Sapphire

by Rosemary Rogers

  In no time, they were rounding the elm tree with its budding green leaves and the bank of Hudson was now on her left shoulder. She had only been two lengths ahead of the closest horse before they rounded the halfway mark, and now they were four or five ahead.

  As the wind whistled in Sapphire’s ears and the faces of the onlookers flew by in a blur, she found herself thinking of Blake. What would he think of his maid now? Would he laugh? Scowl?

  The wind brought tears to her eyes.

  As the pounding of Prince’s hooves echoed in her head, she wondered if Clarice had wheedled her way into Blake’s bed, into the house. Was he still seeing Mrs. Sheraton? She didn’t know why she cared. He’d made it obvious to her what she meant to him—what she did not mean to him. He’d told her from the beginning the purpose women served in his life; she’d been foolish to think he had not been entirely truthful. If there was one thing Blake was, it was honest.

  Ahead, Sapphire heard the calls of the spectators waiting at the finish line, Red the loudest.

  “There ya go, me bully lad!” he called in his Irish brogue. “You got it! Come on!”

  Sapphire flew over the finish line on Prince’s back and slowly pulled back on the reins, circling him around the group of people all waiting to be the first to run their hand over Prince’s glossy neck and offer Mr. Carrington their congratulations.

  Red appeared at her side and clipped the lead rope onto Prince’s halter. “Good job, lad! Told you you’d keep your seat.”

  She smiled, thankful for Red’s friendship. She’d kept to herself all winter, avoiding the other stable boys and grooms, mostly because she was worried someone would realize she wasn’t one of them. But Red had been kind to her, keeping his distance but supporting her, boosting her confidence.

  “Well, son,” Mr. Carrington said, limping toward her, a wide grin on his weathered face. “Looks like you have the seat of honor at my dining table tonight.”

  Two months later

  “Come with us,” Manford said, standing at Blake’s hotel room door, his hand resting on the door frame. “It will be fun.”

  Blake stared at him. “It won’t be fun. And just the other day, wasn’t it you who told me I was never fun anymore? That all I did was work?”

  “Come on.” Manford laid his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “I was just trying to make you see what you’re doing to yourself. You’re getting as bad as your father.”

  Blake scowled. “Well, Manford, old friend, that certainly makes me want to dress and attend this dull dinner party with you.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I apologize.” Manford ran his fingers through his hair, seeming frustrated. “I just don’t know what to do for you, Blake. I’m serious.”

  Blake stared at the hand-painted wallpaper in the corridor of the Martin-James hotel in New York City where he and Manford had come to meet with some gentlemen concerning the shipping of cloth. The trip coincided with a well-publicized horse race that took place on Long Island each year and Blake had been able to avoid attending with Manford. He had no interest in gambling on horse racing; he never gambled, not on cards or dice or the number of rats a crew would find in a particular crate when it was pried open on the dock. He wasn’t a man of odds. He liked a sure thing.

  “Come on,” Manford prodded. “The gentleman hosting the supper party is quite a businessman. I think you would like him.”

  “He raises horses for a living, races horses for a living. I know nothing of horses beyond which side to mount,” Blake said drolly. But he was beginning to waver. Manford was right. He was working too hard, spending too many long hours alone with his thoughts, haunted by regrets over Sapphire.

  He’d spent the entire winter looking for her, but to no avail. It was as if the night she had left his house, she had simply been swallowed up. Several times in the past few months Blake had considered writing a letter to Mr. Stowe inquiring as to whether she had returned to London; once he’d even drafted one. But he never sent it. Perhaps he feared the answer. If something terrible had befallen her, he didn’t know what he would do, if she had come to harm through his selfish desires. No, he had a feeling none of those possibilities had come to pass or he would have heard from Stowe or her godmother. Sapphire was out there somewhere. He could almost feel her. She was the ache in his chest that kept him awake at night. She was the tremble in his hand that made him unsteady when he reached for a glass or a book. She was what made his mind wander when he tried to concentrate on business matters or a conversation at the dinner table.

  “Did you hear me, Blake? The reception is right here in the hotel, downstairs in one of the parlors. If the conversation is dull, you can climb back into your cave.” Manford poked his head through the doorway. “Though quite a cave you have here, I must say. A suite.” He stepped back into the hallway. “Please don’t let Patricia know you’re staying in such magnificent rooms or she’ll wonder why I didn’t spend the money to get a suite for us, as well.” He looked back at Blake. “Tell me you’ll join us.”

  “I’m not hungry. I have those new reports on—”

  “Just a drink, that’s all I’m asking. Just join us downstairs for a drink.”

  Blake drew his pocket watch from his waistcoat. “What time?”

  “Eight. Excellent.” Manford began to walk away. “I’ll tell Patricia. She’ll be pleased. She’s been worried about you, as well. Now that she’s accepted the fact that you are not marrying Clarice, she continually wants to introduce you to young women. You know what a matchmaker she is, and she has always been fond of you.”

  Blake ignored Manford’s reference to his recent social habits. It had been months since he attended an affair with a woman on his arm; in fact, he’d not done so since his return from England, but the subject was not up for discussion.

  “Perhaps you’ll see me at eight,” he said as he walked into his room.

  “I had better.”

  Sapphire fumbled with the knot of her white silk cravat, groaned, pulled it loose and began to tie it again. It was the third time she had attempted to tie the ridiculous contraption, and there was no way she could ask anyone to help her. Who would she ask?

  She had come in one of Mr. Carrington’s carriages all alone and had been shown to this room to change into the trousers, frock coat and linen shorts he had purchased for her to wear to affairs such as this. And there had many recently. It didn’t make a great deal of sense to Sapphire—after all, Prince was the one running the race, all she had to do was simply try to hang on—but she was somehow being toasted as the jockey of New York.

  All winter Sapphire had enjoyed her time with the horses, time spent mostly alone with her thoughts in the warm, quiet barn where the only sounds she heard were that of horses munching on their oats, the occasional squeak of a mouse and the beating of her own heart. It had even been fun pretending to be a young man, not caring what she looked like or how dirty she got. She enjoyed the freedom the clothes provided as well as the freedom to come and go where she wanted without an escort as she had needed in London, but all of that grew dreary more quickly than she had thought it would. Then spring had come and the racing had started. It had been so exhilarating at first. She and Caribbean Prince had begun winning races and suddenly they had been the talk of the stable, then the talk of the town. Mr. Carrington had even invited her and Red to dinner in the big house and then their neighbors had begun to invite them to dinners and parties. Mr. Carrington had bought her a man’s suit. Fortunately, he’d allowed her into the city alone to purchase it in a store where a person could buy clothes already made rather than tailored.

  The weeks had flown by, one race running into another. Mr. Carrington had been true to his word and she had been given a few dollars with each purse the black horse had taken with their win, allowing her to add slowly to her savings. But as the months passed, so did the excitement. Lately, everytime she stepped into a room to hear the applause of her admirers in the horse-racing circuit all she could thi
nk of was how desperately she wanted to wear a lace ball gown and how much she hated cutting her hair each month.

  But by the first week of June, she realized that with just a few more weeks of riding, just a few more dollars, she would have enough money to buy some decent women’s attire and her passage back to London. As much as she had enjoyed her time with Prince and all of the nice people she had met at Carrington Farms, she yearned to see Lucia and Angelique, and to touch the precious letters and the sapphire her mother had left for her.

  There was a knock at the door and Sapphire quickly pulled the ends of the cravat. “Coming,” she called in the voice that she was now accustomed to using.

  “Mr. Carrington awaits you downstairs, sir,” said a young man through the door.

  “Thank you.” She reached for her frock coat, slipped her arms into it and, opening the door, entered the hotel corridor. She followed the wide hallway with its wainscoting and stylish floral wallpaper to the curving grand staircase, and as she took the steps, she couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to walk them in an elegant satin ball gown on the arm of a handsome gentleman.

  Of course, there was only one handsome gentleman she could imagine walking down the stairs with, and just the thought of him made her stomach knot. After all this time, she was amazed he could still do that to her. She wondered if he ever thought of her. She doubted it.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sapphire crossed the pink marble floor, trying to remember to strut like a boy rather than take dainty steps, and not to gaze up at the blazing chandeliers overhead because the beauty of crystal wasn’t something Sam Water, a simple stable-boy-turned-jockey, would have appreciated. The Martin-James Hotel was one of the most beautiful pieces of architecture, inside or out, she had ever seen and she longed to explore it. However, she would not be staying the night; Mr. Carrington had already ordered the carriage to take her home at ten. His best jockeys always attended the parties and balls, but never stayed long.

  “Mr. Water,” one of Mr. Carrington’s rivals’ wives called to him, fluttering her fan in Sapphire’s direction. “Do come and let me introduce you to a dear friend.”

  “Mr. Water,” someone else called.

  “Sam!” cried another voice.

  Sapphire could feel her life spinning out of control. She didn’t know what she wanted beyond her father’s name, but she knew she could not live this way much longer.

  “Very nice to meet you, ma’am,” Sapphire said, taking a middle-aged woman’s hand and kissing the back of it.

  The woman giggled.

  “Sam rides for Carrington,” the younger woman explained to the older. “But my Jonathan has made Sam an offer I cannot imagine he could refuse.”

  Sam smiled absently, much the same way she had seen Blake smile at this kind of affair.

  “Would you care for a drink, Sam?” someone behind her offered.

  “No, thank you,” she said, turning around. As she faced the next well-wisher, just out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw something.

  Someone.

  He was standing under a monstrous chandelier just outside the double glass French doors with their frosted design, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. He appeared to be debating whether to enter the reception parlor.

  Sapphire’s breath caught in her throat and for a second she was paralyzed with fear. She didn’t know which way to escape, and at the moment when she started to turn away, Blake’s gaze met hers.

  He was not fooled by the short hair or the men’s clothing.

  “Thank you so much,” Sapphire said, blindly shaking hands, taking the glass someone handed her. “Thank you.” She nearly stumbled in her effort to get away.

  He was walking straight toward her.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she heard herself say, making a beeline for a door at the rear of the salon. She had no idea where it led, but hoped that it would take her from this nightmare.

  29

  “You, wait a minute. Sir!” came Blake’s uncertain voice behind Sapphire.

  She left the glass someone had pushed into her hand on a table as she hurried through the door. It led into a narrow, dimly lit corridor—used by staff to move about the hotel without disturbing guests, she recalled. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her pulse pounding in her ears.

  “Sir?” Blake said again.

  Sapphire looked up and down the hall, not knowing which way to go. There had to be a way out of here, perhaps a way onto the street. Then she could just disappear in New York City the same way she had disappeared in Boston.

  But Blake was right behind her, no more than three or four steps away when she closed the door. She held her hands to her racing heart, feeling light-headed. He spoke again from the other side of the door.

  “Excuse me, but did you see that young man go through here?”

  Sapphire heard another voice responding, but she couldn’t make out what the woman was saying.

  “Who?” Blake asked.

  “The jockey,” the woman said, her voice loud enough for Sapphire to hear this time. “You must meet him. A young boy Carrington found in his own stables. Sam Water is his name. He rides that wild steed of Carrington’s, you know, the black one, Prince Caribbean.”

  “Does he?” Blake intoned, as if he knew what she spoke of.

  The doorknob rattled.

  Sapphire darted to her right but she wasn’t fast enough. The one second she had hesitated had been too long.

  She heard the door open behind her.

  “Sam?” Blake called.

  She ignored him, walking faster, hoping he thought he had made a mistake. After all, hadn’t the helpful woman said she was Sam Water?

  “Sapphire…please.”

  Something in his voice made her halt. Was that emotion? Longing? Regret? Blake Thixton, the arrogant, self-righteous, never-feels-a-thing Blake Thixton, Earl of Wessex? Surely she was mistaken.

  “Is it really you?” he breathed, grasping her forearm and forcing her to face him. She felt as if she were falling. Being so close to him frightened her more than she had ever been in her life, and yet at the same time, a sense of overwhelming relief washed over her. All these weeks, months, she had wanted him, needed him so desperately, and now here he was. So suddenly. So unexpectedly.

  Sapphire lifted her lashes, tears stinging the backs of her eyelids. “Sam Water, stable hand, sometimes jockey,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Thixton.”

  “I knew it was you!” He grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, covering her mouth with his. “God, I was afraid I would never—”

  Sapphire couldn’t breathe, her chest felt so tight. She was bombarded by a mixture of anger, relief and resentment, by the sight of him and the feel of his mouth, his touch. She had thought she would never see him again.

  And he was so happy. There was no denying it.

  Of course he was pleased to see her. She had abandoned him, left without his permission. No one left Blake Thixton without his blessing.

  She tore her mouth from his, panting hard. “Let me go!”

  “Where the hell have you been?” He still clasped one of her arms, holding tightly even when she tried to pull away. “What are you doing in men’s clothing?” He looked her up and down in disdain. “What is this nonsense about you being a horse jockey?”

  “Let me go,” she repeated from between clenched teeth.

  “What? And then chase you through the streets of New York? I don’t think so.”

  “Blake, please. I have to get back inside. People will begin to notice I’m missing. My employer, Mr. Carrington—”

  “A jockey?” he asked. “You told these people you were a man and a damn jockey?”

  She looked up at him through a veil of wet lashes, anger beginning to fill the pit in her stomach. “I am a jockey! This party is in honor of me, of the horse I ride and the man who owns him.”

  “You ha
ve got to be kidding me,” he murmured.

  She looked him in the eye, defiance plain in her voice. “You know I’m not.”

  He glanced away, then back at her. “Do you have any idea how much time, how much money I have spent looking for you?”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have.” She tugged hard on her arm, trying to escape as she fought her emotions. “You had Mrs. Sheraton. You didn’t need me.”

  He pulled back even harder. “Sapphire—”

  “I have to go back inside,” she insisted, not wanting to hear whatever he had to say about Mrs. Sheraton. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Sapphire would never be more to him than a mistress.

  “You’re not going back in there. You’re going with me.”

  “What are you going to do? How are you going to stop me?” she demanded. “Kidnap me again?”

  “No, I’m not going to kidnap you.” He released her so suddenly that she nearly fell. “But you go in there and I’ll tell them all who you are…or rather what you are.” He looked down at her. “What have you done, bound your breasts?” He reached out with his free hand to brush her hair with his fingertips. “And you’ve cut your hair, your beautiful hair? Sapphire, have you lost your mind?”

  She looked down at the floor, at the tips of her polished black boots. Mr. Carrington had to have them made just for her because they were so small for a man.

  “Sapphire,” he said quietly. “Think. Use that brain of yours that I know you have. We don’t need this kind of scandal. Nor does the gentleman who hired you when you falsely represented yourself.”

  We? What did he mean by we? She bit down on her lip. And she hadn’t thought about the others at Carrington Farms. She and Prince had been winning every race; her competitors would jump at the chance to discredit her, the horse, Carrington. Even in America, women were not allowed to race. They would all be disgraced, and not just Mr. Carrington. Red had hired her. Cosco had reluctantly allowed her to ride Prince. She owed it to these men not to make them pay for her falsehoods.