Incomparable Lord Meath: A Rebellious Sons NOVELLA Read online

  Incomparable Lord Meath

  A Rebellious Sons NOVELLA

  Patricia Rice

  Rice Enterprises

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

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  About the Author

  Also by Patricia Rice

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  Incomparable Lord Meath

  Patricia Rice

  Copyright © 2016 Patricia Rice

  First Publication: 2016

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Rice Enterprises, Dana Point, CA

  Cover design by Killion Group

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Thank You.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a team to produce a book. I could not go on without brilliant editors like Phyllis Irene Radford, cover designers like the ingenious Kim Killion, and formatters with the patience of a saint—smooches to my husband.

  Chapter 1

  Honora Hoyt stood on her boot toes on a low stone wall to see the race track above the heads of the Marquess of Belden’s elegant party. When a tipsy Lord Harrow stepped in front of her as if she did not exist, she accidentally on purpose toppled his ridiculously tall top hat with her heavy umbrella. The day had turned out quite warm and bright, and she’d regretted the accessory until now.

  “Oops, so sorry,” she murmured, catching the fallen chapeau. “I’ll hold it for you, shall I?” Relentlessly, she tucked the curly-brimmed beaver behind the back of her fur-trimmed pelisse, where he couldn’t reach without a tussle. A gentleman did not tussle with Lord Belden’s very proper niece.

  The fat toad glared, but the horses were starting to line up on the grassy track, and he returned his attention to the betting. The Christmas festival hadn’t been part of their original schedule, but the bored aristocrats in Belden’s party had been delighted to join in the local celebrations, and even more delighted that it involved horse racing as well as trading.

  A city girl this past decade or more, Honora had little interest in rural pastimes and would have preferred a warm fire and a good book. The scent of mince pies and warm mulled cider, however, along with the fiddlers playing in the distance, added a lovely cheer to the day. Although it appeared many of the locals, as well as the gentlemen, were sipping a more potent brew than cider.

  She stood on her toes again as a gunshot signaled the horses had broken from the starting line. She’d heard Harrow make a large wager on the favorite, and spitefully, she hoped he lost. Sometimes, her uncle’s business associates were quite tiresome.

  Harrow roared in dismay, along with the rest of the drunken crowd, as a small bay mare broke ahead of the pack, eating up the muddy turf with impossibly powerful strides.

  “The jockey is a woman,” Honora exclaimed in wonder, to no one in particular. It wasn’t as if anyone in the noble party had an interest in listening to a twenty-seven-year-old spinster of unimposing stature and no prospects.

  But the fact that she was normally of quiet nature caused her uncle, Harrow, and a few others to study the bay’s rider closer. Harrow cursed most volubly. The favorite, a stallion, was falling behind.

  Honora was oddly pleased that the horse in the lead had a woman rider. Generally, she didn’t approve of breaks in tradition, but generally, she didn’t attend horse races either. She was simply surprised at seeing a woman in breeches. Perhaps female jockeys were common, and she hadn’t known it. She knew London society would censure the disgrace, but this was rural Ireland, a different culture entirely, one that had only just emerged from violent rebellion. As long as she was living dangerously, she might as well enjoy the decadently entertaining sight.

  As she strained to watch the horses approaching, she noted a gentleman farther down the wall, wearing a rather festive green tweed coat. He lifted his rakish cap hat at her, but he didn’t stand up to follow the race as others had. Instead, he kept people from blocking his view by the simple expedient of swinging a walking stick the size of a small cudgel in front of him. She could swear he winked at her before returning his attention to the race. Oddly, her pulse beat a little faster. Did she know him?

  “Damme if I lose to a woman!” Harrow roared as the horses galloped toward the finish line where Belden’s party stood.

  Before Honoria understood what he meant to do, the drunken gentleman snatched a loose stone from the wall and flung it at the pretty mare racing ahead of the pack.

  The horse shied. The crowd gasped. The jockey held tight, but it was too late. Off-stride, the mare’s hoof hit one of the mud holes in the turf track. The horse fell, and Honora screamed as the jockey flew over her mount’s head.

  Men rushed to grab the mare. The rest of the race continued without it. Oblivious to the mayhem he’d caused, Harrow hollered his satisfaction as the stallion crossed the line to win by a nose.

  Wanting to weep, Honora considered beating the wretch over the head with his own hat, but her uncle would disapprove. She respected the marquess far too much to behave in a wayward fashion. Instead, she flung Harrow’s expensive beaver in the mud, and with furious satisfaction, used it as a stepping stone to leap from her perch. Picking her way toward the fallen jockey, she left the hat to be trampled by Belden’s party as they pushed past her. As usual, she was left behind.

  “May I?” The gentleman with the cudgel held up his elbow to assist. He leaned heavily on his stick, and his demeanor was grim as she accepted the offer of his arm.

  “You saw what he did?” she whispered in horror. And then, the stick and the thick golden-brown hair spilling from beneath his cap registered. “Mr. Burke! Oh dear, we’re a pretty pair again.”

  There had been a time. . . when she had been so very green, clenching her cup of ratafia and fighting back tears in some fading ballroom. Tall gentlemen in their colorful frock coats and embroidered vests had passed by her without acknowledging her existence, bowing to the smiling, slender, graceful young ladies who swung gaily through the lively dances. Honora had tripped over her own feet the last time anyone had taken pity on her and asked for a dance.

  She’d been absurdly, almost tearfully grateful when a young gentleman in an out-of-fashion coat limped up to ask, “May I?” gesturing at the seat beside her.

  “If you do not fear unpopularity is contagious,” she’d replied, and had instantly wished to bite her tongue. Her mother had warned her that she was too quick to snap.

  Instead of taking offense, he’d laughed and eased into the chair, stretching an apparently stiff knee in front of him. “The contagion spreading this evening is inanity. I
’ve recently been inoculated.” He gestured at his limb. “Tried to outrace a mail coach while riding another man’s steed. Never again.”

  Honora tried not to compare the misshapen lump of his knee and weakened leg with his more muscular and shapely other leg. “The horse was a poor one?”

  “It was as stupid as its rider and veered at a coney. I ask you, what kind of animal is afraid of a rabbit?”

  Honora winced. “A poorly trained one, it seems. Did the horse’s owner know it was so badly behaved?”

  “Most likely,” he said with a shrug. “A wager is a wager, and I was the dupe.”

  His self-deprecating air was refreshing, and the hours passed swiftly as they exchanged gossip and opinions and developed a friendship that had lasted the season. But he’d done just as he’d sworn he would from the first—left London and never returned. He’d always been honest.

  “It’s Meath now, viscount, if you please,” he said, limping toward the track. “My father died, but yes, as usual, we adorn the wall. And as usual, we’re the only ones to observe.”

  Although she remembered Mr. Burke—Lord Meath—as entertaining that first spring after his accident, he was not amused now. After ten years, he’d become a powerful man with an unshaven scruff and thick muscles. When he frowned at the backs of the gentlemen surrounding the fallen jockey, she shivered at his fierceness.

  “But we’re no longer helpless children,” she announced with a confidence she’d not possessed a decade ago. He may have shattered her foolish heart back then, but they had both grown up since. She marched toward the track. The viscount’s limping stride matched her short one as he fell in with her.

  “True,” he agreed with his more familiar humor. “Bell has taken worse falls, but losing this race is a catastrophe for her family and not the Christmas gift they’d hoped.”

  “You know the jockey’s family?” she asked in surprise.

  “Earl of Wexford’s daughter, Lady Isabell. She’s been a handful since birth, but she’s the one who has been keeping food in the mouth of her little sisters. I don’t suppose you’ve married Croesus?” he asked in a harsh tone.

  A lady, daughter of an earl, riding astride! Honora tried not to gape in astonishment while she gathered her wits. Harrow could have killed an earl’s daughter! She had thought forcing the bosky toad to pay for the girl’s injury and the horse’s loss would be sufficient, but this required a whole new round of thought.

  “No, I’m not married, but I’m my uncle’s hostess. Belden is richer than Croesus, and Harrow is one of his miserable friends. Someone must be made to pay.” She gripped his arm and winced as a group of men lifted the unconscious lady jockey from the mud.

  “That’s her father weeping,” Lord Meath said without judgment. “It’s hard to say whether he weeps for his daughter, the horse, or the debtor’s prison he faces.”

  Honora set her lips, poked a few broad backs with her umbrella, and forced her way through the mob in the direction they carried the girl.

  Without the confinement of her riding cap, the jockey’s rich mahogany hair spilled down her shoulders. The girl looked much too young to be in this crowd. A few reputable females clung to their husbands’ arms, but in general, it was a rowdy lot unsuitable for very young misses.

  “My lord, your carriage is closest,” Honora called to her uncle. “Let us take her to the manor and call a physician.” Finally reaching her goal, she dropped Meath’s arm to take her uncle’s and nudge him into directing the men carrying the unconscious lady.

  “Hmpf, yes, of course, a physician. Do they have physicians here?” Belden inquired, gesturing peremptorily at his footman. Of average height and unprepossessing figure, he spoke with an authority that had lesser men stepping out of his way.

  “This is Ireland, not Africa,” Lord Meath said in amusement, falling into step with them. He used his cudgel to herd bystanders away as they progressed in the direction of the carriage lane. “Wexford, have you sent for Callahan?” he shouted to the weeping man following his daughter.

  The older, slender gentleman stopped and wiped at his face with a handkerchief as he waited for them to catch up. “Meath, good to see you, lad. Are you with his lordship’s party?”

  “Introduce us, my lord,” Honora whispered. Her uncle could be a pinch-penny unless confronted with reality. She was determined to set matters right since it was his inebriated party responsible for this disaster. And it was almost Christmas and the lady’s young sisters were at risk!

  Lord Meath raised his caramel-colored eyebrows at her imperious command but did as told. “Lord Belden, Miss Honora Hoyt, may I introduce you to Glendon Boyle, Earl of Wexford.”

  Belden harrumphed. Honora dropped a hasty curtsy and told the earl, “I’ll attend your daughter if you can help us reach the carriage before we’re crushed in this crowd.”

  That gave the men direction. Meath cleared a path with his cudgel, while Wexford straightened his spine and escorted them toward the lane. The crowd parted in their wake, and they arrived in time for Honora to catch up and add propriety to the patient being loaded into the open carriage.

  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 rata
fia 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.