Page 508 of From Rakes to Riches

“Is there something you wish to discuss?” asked Rake, deciding it best to get to it.

Julian’s semblance of a smile fell away. “Today—” He squinted up toward the coffered ceiling. “What is today, anyway?”

“The seventeenth of March,” said Rake.

“Yesterday, then.” Julian gave a befuddled shake of the head. “Yesterday was the anniversary.”

Rake didn’t need to ask which anniversary. Only one anniversary held the power to plunge Julian into the depths of despair Rake was presently witnessing.

The anniversary of his adored older sister Clarissa’s death when he’d been but aged seven…

And the anniversary of the death of his father, who had taken his own life exactly twenty years later to the day…

The three-year anniversary of Lord Julian Batchelor becoming the Marquess of Ormonde.

Yesterday.

Julian looked as if he’d taken his first drink before he’d rolled out of bed yesterday and hadn’t stopped since.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Julian stared into the fire and gave his head a shake. “No.”

Rake wasn’t offended in the least.

So, he began talking. Starting with which horses would be contenders for the racing season, then on to the Jockey Club and the disarray it had fallen into since the death of Sir Charles Bunbury last year. No one possessed the Perpetual President’s—as he’d come to be known—authority or moral rectitude in matters of the turf. Soon, it would be the blacklegs and touts running the racing meetings with impunity.

Julian swatted the idea away. “Pish and rot.Youshould become president of the Jockey Club.”

Rake snorted. “Not bloody likely.”

That got a good, long laugh from Julian. “By the by,” he said, his mood considerably lighter than when he’d entered the room an hour ago, “how’s your new jockey working out for you? Word has it that Hannibal ran today.”

“Do you have touts spying at Somerton?”

The spies sent by the Ring to scout the horses were relentless. Wilson had uncovered and routed two this year already.

Rake despised spies.

Julian shrugged a shoulder. “Servants like to talk, and our estates are only five miles apart.”

Rake believed his friend. “Aye, Hannibal ran.”

“He’s a goer?”

“Better than expected,” said Rake, tightly.

Julian was a friend off the racecourse, but the competition on it. Rake wouldn’t be volunteering any useful information.

Julian smiled and shook his head. “That new jockey of yours… What’s his name?”

“Gem.” Rake didn’t want to talk about Gem, either. Yet… “What do you make of the lad?”

“I only met him the once at The Drunken Piebald, but…” Ormonde swirled the last dregs of brandy in his tumbler.

“But?” Rake tensed. Whatever insights Julian could offer, Rake wanted to hear.

“The lad seemed to know what he was about is all. And he must’ve because you’re letting him ride Hannibal.”

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