark in the cheers that followed as Gabe shot over the finish line. Relieved that he’d survived the race intact, she turned to Giles with a smile on her face. “What did you say?”
“Desmond Plumtree is here. Does he usually watch Gabe’s races?”
She followed Giles’s gaze to where a man in his fifties strolled down the road to Turnham. It was her cousin, all right. She’d recognize his discolored beaver hat with its narrow brim anywhere. Beside him was his twenty-six-year-old son, Ned.
“I can’t imagine why Desmond would come for this,” she said. “He’s always been too priggish to approve of our ‘outrageous ways,’ as he calls them. And they live in Rochester where their mill is, half a day’s journey away at least. What business could he and Ned possibly have here?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Giles said tersely. “It’s not the first time he’s been in Turnham.”
A chill went through her. “Oh, Lord, you’re right.”
His gaze shot to her. “You know?”
“About Jarret’s suspicions concerning Desmond and his possible involvement in our parents’ deaths? Of course I know. Nothing is ever a secret in our house.”
He eyed her askance. “Jarret wouldn’t have told you.”
“Well, no.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “But I overheard him discussing it with Oliver. Jarret said Desmond stayed in Turnham on the day of our parents’ deaths, and the groom who cared for his horse claimed that Desmond had blood on his stirrup when he returned to the inn from wherever he’d been.”
Taking her arm, Giles started back toward his curricle.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m leaving you with my tiger while I follow the Plumtrees and find out why they’re here. It’s odd that Desmond should be in Turnham again, for no apparent reason. It might shed light on why he was here the night of your parents’ deaths.”
She snatched her arm from his hand. “If
you
follow him,
“Yes, but look at how many people are lining the course. We can’t get through.”
The sound of a pistol shot rang in the air, and they both knew what that meant.
“Oh, Giles!” she cried, grabbing his arm. “We’re too late!”
“He’ll be fine.” He maneuvered his curricle off the road to skirt the crowd, trying to get closer to the makeshift track. “Your brother has a knack for escaping death.”
That didn’t seem to reassure her. She clung to his arm as he’d never seen her do with any other man.
Reining in, he leaped from the curricle and reached up to help her down. Then he left the curricle to his tiger and headed through the crowd with Minerva at his side. It took them several minutes to push their way through. They reached the front just in time to see Gabe enter the boulders just ahead of Chetwin.
“Good Lord . . .” She breathed, gripping his arm, her face pale.
An odd protectiveness surged through him. He covered her hand with his and squeezed. How he wished he could spare her this.
How he wished Gabriel Sharpe had less family honor and more good sense.
They held their breaths until Gabe shot free of the boulders.
“Thank the good Lord,” Minerva whispered, her fingers a manacle about his arm.
Then they caught their breaths again until Chetwin had passed between the boulders safely, too. Once he was out he tried to make up the time, but Gabe had the clear lead to the finish line. The crowd surged toward the two posts marked with red ribbons.
“Lord Gabriel is winning!” cried a voice near them, and others took up the cry.
“He always wins, damn his eyes,” grumbled a man with his back to them. “They all do.”
When the man turned and headed down the road to Turnham, Giles got a good look at his profile and gave a start.
“Minerva,” he said in a low voice. “What the hell is your mother’s cousin doing here?”
Chapter Six
Minerva missed Giles’s remark in the cheers that followed as Gabe shot over the finish line. Relieved that he’d survived the race intact, she turned to Giles with a smile on her face. “What did you say?”
“Desmond Plumtree is here. Does he usually watch Gabe’s races?”
She followed Giles’s gaze to where a man in his fifties strolled down the road to Turnham. It was her cousin, all right. She’d recognize his discolored beaver hat with its narrow brim anywhere. Beside him was his twenty-six-year-old son, Ned.
“I can’t imagine why Desmond would come for this,” she said. “He’s always been too priggish to approve of our ‘outrageous ways,’ as he calls them. And they live in Rochester where their mill is, half a day’s journey away at least. What business could he and Ned possibly have here?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” Giles said tersely. “It’s not the first time he’s been in Turnham.”
A chill went through her. “Oh, Lord, you’re right.”
His gaze shot to her. “You know?”
“About Jarret’s suspicions concerning Desmond and his possible involvement in our parents’ deaths? Of course I know. Nothing is ever a secret in our house.”
He eyed her askance. “Jarret wouldn’t have told you.”
“Well, no.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “But I overheard him discussing it with Oliver. Jarret said Desmond stayed in Turnham on the day of our parents’ deaths, and the groom who cared for his horse claimed that Desmond had blood on his stirrup when he returned to the inn from wherever he’d been.”
Taking her arm, Giles started back toward his curricle.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m leaving you with my tiger while I follow the Plumtrees and find out why they’re here. It’s odd that Desmond should be in Turnham again, for no apparent reason. It might shed light on why he was here the night of your parents’ deaths.”
She snatched her arm from his hand. “If
you
follow him,
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