Most importantly, however, there was the duchess’s second-best stable to consider. No matter he and she had only spoken once—more than a decade ago at a ball when she’d been a debutante on the hunt for a duke and he’d been a duke with no interest in being caught.
Not after the mistake he’d made with Felicity.
But ten years was a long time, and he was in a different place in life. As a man approaching his thirties—a mere six months away, in fact—he had heirs to consider and a bloodline to continue. An alliance with a woman like the Duchess of Acaster was the ideal solution. Neither of them would hold any illusions about marriage or that love need be involved. Two people couldn’t have been more perfectly matched.
Movement at the doorway caught the edge of his eye, just as a familiar voice rang bright, “A good morning to you, brother.”
His sister, Lady Artemis, strode into the breakfast room with a wide smile on her face. Younger than him by a year, Artemis was the cheeriest person he knew. “Artemis,” he returned by way of greeting.
She lowered her tall, willowy form into her chair while her breakfast plate was set before her. Every day, she went for the full English, with eggs, blood sausage, mushrooms, stewed figs, and toast. She speared a mushroom and reached for a turf rag. She was as horse mad as Rake. “About Dido,” she said. Determination shone in her eyes.
This, again. “You know my feelings about racing her,” he said, neutrally.
She canted her head and dipped a round of sausage in egg yolk. “Worried she’ll win?” she asked with a smile. “She’s a three-year-old now. Just in time for the Two Thousand Guineas.”
Rake shook his head. They’d been over this. “Wait until later in the season,” he said, reasonably. “You’ll get more out of her. She remains immature and prone to startling.”
Artemis spread the turf newspaper between them and stabbed her forefinger into the center of the page. “But I would have her qualified for the Race of the Century sooner than later.” She settled back and took a sip of her morning tea. “I’ve never seen a girl more ready than Dido. She can take the prize. I feel it.”
Rake knew that feeling. How certain horses got inside one’s mind and became an obsession. There would be no convincing his sister.
Though they shared the Somerton stables, Artemis did as she pleased. Just as he was the son of a duke and a duke himself, she was the daughter of one duke and the sister of another. She not only knew her mind, but could do whatever she liked and no one would dare naysay her—not even her brother.
“Why don’t you at least try her out on a different track?”
Artemis stared at him as if he’d sprouted another head. “And let the Ring catch wind of her?” she asked, utterly befuddled. “I’d have to set up a cot and sleep in her box every night to keep the blacklegs away.”
She had a point, even if she was being dramatic. The blacklegs were in the employ of the Ring, and the Ring had a very serious and vested interest in ensuring the horses with the best odds to win, won.
Rather than minimizing risk by hedging their bets against a fancied horse, the Ring was known to use methods more certain to stop that horse from winning—like bribing jockeys, laming horses, and poisoning troughs with arsenic. Blacklegs would stop at nothing to see their favored horse win—and collect the tens of thousands of pounds at stake.
The winning purse at a racing meeting was nothing to the obscene amounts of blunt collected and disbursed—but mostly collected—by the Ring.
“With her temperament, a few false starts will do her in on race day,” continued Rake. False starts were another favored method the Ring used to spook horses. “Bring her to the Two Thousand Guineas, but don’t run her. Get her accustomed to the atmosphere, then race her the next day in the One Thousand.”
Artemis wagged a finger and shook her head with a knowing smile. “You simply don’t want her to beat your Hannibal, as the One Thousand Guineas is fillies only and he can’t run it.”
Rake exhaled a resigned sigh—Artemis would do as she pleased, of course—and pivoted the conversation. “Have you yet submitted your colors to the Jockey Club?”
“I have.”
“And what are they?”
“Rich saffron and light ash.”
Rake snorted. “Yellow and gray not poetic enough for you?”
“Not at all.” She speared a stewed fig. “And you’re staying with spring green and midnight blue?”
“Yes, green and blue.”
Artemis smiled. “You know, brother, someday, something or someone will inspire poetry in you so strong it will be all you can speak.”
Rake shook his head. “I know a curse when I hear one.”
A massive figure filled the doorway. “What’s this about poetry?” said Julian, taking his place at the table.
Rake chose to ignore the question. “Any interesting news this morning?”
Julian took a testing sip of coffee. “Aye, the location for the Race of the Century has been announced.”
“And?” asked Artemis, moving forward in her chair.
“Epsom,” said Julian.
Rake nodded. “I’d hoped for Goodwood.” It was, in his estimation, the best racecourse in the country.
“The race is being promoted to all London, so Epsom’s proximity to Town is likely the reason for the location.” Julian snorted. “Besides, I can’t see the Duke of Richmond tolerating a swarm of the masses soiling his beloved Goodwood.”
“Why is it being called the Race of the Century, anyway?” Artemis seemed to be gearing up for one of her quasi-philosophical discussions.
“It had to be named something grandiose, I suppose,” said Julian.
“Except,” began Artemis, her chin propped on her thumb, her forefinger tapping her cheek, “we’re only twenty-two years into the century. How can one know if it will be the Race of the Century?” She sat back and spread her hands wide. “There are still seventy-eight years to go.”
The men met her observation with a blank silence.
Julian shrugged. “Either way, my Filthy Habit will win it.” He wasn’t one for philosophical discussions. More a man of action.
“He’ll have to get through my Hannibal first,” said Rake, his tone light, the words serious.
“Have you found anyone he’ll let on his back yet?”
Rake grunted noncommittally. This was a current sore spot. Hannibal. What was he to do with the blasted beast?
“Anyway,” said Artemis, “we’ll all have to get through Clifford’s Little Wicked.” Her eyes screwed up to the ceiling. “Oh, wait, she doesn’t belong to Clifford anymore. That chancer Deverill won her off him after a night of Macao.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Some say it was his devilish plan all along.”
“Who is this Deverill?” asked Julian.
“No one to concern ourselves with.” Rake was met with twin looks of disbelief. “What?”
“Ah,” said Julian with a knowing smile.
“Ah?” asked Rake.
“Still miffed about that, are you?”
It was no secret Rake had been trying to get Clifford to sell him Little Wicked since she’d been a yearling. And now this had happened—the filly had gone to a man who had no business owning her—all because of a gaming debt.