An Angel for the Earl by Bárbara Metzger Read Free Book Online Page A

pick my own losers.”
    He studied the horses, he studied the odds. He listened to track talk and carriage chatter, about this beast’s sire, that gelding’s last outing, a third one’s rumored blind eye. Two minutes to start, and he hadn’t placed a bet. “The devil take it,” he swore.
    And Lucy winked back at him across the track with a saucy smile. He rubbed his eyes. This was broad daylight and he hadn’t had a drink all day. She could not be here. True, there were a few women scattered about, bachelor fare with escorts or looking for escorts. One or two ladies sat in their carriages, watching the races through opera glasses, well protected from the elements and the masses. No female ever strolled by herself through a race meet—hell, through the race track itself—daintily picking her way through the dirt and the droppings, twirling a red parasol over her shoulder. Lucy did, the sun shining gold in her red curls, and a matching ostrich plume curling along her right cheek. She winked at him again.
    Lud, he was losing his mind.
    â€œLast bets, gentlemen. Last bets.”
    He read the chalk board one more time. There at number five was a horse he hadn’t noticed before, Devil’s Handmaiden. He looked to the field, quickly scanning the numbers on the jockeys’ backs. Number five was a smallish roan mare with the sun making golden glints on her red back. He put fifty pounds on her to win.
    â€œBut, gov, she’s goin’ off at thirty to one. That little filly don’t stand a chance.”
    So he bet seventy-five pounds and put that oddsmaker out of business for the day. Kerry’s winnings were enough to pay off a few more of his debts if he quit then, which, of course, he had no intention of doing.
    He strolled down to the paddock to inspect the horses for the sixth race. Lemuel had a tip about the number seven horse, Riddles, how his name was really Faradiddle, a winner at last month’s meet. “A few white-wash socks, a new name, and much better odds.”
    â€œWhat about that black gelding over there, number three?” Kerry wanted to know.
    â€œLook at ’im, covered in sweat already. Nervous as a new bride. Why, that horse’ll wear hisself out before the start. Now, Faradiddle outran ’em all a few weeks back.”
    Something about the black appealed to Kerry though, the small, intelligent head, the flowing muscles, the jockey’s scarlet silks. He went back and consulted the betting boards. Number three’s odds were ten to one. He placed a substantial sum on Riddles, or whatever the horse’s name was today, to come in second. The bulk of his earlier winnings he placed with various bookmakers on number three, Impy, to win. Then he held his breath until the homestretch, where, unbelievably, Riddles and Impy were racing neck and neck. Impy took the lead, then Riddles. Lord Stanford screamed himself hoarse, almost willing the black to get his nose across the finish line first. Somebody must have been listening, for the black stretched his neck out just so, at just the last second.
    The seventh and last race. Kerry was
that
close to having the wherewithal to pay off most of his debts; he could almost taste the freedom. But no horse looked promising and Lemuel had no tips. No names struck a chord. There was Bething’s Folly, Minor Indiscretion, and Loyal Companion, but none seemed to speak to Kerry. Perhaps that was a sign he should take his winnings and go back to the baize tables. At least the cards required something beyond intuition or luck.
    The earl was turning to make his way back to his curricle when he heard an angry shout from the crowd behind him. The favorite’s name was being erased from the chalk boards and a new name was being entered in its stead, Salvation. Furious, the mob kept up their howl. No one had ever heard of the horse or even knew what it looked like. The jockey, Luke someone, was equally