“What does a man who made his fortune from the manufacturing of steam engines know about horses?” groused Rake.
“As opposed to a man who made his fortune by being born into it?” asked Artemis conversationally.
Julian chortled. “She has you there, old chap.”
“Little Wicked comes from the Godolphin line. She belongs in a proper stable.”
There. Indisputable fact.
Artemis canted her head. “Does Little Wicked like cats?”
Both Rake’s and Julian’s brows lifted in question.
Artemis sighed. “Everyone knows Godolphin harbored deep affection for a stable cat named Grimalkin.”
Both men nodded slowly, and Julian gave her an encouraging, “Ah.”
“Anyhow,” continued Artemis, “that Deverill is one to pay attention to. He’s hungry. I’ll write Beatrix to wheedle more information about him.”
Lady Beatrix St. Vincent was the only legitimate child of the wastrel Marquess of Lydon and Artemis’s bosom friend since their come-out years ago. She spent more time on racecourses than Rake—if that was possible.
Anyway, Rake had a full morning ahead of him. He came to his feet and addressed Julian. “You’re returning to Nonsuch today?”
Nonsuch Castle was the family seat of the Ormonde marquessate. As Somerton and Nonsuch were little more than five miles apart, it wasn’t much to ride between estates.
“Aye.” Julian popped one last chunk of bacon into his mouth. “I’ll see you soon, no doubt.”
“Safe journeys,” said Rake, already on the move. On any given day, he didn’t spend much time seated.
As he made his way through the house—which would’ve been better named palace or castle, given its grand scale—and toward the east wing that opened onto the stable side, Hannibal was on his mind.
Truly, what was he to do with the beast?
He’d purchased the horse at a Tattersall’s auction, having long heard tales of the blazing speed of the colt. And all had gone to plan until Rake had received the animal. Spirited, that had been a word used to describe him. A word that hadn’t put Rake off. Who didn’t want a Thoroughbred with a little spirit? He could only see it as a good quality.
Then other words began to be whispered. Foul tempered. That one came after Hannibal had bit two stable lads.
Still, Rake hadn’t been put off. The horse had only just been transferred to Somerton. He needed time to settle.
Then a week on, another word had begun making the rounds.
Unrideable.
Hannibal wouldn’t allow anyone to mount him.
That was a problem.
And, as Rake wasn’t a proponent of training methods that beat horses into submission, it was a sizeable one, at that.
However, Rake hadn’t bought Hannibal only to put him to stud. He’d had plans for the three-year-old this racing season. Plans that were very much in doubt, now.
Blast.
Hannibal had to have been mildly drugged at the sale. That was the only explanation for the sweet-tempered animal Rake had purchased last month.
Outside, the morning was soft with dew and the sun shone mellow morning orange through a stand of oaks, enlivening the air and light. His boots clicked sharply across the cobbles as he passed beneath the stable yard’s arched entrance, the clock tower striking half past seven. He nodded a good morning in the direction of the grooms and stable lads hustling to and fro with various morning tasks, and a stray thought wandered into his mind.
Had the lad from The Drunken Piebald arrived?
If so, Wilson would’ve already been putting the lad through his paces to see if he was up to snuff, for Rake only allowed lads possessed of a certain temperament into his stables. Calm. Patient. Steady. Sure.
Even if Rake himself didn’t exactly possess those qualities in abundance, anyone working with his horses did.
Still, he supposed it didn’t matter whether the lad had arrived or not. Somerton had close to thirty lads and grooms. What was one more lad?
Yet for some reason he couldn’t fathom, that lad had become stuck in his mind.
There had been a glint of something in his eyes. Determination and…something else.
Something that puzzled Rake.
Something he wanted to put his finger on and couldn’t quite…
Desperation.
That was the something else.
The lad had been desperate for a position at Somerton.
Which wasn’t too difficult to understand. Who wouldn’t rather be employed in a duke’s stable than that of The Drunken Piebald?
At Somerton, a future could be had for a lad possessed of a talented, sure hand with a horse—which the lad had certainly demonstrated with Moonraker.
Wilson fell into step beside Rake and immediately began updating him on the state of each and every horse in the stable—as he did each and every morning.
Consideration for a single, solitary stable lad was pushed aside as Rake sank into the comfortable familiarity and routine of his day.
Chapter Three
There was an art to mucking out a stall.
A fact most stable lads didn’t appreciate.
And, like most arts, it required patience and a method.
First, the horse had to be short racked to the side of the stall and given a bit of hay to keep him occupied. Then the dung and wet straw were skipped out before the remaining clean straw was stored below the manger so the bare planks could be properly swept. After a bucket of water was sloshed across the surface, fresh bedding was returned and banked against the stall walls. A bit of litter on the floor would encourage the horse to urinate—which would also be mucked out—and thusly was a stall made clean.
For the moment.
The process would be repeated in the evening.
And Gemma didn’t mind it one bit.
She loved the sights, sounds, and smells of a stable—especially one run as tightly as Somerton. Every horse had a stable lad assigned to him, and that lad’s sole job was to tend the needs of his horse from grooming, feeding, and watering to mucking out the stall and checking hooves for stones. In the course of a day, a single horse had myriad needs.
Mucking out was the only task the sharp-eyed, terse-tongued Wilson would entrust to her until he’d spoken directly with his master. If she proved her worth, she would be allowed in the same stall as Moonraker.
It was only right by Gemma’s way of thinking. Wilson wouldn’t yet know if the slight, lanky stable lad who tugged his hat low on his forehead and refused to meet his eye and called himself “Gem” knew a horse’s forelock from its tail.
Gemma estimated Somerton housed fifty horses between all the carriage, hacks, and hunters, with the Thoroughbreds being housed in an exclusive, separate wing. Spacious and airy, with its soaring, timbered ceilings and large, high windows that let in light fit for a cathedral, this stable’s glory must surely be unsurpassed in all England. Even the stall she was presently mucking out was larger than most, and it was only for a carriage horse. She could only imagine what the Thoroughbred stalls would be like—except they wouldn’t have been stalls, but rather boxes. She was sure of it.
Magnificent.
Like everything associated with the Duke of Rakesley, she was coming to understand.
Like the man himself.
“So, yer the new lad, I reckon?” came a voice. “Gem, is it?”