hunched over his breakfast of shirred eggs and bacon when his great-nephew entered the room. Still smarting over the loss of the Marsbury Cup yesterday, Isaac didn’t even look up.
Ghost Rider should have won—the colt had lost by a mere nose. How was Waverly Farm supposed to get out of debt if its horses couldn’t win purses?
Stud farms lived and died on the careers of their racehorses, and he hadn’t had a spectacular winner in some time. He was pulling in less and less money from stud fees, and his few tenants were struggling because of the recent drought. It had been a hard year for many a squire, but he needed to set funds aside for Virginia.
He vastly feared that she wouldn’t find a husband with her small dowry. Between her lack of a season and her inability to hold her tongue when she should, she needed all the help she could get. And he owed it to her. The girl had given up her future to take care of him after his injury—she deserved something more than a life of looking after a cranky grump like him.
He glanced over at Pierce. “How was the ball? Did our girl dance with anyone?”
Pierce poured himself a cup of tea. “You could say that.”
“Anyone I know?”
His nephew hesitated, then glanced toward the door leading into the kitchen, from which came the sounds of Virginia’s happy chatter with the servants.
It was no surprise to Isaac that she was as comfortable in the kitchen as she was in a drawing room. In those long months after he was thrown from a horse and unable to leave his bed, Virginia’s only company, aside from the occasional visit from Pierce, had been the servants.
They adored her. His cook snuck her ginger cake when she was low, his housekeeper consulted her on the accounts and the menus, and his grooms let her have whatever mount she chose, even the ones that he’d instructed were strictly forbidden to her.
The girl had her mother’s energy and her father’s temper. They argued about everything as she bustled about creating order in his widower’s household. Sometimes he found it easier just to let her have her head.
“So whom did she dance with?” he prodded Pierce.
“Gabriel Sharpe.”
A sense of foreboding caught him by the ballocks. “Why the devil would she dance with that cocky bastard?”
His nephew grimaced. “There’s something I should have told you a month ago, when it happened. But I figured you had enough on your mind, and I really didn’t think she’d go through with it. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Go through with what?” he asked, his blood running cold.
In a few terse words, Pierce laid out exactly what his spitfire of a granddaughter had been up to.
Isaac leapt up from the breakfast table like a charger hit in the rump with birdshot. “Virginia Anne Waverly!” he shouted. “You come in here right this minute!”
The little sauce-box entered the room with a plate of toast in one hand and a salver of butter in the other, wearing an expression of pure innocence that didn’t fool him for one minute. “Yes, Poppy?”
He scowled. “Pierce tells me that you mean to run some fool race against Lord Gabriel Sharpe.”
She shot her cousin a foul glance as she set the plate and salver on the table. “See if I ever embroider a pair of slippers for you again.”
Pierce eyed her coolly over his cup of tea. “If you embroider me any more slippers, I shall have to grow extra feet.”
“You know perfectly well that you need an inordinate number of slippers,” Virginia said. “You wear them out faster than—”
“I don’t care about Pierce’s damned slippers!” Isaac shouted. “I want to know what possessed you to challenge Sharpe to a race! It’s not like you to do something so foolish.”
Anger flared in her face. “It’s nothing to worry about, just a quick carriage race along that course in Ealing. You remember the one—it’s not the least dangerous.”
“Any kind of racing is dangerous, young lady!”
“Poppy, sit
Ghost Rider should have won—the colt had lost by a mere nose. How was Waverly Farm supposed to get out of debt if its horses couldn’t win purses?
Stud farms lived and died on the careers of their racehorses, and he hadn’t had a spectacular winner in some time. He was pulling in less and less money from stud fees, and his few tenants were struggling because of the recent drought. It had been a hard year for many a squire, but he needed to set funds aside for Virginia.
He vastly feared that she wouldn’t find a husband with her small dowry. Between her lack of a season and her inability to hold her tongue when she should, she needed all the help she could get. And he owed it to her. The girl had given up her future to take care of him after his injury—she deserved something more than a life of looking after a cranky grump like him.
He glanced over at Pierce. “How was the ball? Did our girl dance with anyone?”
Pierce poured himself a cup of tea. “You could say that.”
“Anyone I know?”
His nephew hesitated, then glanced toward the door leading into the kitchen, from which came the sounds of Virginia’s happy chatter with the servants.
It was no surprise to Isaac that she was as comfortable in the kitchen as she was in a drawing room. In those long months after he was thrown from a horse and unable to leave his bed, Virginia’s only company, aside from the occasional visit from Pierce, had been the servants.
They adored her. His cook snuck her ginger cake when she was low, his housekeeper consulted her on the accounts and the menus, and his grooms let her have whatever mount she chose, even the ones that he’d instructed were strictly forbidden to her.
The girl had her mother’s energy and her father’s temper. They argued about everything as she bustled about creating order in his widower’s household. Sometimes he found it easier just to let her have her head.
“So whom did she dance with?” he prodded Pierce.
“Gabriel Sharpe.”
A sense of foreboding caught him by the ballocks. “Why the devil would she dance with that cocky bastard?”
His nephew grimaced. “There’s something I should have told you a month ago, when it happened. But I figured you had enough on your mind, and I really didn’t think she’d go through with it. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Go through with what?” he asked, his blood running cold.
In a few terse words, Pierce laid out exactly what his spitfire of a granddaughter had been up to.
Isaac leapt up from the breakfast table like a charger hit in the rump with birdshot. “Virginia Anne Waverly!” he shouted. “You come in here right this minute!”
The little sauce-box entered the room with a plate of toast in one hand and a salver of butter in the other, wearing an expression of pure innocence that didn’t fool him for one minute. “Yes, Poppy?”
He scowled. “Pierce tells me that you mean to run some fool race against Lord Gabriel Sharpe.”
She shot her cousin a foul glance as she set the plate and salver on the table. “See if I ever embroider a pair of slippers for you again.”
Pierce eyed her coolly over his cup of tea. “If you embroider me any more slippers, I shall have to grow extra feet.”
“You know perfectly well that you need an inordinate number of slippers,” Virginia said. “You wear them out faster than—”
“I don’t care about Pierce’s damned slippers!” Isaac shouted. “I want to know what possessed you to challenge Sharpe to a race! It’s not like you to do something so foolish.”
Anger flared in her face. “It’s nothing to worry about, just a quick carriage race along that course in Ealing. You remember the one—it’s not the least dangerous.”
“Any kind of racing is dangerous, young lady!”
“Poppy, sit
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