Blessing by Lyn Cote Page A

face. Then, visibly stalling, he took a swallow of his ale. “I’ll be frank with you, Mr. Ramsay.” He leaned forward on his elbows. “Not only me but other gents have tried to get one going, but the city bigwigs are pushed around in thistown. They got a God-fearing seminary here, and the holy don’t think a racetrack is good for the city.”
    Gerard nearly rubbed his hands together with joy. However, he let nothing of this show. “That’s where I can help you. I can get to the people who can make or break this deal. I move in society and can come up with backing and capital from investors who would publicly countenance the plan.” He sat back and grinned. “Always follow the money. Virtue bows before profit.”
    Clancy chuckled, then laughed outright. “That’s a good one. I’ll remember that.”
    “So? Should I draw up a plan? Or is there somebody I should meet first?”
    The bookmaker didn’t hesitate. “His name’s Smith. Mr. Smith. He’s got a finger in every ripe pie in the city.”
    “And where can I meet this gentleman?”
    “Come back here tomorrow night about ten. I’ll see if I can interest him in meeting with you.”
    Gerard rose and reset his hat with a jaunty tap. “I’ll look forward to it.”
    Clancy laughed again, a dark, mocking sound.
    The hair prickled on the back of Gerard’s neck. He ignored the sensation and walked smartly out into the street. Once outside, he felt a mixture of elation and trepidation, both a lifting and a tightening.
    When one stirred a muddy pond, one never knew what might float to the surface. A few hair-raising memories from his nights haunting Boston Harbor came back to him. He always had his cane at the ready and knew how to use it, but he would resume carrying his pistol tomorrow.
    “Gerard Ramsay, I see thee is starting early this evening.”
    Not again. The tart tone behind him broadcast exactly what Blessing Brightman thought he was starting early this evening. He wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but that wouldn’t serve his purpose. His goal was to best this woman, so he turned and arched his lips into a mock smile. “Ah, the widow Brightman, doing good among the poor.” He tried to sound approving, not scathing.
    She only lifted an eyebrow at him. And stared.
    He flushed and prepared to speak, to try to do better this time. But a shrill outcry caught both their attentions.
    Without hesitation, Blessing picked up her black skirts and ran in the direction of the cry, into a dark alley—an alley that no decent lady would or should enter. Gerard cursed under his breath and chased after her. “Hold up!”
    On her heels, he arrived at the source of the disruption. The sound of a rod whistled through the dank air. A blow landed with a thump. Another pained shriek.
    “Let her go,” the Quakeress commanded the rod-wielding man, who was beating a young girl.
    “Go about your business,” the man growled, and he struck the girl again. She wailed, begging him to stop.
    The sight sickened Gerard. He moved closer.
    Blessing thrust herself into the man’s face. “Let her go. Or I’ll call the watch.”
    The man threw the girl backward with such force that she hit the wall behind, cried out, and fell hard to the ground, where she remained still.
    But Gerard was more worried about Blessing. He hurried forward to protect her.
    “Go ahead,” the man taunted her. “Call the watch! They won’t do anything. She belongs to me, she does—”
    “She is white and not a slave,” Blessing said, not giving ground—indeed, moving closer to the man. “Who is she?”
    The man hesitated for a telling second and then muttered, “She’s my daughter, yeah.”
    “Liar,” Gerard said before he could stop the word.
    Glad for a target, the man turned to him, face aflame and hands fisted. “Mind yer own business!”
    Gerard swung up his cane, aiming the point at the man’s throat. “Is this young woman truly your daughter?”
    “No, she ain’t, and