Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(3)

She insisted on taking the backward facing seat and holding the unconscious girl’s head while her uncle, the Marquess of Belden, claimed his usual seat across from her. Belden settled in the center of the seat, as always, and gravely regarded the fallen jockey.

“Lord Wexford must join us,” Honora said quietly, stroking the girl’s pale brow and searching for bleeding in her rich dark hair. Her uncle was excellent at business but useless in situations out of the ordinary. When he nodded stiff agreement, she gestured at Meath to hand the earl in.

“Follow us?” she asked of the one man in the mob she trusted. The viscount gave a wry salute at her command, and she swallowed her relief. He obviously knew these people, which would ease the awkwardness to come.

With a few quiet questions guided by what Lord Meath had told her, she led her uncle and the earl into a discussion of horses—since that was what Belden had come here to buy. Then she skillfully turned the conversation to gambling and the disastrous results of today’s race.

She might be on the shelf, but she wasn’t helpless. When the law couldn’t correct injustice, society could, if someone only led the way. And she knew society inside and out.



* * *



Evan Burke, Viscount Meath, leaned on his cudgel and watched the grandiose carriage roll away. So little Miss Hoyt had landed on her feet, even if she hadn’t married. Englishmen were fools not to realize a woman of intelligence and ambition could accomplish all their dreams, even if wrapped in a pocket-sized, feminine package.

He didn’t remember any of that brief London season with fondness, except for Miss Hoyt, the one brilliant diamond who had shone through those grim days. That night he’d first sat down beside her, he had been on his way out, grimly contemplating a night of drunkenness and hoping it ended in the Thames. But his damned knee had given out, and he would have had to drag himself to the door. So he’d taken the chair beside a little brown hen, and she’d greeted his request with that absurd remark—“If you don’t fear unpopularity is contagious.”

He grinned now, but back then, he’d almost fallen over in shock that he might not be the only miserable person in a crowd of gaiety. Understanding her dismals had taken his mind off his own—until the beautiful Miss Langston he’d been pursuing prior to his accident had glanced at him in passing.

To this day, he recalled the lady’s cutting comment: A pity bad gamblers cannot be taken out and shot like bad horses.

Clenching his fists in rage, he’d stood up—and staggered. Miss Hoyt immediately gained her feet, used her elbow to steady him, and followed sedately in the lady’s path. Evan had wanted to punch noses, but one didn’t punch the noses of females.

“A pity cruel fools cannot be thrown out like bad apples,” she’d said blithely, to no one in particular as they’d passed by the laughing ladies.

And then she’d tipped her ratafia down Miss Langston’s back and walked on, leaving the foolish miss spluttering and crying. It had almost been as good as a punch in the nose.

He’d thought of Miss Hoyt with regret many times over the years, but his own troubles had embroiled him.

He’d have to catch up with her shortly. For now, he had a grinding anger to unleash. Evan searched the departing crowd. He wasn’t worried about Bell’s mare. Her uncle was one of the finest horse doctors in the county, as her father was probably one of the best horse breeders in the kingdom. A pity they were both inept businessmen. And drunks, he conceded, but the past violent years had been hard, and a man had a right to drown his considerable sorrows as he chose.

But selfish English maggots had no right to destroy a family’s future with a damned stone. That was cheating and required punishment as well as recompense. He located Harrow wiping at the mud on his crushed new hat. The beaver alone would have fed Bell’s family for a month.

Not wasting his bad leg’s meager strength, Evan waited for Harrow to don his ruined hat and approach the lane of waiting horses. The sot was chuffing enthusiastically to his companions about his winnings and brandishing his purse—the prize he’d stolen from Wexford’s daughter and her mare.

Evan waited patiently until Harrow shoved the purse carelessly into his pocket. One thing a bad leg had taught Evan was to pick his fights with care because he toppled easily. Harrow had been well into his cups before he’d flung the stone. He’d been tippling from his flask in celebration ever since. So even if the other man weighed a few stone more and stood a few inches higher, Evan assumed he had a fighting chance.

He just wouldn’t bother taking the bastard down too far. He’d promised Miss Hoyt he’d join her shortly, and he’d rather not do it in a tattered and bloody coat.

Wearing his old tweed, limping along on his cudgel, Evan knew exactly how harmless he appeared. London society had made it very clear that they perceived him as an Irish nobody and scorned his perceived lack of athletic prowess. He couldn’t even say Harrow had been the worst of them. Evan accepted that people were often sheep, and he didn’t carry a grudge for narrow-mindedness. His fury now was specifically for the incident that had just occurred, one that could have maimed or killed a beautiful child and a courageous horse—an outrageous incident that had most certainly broken the earl of Wexford and put his family in ruins.

As Harrow sloppily attempted to climb into his saddle, Evan pretended to trip. He stumbled sideways, hefting his solid weight into his English lordship, causing the larger man to topple into the mud.