“He isn’t a beast,” returned Gemma. “He’s a horse in pain.”
“In the weeks we’ve had him, he’s only let me near,” said Rakesley without a return of emotion. “Which is the problem.”
“Why is that a problem beyond the obvious one that he’s in crisis?” Gemma asked without thinking.
She was the by-blow of an earl, not a true daughter—not a lady. She didn’t have the right to be questioning a duke.
And yet this duke didn’t appear to mind.
Stables had a way of rendering all on a somewhat equal plane.
“Because I intend to race him.”
Gemma took another small step forward and left that fact in the back of her mind for future reference. For now, her concern lay with this animal—Hannibal—who showed no damage of the body, but rather of the mind.
Of the two, it was the latter wound that could be more debilitating. She’d seen it many times in various stables and racecourses around London.
She made a shushing sound as she approached, slow and careful, her hands held respectfully open before her. “See?” she said low. “Nothing to fear here.”
Warily, Hannibal allowed her into his space until she was close enough to reach out and lay a hand on his withers. But she didn’t—not yet. “What was done to you, my friend?”
She always addressed horses as her friends. They could sense her sincerity and respect. They knew her as a friend.
She slipped the curry comb into a pocket. She wouldn’t use it now. Her only goal for the moment was for Hannibal to allow her to rest her hand on him. That was the place to start. Perhaps in his entire life no one had ever laid a kind or comforting hand on this animal. He needed to know he was safe.
Calmly, she stood inches from him, whispering bits of nothing, until he angled his head toward her. Gemma went still. The moment could go either way. He could bite her shoulder and let her know he wasn’t having it—or he could nudge her arm, let her know what she was doing was all right.
Which was what he did.
Gently, she placed her palm on the strong bend of his neck, feeling the heat and banked strength through his glistening ebony coat, allowing a connection to form between them at this single point of contact. Her hand moved, slowly stroking along the muscular curve. “In your chest beats a good, brave heart, doesn’t it, my friend?”
She felt the last bit of tension ease from Hannibal and took the comb from her pocket. She placed it on his withers, lightly swiping it across his coat, which would be lustrous once she finished grooming him—if he allowed her to groom him.
All eyes, silent and observant, watched her finish currying and take the whisp to remove the dust raised by the curry comb. Then it was on to brush and linen cloth. It was a lengthy process, but everyone understood the necessity that every step was followed. This was the first step toward Hannibal being healed. The other men in this box might not see it that way, but Gemma did.
“This fellow could win a host of races,” she said, finishing up with his mane. “What a glory he is.”
“Aye,” agreed Rakesley. “But first, he has to let someone ride him.”
Ah.
And there it was.
Rakesley saw Hannibal as a three-year-old colt whose best season was only months away. He saw him purely as an investment—and one that might not pay off.
Gemma didn’t know this man beyond the few words they’d exchanged, but she understood it would be an embarrassing failure if he couldn’t get Hannibal to perform.
And, like that, she had information to pass on to Deverill.
As if on cue, a compact man who looked entirely composed of dense muscle and who could only be the jockey intended for Hannibal swaggered into the box. He had the calm, but nervy, way about him particular to all jockeys.
The problem was that the instant Hannibal saw the man, he tensed. Gemma seemed to be the only one who noticed as the men greeted one another.
Wilson spared a glance for Gemma. “That will be all, erm—” His gaze searched the rafters as if he would find her name there.
“Gem,” she supplied.
“Cal, take Gem over to—”
“Gem stays here,” said Rakesley.
Everyone stopped. It would’ve been comical had not all gazes shifted and landed directly upon Gemma. Hers found her feet, her heart in her throat, as she willed the men to look somewhere—anywhere—else.
“Assign the lad to Hannibal’s box. He clearly has a way with the animal.” The duke looked in higher spirits than she’d yet seen him.
Wilson nodded. “You heard His Grace,” he said to the side of Gemma’s face. “You can muck out while they take Hannibal out for his paces.”
Gemma gave an incoherent grumble and stood aside. These men acted as if she’d solved the problem of Hannibal, and she understood it didn’t work thusly.
From beneath the brim of her slouch hat, she watched the inevitable disaster unfold as Cal attempted to place a saddle onto Hannibal’s back. For his reward, he got a nip on the shoulder.
With a shake of the head, Gemma slipped out to the tool room to fetch a shovel. From what she’d observed, Rakesley ran a peaceable stable, so he wasn’t accustomed to this type of Thoroughbred. Gemma, on the other hand, had seen plenty around various stables and racecourses over the last year. Sellers gave them mild sedatives for showing, just enough to fool potential buyers into thinking the animal possessed of a good temperament, which couldn’t be further from the truth. By the time the new owner discovered this fact, it was his problem.
Gemma certainly had something to report in her first missive to Deverill. Rakesley intended to make a run at the Race of the Century—with an unrideable horse.
And yet…
While she was at Somerton, Gemma knew she wouldn’t be able to let Hannibal go. In fact, she was already working out a plan of attack and woo.
A good wooing of an irascible horse began with a lump of sugar.
Chapter Four
A week later
It was just this side of sunrise, and the world was still and quiet in the fading gray of pre-dawn air, when Gemma took Hannibal’s reins in hand and led him from his box.
As she had for the last five mornings.
The only sound was the clatter of shod hooves echoing down the red-brick aisle as she led him out of the stable and into the south paddock. Somerton had a few paddocks, but she’d chosen this one for a very good reason.
It couldn’t be viewed from the manor house.
No dukely eyes would look out of one of the hundred or so windows and happen upon her stealing time with the estate’s prize colt.
Actually, Hannibal wasn’t yet viewed thusly, but he would be.
Gemma was determined.
One person, however, had noticed what she’d been doing every morning—Wilson. Like her, the man was an early riser, and he’d seen her returning Hannibal to his box three days ago—the day the colt had allowed her to place a saddle on his back. Wilson would’ve noted it, and she suspected that was why he was permitting her to proceed. A saddle on Hannibal’s back was the right sort of progress. It spoke to the trust she’d built with the animal.
And today she would earn more.
Today was the day she would mount this splendid Thoroughbred. Not in conquest. That was where so many owners and jockeys got it wrong. They wanted to break and conquer the animal to get it to do their bidding. But that sort of brutish handling wasn’t only unnecessary; it ran counter to what they were attempting to achieve.