Gemma glanced around to find a groom leaning an indolent shoulder against a post and chewing a length of straw.
“Aye,” she grunted and busied herself with folding a blanket.
Here was her first genuine test of authenticity as Gem. She’d only met Rakesley in a dark stable, and Wilson had hardly glanced at her, but she’d be working with the grooms and lads all hours of the day. It was best to establish a hard-working, taciturn reputation from the outset.
“I’m Cal,” continued the groom. “Anything ye want to know, ye can ask me.”
Gemma nodded and grunted—as if there was any chance of that happening.
Then Cal was gone, and Gemma’s heart could slow.
The disguise was holding.
Of course, it had to have helped that she’d taken scissors to her hair last night. To be safe, she’d wanted to cut it an inch short all around her head, but Liam had protested so vociferously that, instead, she’d sheared it just above her shoulders, so she was able to wrangle the thick mass into a blunt queue at the nape of her neck.
Another tactic of evading close scrutiny had occurred to her on the two-mile walk to Somerton this morning. Dirt, liberally applied. So much dirt that any potentially curious pair of eyes would immediately glance away in distaste. To that end, she was considering not washing for her duration here.
Not a soul would suspect a woman beneath a slouch hat and dense layer of aggressive filth.
Her head canted at the sound of voices approaching. Not loud voices, but voices in mild conversation. Directives given with authority and accepted with deference. Rakesley and Wilson. Within the flash of a second, they strode purposefully past the stall. She supposed a man like Rakesley—a duke—wouldn’t know how to walk any other way.
But within that flash of a second, an occurrence happened. Rakesley’s head angled, and his bottomless gaze met hers for an instant.
An instant long enough to make the breath catch in her lungs.
Then, in a blink, he was gone, and Gemma could breathe again.
Intuitively, she understood it a mistake to meet that man’s gaze. And yet…
Somehow, she couldn’t not.
The duke’s gaze held a pull. It demanded to be acknowledged—and one stood powerless against the demand.
She gave her head an annoyed shake. What absolute rot. One couldn’t be powerless against a gaze.
She returned to her work, now focusing her efforts on the carriage horse himself. She picked up a hoof pick, and her mind wandered as she tended the horse’s hooves.
This work would do for now, providing enough information on the running of Somerton for a few missives to Deverill. But she had to finagle her way into the Thoroughbred wing. Only there would she find the information that would provide life-changing money for her and Liam.
A figure appeared in the periphery of her vision and planted itself in the gate’s opening. Before her mind could register the person’s identity, her body did. Her heart kicked into a full-tilt gallop, and her mouth went dry, as her gaze subtly slid over and confirmed the identity of the tall, imposing form.
The Duke of Rakesley.
Watching her at work.
Nay, not her.
Gem.
She would do well to remember that.
A few too many beats of silence loped past, and Gemma released the horse’s foot and straightened. He would see through layers of wool, cotton, and the linen that bound her chest, down to skin, and on through to bones and the very cells of her being.
A woman…not a Gem.
Eyes inscrutable, he opened his mouth and said, “Follow me.”
And he was gone.
Gemma blinked, and her breath released. The meaning behind his command at last penetrated, as her feet scrambled to catch him. Perhaps he’d seen through her disguise and meant to march her out of his stables and off his estate.
But if that were the case, they were marching in the wrong direction.
Nay. He was leading her down the center aisle and deeper into the stables, then across the cobbled stable yard, the clock tower bell striking nine o’clock.
It suddenly occurred to her where they were going.
To the Thoroughbred wing.
She tried not to gawk as they entered, but that proved impossible. She’d been mightily impressed by the carriage horse stable, but it was nothing to where the Thoroughbreds were housed. From the red-bricked floor stood polished oak partitions and stone columns that supported the vaulted ceiling. As she’d suspected, there were no stalls in this stable, but boxes, each larger than any of the London quarters she and Liam had shared this last year.
Well, the Duke of Rakesley’s Thoroughbreds would never suffer cramped quarters in all their indulged days.
Following the duke at a distance of ten or so feet, Gemma poked her head into each box. To a one, whether black, bay, or gray, the duke’s Thoroughbreds impressed. It was little wonder Deverill wanted information about the operation at Somerton. Gemma wasn’t sure even the royal stables were better outfitted.
Rakesley came to a stop before the last box in the row. Gemma sidled only near enough so she could poke her head around the gate post.
Several feet away, Wilson and Cal had positioned themselves to either side of a stunning black Thoroughbred who was shaking his head and stamping a front foot. From the sweat trailing down the men’s cheeks, they were having the devil of a time with this horse who easily stood sixteen hands tall.
“Hannibal,” said Rakesley, firm and direct.
The horse’s ears perked forward, and he went still, though his nostrils flared and his eyes showed white, as he assessed this new interloper.
“Can’t even get a curry comb on ’im to get the field muck off,” said Cal with a swipe of his brow.
Concern tinged with no small amount of anger flared through Gemma, and ill-considered, impetuous words were flying from her mouth. “What sort of operation are you running here? Clearly, this horse has been mistreated.”
The box went dead silent, Gem’s words settling into the air and making themselves uncomfortable. Wide-eyed and befuddled, Wilson and Cal stared at the new stable lad. Even Hannibal quieted.
Heat crept through Gemma, and she stifled a groan. That would be her flushing crimson from head to toe. The curse of the red of hair.
Why, oh, why had she spoken? She was here to keep her pert mouth shut, observe, and report back to Deverill. That was all. Now she was sure to lose a position she’d been lucky to get in the first place.
And Rakesley… The duke regarded her with a cocked eyebrow. “What is your name?” He didn’t seem particularly offended, rather mildly taken aback.
“Erm, Gem,” she said as gruffly as possible.
“Gem, this is Hannibal, and he’s a recent acquisition. It was only after he arrived at Somerton that we were able to apprehend the particularities of his nature,” he said. “No horse raised from birth at Somerton behaves so.”
This was a clear point of pride for the duke.
Gemma nodded, chastened, but her attention remained fixed on Hannibal. He was filled with fear and lashing out. This horse was suffering.
Instinctively, she stepped into the box.
“Watch yourself, lad,” said Wilson in a warning voice.
She held out her hand to Cal. “I’ll take that curry comb.”
Wilson opened his mouth again, and Rakesley gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. “I must caution you about approaching the beast.”