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“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 namedpalaceorcastle, 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.Determinationand…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 beendesperatefor 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.