Page 601 of From Rakes to Riches

Gemma noted a flicker of doubt within Lady Artemis. “Dido doesn’t have to race today,” said Gemma, conversationally, so as not to spook the idea away. “She could run in the fillies’ race tomorrow, or the Derby next month.”

“She can win today, you know,” said Lady Artemis with an uncharacteristically brittle snap.

Intuitively, Gemma treated her like a skittish horse who needed calming. “Aye. But…”

Lady Artemis’s eyebrows crinkled. “But?”

“They all can, Lady Artemis,” said Gemma. “They’re all beautiful, strong animals bred for this day. But only onewillwin.”

The one with the most heart, she couldn’t bring herself to say.

A few beats of silence ticked by while Gemma’s words settled into the air. Lady Artemis gave Hannibal a parting kiss on his velvety nose and a good-luck wish. “I don’t know where you’re going after today,” she said to Gemma, “and I don’t need to know. But if you’re serious about helping horses in the way you described, I have an estate in Yorkshire that I think would be fit for the purpose. Endcliffe Grange, it’s called. If you ever find yourself up that way, there will always be a place for you.”

Sudden emotion clogged Gemma’s throat. “That’s a very kind offer, Lady Artemis.”

And one impossible to accept.

Laughter returned to Lady Artemis’s eyes. “And a selfish one. Rake would turn positively green with envy if I stole you off him.”

Oh, if Lady Artemis only knew the half of it. But something in the lady’s eyes told Gemma that perhaps she already did.

Right.

And with that, Lady Artemis issued a parting may-the-best-woman-win farewell and set about her day. Within three seconds, Wilson took her place in the gate opening. “It’s Hannibal’s turn for the weigh-in.”

The time had arrived to walk Hannibal to the Rubbing House to be weighed, then it was on to the starting line of the Rowley Mile where the best horse would prevail.

Her palms went damp with a fresh round of nerves and excitement.

Gemma and Hannibal emerged from the stables, squinting against the sunshine-bright sky. Newmarket on race day was a spectacle to behold. Banners flying overhead, the odd strain of fiddle twirling through the air, along with the savory scent of pasties and pies—the odd ribbon of expensive ladies’ perfume too. Though this was the sport of kings, it was also the entertainment of the masses, low mingling with high.

In fact, all sorts of industries sprang up around the racing season. Blacklegs and bettors. Turf journalists and papers. Horse painters, capturing the action of the day. Jockeys, trainers, grooms, and stable lads. Seamstresses who sewed the jockeys’ silks. Saddleries and blacksmiths who made riding even possible.

This sport of kings was serious business for many, and to be here, at Newmarket on race day, was to be human and alive.

The murmur of voices turned into a roar as spectators got their first good look at Hannibal, his black coat gleaming in the sun, the pull and release, the power and might, of dense muscles visible for all to see. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before them as they walked toward the weight slab. Already, she saw blacklegs running through the crowd toward the betting post, where a large, rowdy crowd was gathered round. The very sight of Hannibal would already have the laying and taking of odds shifting.

At the weight slab, Hannibal’s feet were placed in marked positions so his true height and weight could be measured. It was meant to be a fair system, but every year a few old tricksters still devised ways to cheat it. Whether it was training the horse tostand with his feet splayed wide so as to redistribute his height and weight or training him to “shrink” down. This was achieved by trainers who routinely rapped the horses on the withers during training. So, on race day, any time the horses were touched on the withers, the animals instinctively shrank down, thereby losing an inch or two in height. Many would do anything—including mistreatment of an animal—to carry less weight and gain an edge. It disgusted Gemma to the marrow of her bones.

As Wilson and Blankenship handled the dealings of the weigh-in, Gemma stood aside and surveyed the crowd. Her gaze came up empty, and disappointment pinged through her. She’d been looking for Rake. She couldn’t help herself.

Her eye, however, did happen upon a very different—and familiar—figure.

Bloody Hell.

Not the exclamation.

The horse.

An instinctive smile spread across her face. With his rich chestnut coat, black mane, and strong bearing he was the beauty he’d ever promised to be.

A sudden shear of panic struck through her. If Bloody Hell was here, then…

Her gaze shifted and unerringly located Bloody Hell’s owner a hundred or so yards away, up on the Heath.

Bolton.

Seated on a chestnut hack, his reptilian gaze was already upon her. As he showed no surprise, she intuited he’d been watching her all this time. He tipped his hat, his mouth curved into the outer semblance of a smile, and dread ran cold through Gemma’s veins.

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