Page 491 of From Rakes to Riches

“This fellow could win a host of races,” she said, finishing up with his mane. “What a glory he is.”

“Aye,” agreed Rakesley. “But first, he has to let someone ride him.”

Ah.

And there it was.

Rakesley saw Hannibal as a three-year-old colt whose best season was only months away. He saw him purely as an investment—and one that might not pay off.

Gemma didn’t know this man beyond the few words they’d exchanged, but she understood it would be an embarrassing failure if he couldn’t get Hannibal to perform.

And, like that, she had information to pass on to Deverill.

As if on cue, a compact man who looked entirely composed of dense muscle and who could only be the jockey intended for Hannibal swaggered into the box. He had the calm, but nervy, way about him particular to all jockeys.

The problem was that the instant Hannibal saw the man, he tensed. Gemma seemed to be the only one who noticed as the men greeted one another.

Wilson spared a glance for Gemma. “That will be all,erm—” His gaze searched the rafters as if he would find her name there.

“Gem,” she supplied.

“Cal, take Gem over to?—”

“Gem stays here,” said Rakesley.

Everyone stopped. It would’ve been comical had not all gazes shifted and landed directly upon Gemma. Hers found her feet, her heart in her throat, as she willed the men to look somewhere—anywhere—else.

“Assign the lad to Hannibal’s box. He clearly has a way with the animal.” The duke looked in higher spirits than she’d yet seen him.

Wilson nodded. “You heard His Grace,” he said to the side of Gemma’s face. “You can muck out while they take Hannibal out for his paces.”

Gemma gave an incoherent grumble and stood aside. These men acted as if she’d solved the problem of Hannibal, and she understood it didn’t work thusly.

From beneath the brim of her slouch hat, she watched the inevitable disaster unfold as Cal attempted to place a saddle onto Hannibal’s back. For his reward, he got a nip on the shoulder.

With a shake of the head, Gemma slipped out to the tool room to fetch a shovel. From what she’d observed, Rakesley ran a peaceable stable, so he wasn’t accustomed to this type of Thoroughbred. Gemma, on the other hand, had seen plenty around various stables and racecourses over the last year. Sellers gave them mild sedatives for showing, just enough to fool potential buyers into thinking the animal possessed of a good temperament, which couldn’t be further from the truth. By the time the new owner discovered this fact, it was his problem.

Gemma certainly had something to report in her first missive to Deverill. Rakesley intended to make a run at the Race of the Century—with an unrideable horse.

And yet…

While she was at Somerton, Gemma knew she wouldn’t be able to let Hannibal go. In fact, she was already working out a plan of attack and woo.

A good wooing of an irascible horse began with a lump of sugar.

4

A WEEK LATER

It was just this side of sunrise, and the world was still and quiet in the fading gray of pre-dawn air, when Gemma took Hannibal’s reins in hand and led him from his box.

As she had for the last five mornings.

The only sound was the clatter of shod hooves echoing down the red-brick aisle as she led him out of the stable and into the south paddock. Somerton had a few paddocks, but she’d chosen this one for a very good reason.

It couldn’t be viewed from the manor house.

No dukely eyes would look out of one of the hundred or so windows and happen upon her stealing time with the estate’s prize colt.

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