Page 602 of From Rakes to Riches

Of course he’d found her.

It had been inevitable.

Which only reinforced precisely how vulnerable she was to him.

For now, however, she had a measure of protection. As long as she stayed in plain sight. Which couldn’t last forever. The cruel pinch of his smile told her that much.

A plan driven by panic and too-familiar necessity formed in an instant. Directly after the race, she would head straight for The Running Horse, and she and Liam would set out for London. There, they could disappear into its shadowy, labyrinthine alleyways and snickets where a person couldn’t be found, if they didn’t want to be. They’d done it all before.

A small voice proffered an alternate option.

Accept the protection promised by Rake.

She gave a mental shake.

It wasn’t an option.

It never had been.

He would want nothing to do with her if he knew of her deception.

Now, Cal returned Hannibal to the mounting block where Gemma had been waiting. She swung a leg over the saddle, her hand clasped tight onto the pommel as she settled. With the firing of the starting gun imminent, the air of Newmarket ratcheted into the wild and untamable. Necessity demanded Gemma cast aside the concerns of her life and concentrate on Hannibal, who stamped his foot and whinnied fractiously.

Cal took the reins and began leading them through the crowd. Gemma bent forward and began a steady stream of patter in Hannibal’s ear, which had stopped flicking at the low, familiar sound of her voice. “They’re all here to see you run, my friend.”

At the starting line, the scrum of horses pranced, their jockeys in various stages of calm and chaos. At a glance, Gemma was able to connect the horses with their owners by their colors. There was Filthy Habit in Lord’s Ormonde’s sky blue and whitesilks, serenely surveying the scene around him as if he was about to go for an afternoon’s trot. Bolton’s Bloody Hell in forest green and drab tan. Her gaze settled on Deverill’s Little Wicked in aubergine and charcoal gray.

Deverill was here—of course.

Though it seemed he had no personal grievance with Rake, the men would see each other, possibly even be introduced, and Rake would know Deverill for the man he’d seen with her last night at The Running Horse. In less than a beat of time, he would put the pieces of the puzzle together and know that Gemma had been one of Deverill’s many spies all this time.

And he would know her betrayal.

A pang of regret pierced her gut.

Regret that she must tamp down.

There would be time for that later.

Cal handed Hannibal’s reins up to Gemma. “Me and the other lads got a guinea on yer old boy here.”

Gemma didn’t flinch. “The odds?”

“Four to one.”

That sounded right. Hannibal wasn’t the Ring’s pick, but they’d lowered the odds, acknowledging him as a contender. “And Dido?”

“Twenty to one.”

Though the filly was fast as lightning, the Ring hadn’t ranked her as a possible winner.

Which meant one thing—the Ring was going to stop her from winning.

The dark look in Cal’s eyes told Gemma he’d reckoned as much.

The lad tipped his cap before disappearing into the crowd.

Gemma gave the field a wide berth as she began to walk Hannibal to the far side. When they reached the center of the scrum, she spotted saffron yellow and dove gray.Dido.Sheneeded to leave it be. The race strategy for Dido was none of her concern, but the filly was clearly miserable, her ears flicking and eyes flashing with anxiety. Deeds seemed to think the only solution was use of the crop.

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