Page 16 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER TEN

DONCASTER RACECOURSE, YORKSHIRE, TWO WEEKS LATER

T his wasn’t a day one would characterize as a beautiful day at the races.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Cold, drizzly, and muddy, it was the worst sort of day for a race—or the best.

It depended on whom one asked.

Many a stalwart Thoroughbred wilted beneath a heavy, wet blanket of clouds. Years of training flew out the window simply because the horse was more temperamentally suited for sunshine and blue skies. They had no wish to soil their sensitive, well-bred hooves with muck.

Then there were the mudders—horses who took to and excelled in the slosh and slop.

Mudders thrived in the mess.

A metaphor for life, when one considered it, and perhaps that was why for the thousands of spectators lining Doncaster’s white railing and circulating about the grandstand and laying their wagers on the St. Leger Stakes at the betting post, this was the best sort of day for a horse race.

One got to see what more than the best-bred and the best-trained these creatures were.

On a day like today, a Thoroughbred colt or filly revealed their spirit.

Already seated in Rake’s viewing box, Artemis gathered within herself. She was known either by association or reputation by every member of the haut ton presently enjoying a day at the races; therefore, she was observed.

The fact was, behind her impersonal smile, she had a too-much feeling rioting through her veins.

Everything felt too much—the atmosphere …

the people … their gaiety … their sumptuous clothes …

their extravagant jewels. Really, she wished nothing more than to be back at Endcliffe Grange, tending Master Goat’s oozing hoof or inspecting the hedgehog trail for Mrs. Hopper.

Instead, she was at Doncaster, waiting.

Not just waiting, she supposed. There was the grudging bit of socializing, for every lord and lady present possessed an insatiable curiosity regarding the scandalous Duke and Duchess of Rakesley.

Artemis supposed she couldn’t begrudge them that.

After all, her new sister-in-law had been her brother’s jockey—she’d even ridden Hannibal to victory in the Two Thousand Guineas—then he’d eloped with her to Gretna Green.

By any measure, it was a delicious bit of tattle.

Artemis was certain there were those lords and ladies who would have loved nothing more than to deliver the cut direct to Gemma for being such an upstart hussy, but the fact remained Gemma was wife to one of the wealthiest and most powerful dukes in England, making her one of its wealthiest and most powerful duchesses by extension.

Adding to that power was the obvious—Gemma was carrying the Duke of Rakesley’s heir.

In theory, Artemis supposed Gemma could give birth to a daughter, but if she’d been allowed access to the White’s betting book, she would lay odds at 1,000 to 1 that Rake’s firstborn would be a son.

Anyway, it would be better to get the primogeniture bit settled right away, then Rake and Gemma could have all the girls they wished for.

Artemis leaned forward and rested her elbows on the balcony railing, her gaze fixed on the racecourse below.

The Thoroughbreds who had completed the weigh-in were walking onto the track, their bright silks undiminished by the mist that was beginning to accumulate into a light rain.

She offered a quick prayer to the racing gods that there would be no false starts today, as the race conditions were quickly deteriorating.

Within the hour, the course would be swallowed by a cloak of fog.

She unclenched her hands, but it did nothing to soothe this ‘too-much’ feeling.

“You can leave, you know.”

She startled around to find Gemma already seated beside her. The sympathy in her sister-in-law’s hazel eyes nearly undid her. She swallowed and said, “I would rather stay.”

An intention that was both truth and lie.

She wouldn’t rather stay—but she would stay.

A touchy distinction.

Gemma tapped her silk fan open.

Artemis’s brow crinkled with sudden concern. “Are you too warm?”

“Oh, there’s no cause for alarm, I can assure you.” As Gemma fanned herself, she ran her free hand across her rounded belly. “It’s this pregnancy business. Sometimes, I get incredibly hot.”

In truth, though Artemis had known Gemma was with child, as she hadn’t seen her sister-in-law in months, she’d been utterly unprepared for the visual evidence of the pregnancy. “Have you been feeling very sick?”

The question, however, proved unnecessary. Gemma glowed from within as she smiled and continued rubbing her belly. “I have never felt better in my life. I love being with child.”

Even as a complicated pang struck through Artemis— of joy … of envy … of loss —she smiled. Gemma’s happiness was that infectious—infectious enough to cut through those jumbled feelings Artemis kept deeply buried, for they were linked to a past that was too far gone to matter anymore.

At least, that was what she’d thought until a few weeks ago.

She reached for Gemma’s hand. “I’m so happy for you and Rake, and I can’t wait to meet my nephew. But be warned—I shall commence with spoiling him to bits with immediate effect.”

“You could have a niece, you know,” countered Gemma, her hazel eyes sparkling.

Artemis shook her head on a dry laugh. “Oh no, Rake’s firstborn will be a boy. I’m fairly certain the gods will it so.”

Gemma smiled in a way that was entirely inscrutable. A deep, interior certainty that only she knew—one shared solely with her unborn child.

“How is the animal sanctuary progressing at the Grange?”

Artemis smiled. “We have a goat now.”

“Oh, dear.” Gemma giggled. “They can be challenging.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Gemma squeezed Artemis’s hand. “But you wouldn’t change a thing.”

“I wouldn’t.”

And it was true.

The animal sanctuary hadn’t changed her, but rather it had provided sustenance to a seed that had always been inside her—a deep care for animals—and allowed it to grow.

On the other side of Gemma, Rake lowered into the chair. Near-black eyes glittering with anticipation, he sat forward to address Artemis. “The weigh-in finished up?”

That was Rake—never one for chit-chat.

“Almost.”

The three of them turned their attention toward the racecourse, where the horses and jockeys in their colorful array of silks had begun assembling at the line.

Gemma’s gaze narrowed. “No winners from the season that I can see.” Lest one forget, Rake’s wife was as horse-mad as he.

“It’s the blasted Race of the Century,” groused Rake. “No one is going for the Triple Crown this year. Too big of a risk.” He snorted and shook his head. “A silly name for a race, anyway.”

Artemis nodded with agreement. “The year is only eighteen twenty-two,” she said, dryly. “An optimistic point of view, to say the least.”

“Eclipse has been dead and gone these last thirty-odd years,” observed Gemma, “and, to this day, he’s still considered the best ever to run.”

Rake shot Artemis a quick, conspiratorial smile, even as they conceded Gemma’s correctness. Eclipse first and the rest nowhere. Wasn’t the saying still repeated today?

“There might not be any of the season’s winners,” said Rake, “but the rest of the field is certainly here in force.”

Rake was correct. Jostling for position at the line were a few horses Artemis recognized. Good Bottom had had a disappointing season, as had Squirrel and Old Bugger, who was shouldering into the center.

Rake sat forward and pointed, his gaze fixed on a specific horse and jockey. “Who is that ?”

One couldn’t mistake the subject of his query.

Most racing silks were designed with two contrasting colors in patterns of stripes or polka dots.

But the silks of this duo defied the usual.

Set against a field of white silk was a pattern of multi-colored fleur-de-lis —yellow, orange, red, purple, blue, and green.

The effect was bold and garish and, most importantly, reflective of its owner, who, though absent, was making his presence felt.

A smile tickled about Artemis’s mouth. “That is Radish.”

Rake’s brow furrowed. “From Sir Abstrupus’s stable?”

“Aye.”

“He looks more formidable than I’ve been led to believe.”

Led to believe … Artemis’s head whipped around. “Brother, do you have a spy in Sir Abstrupus’s stable?”

Rake lifted an unconcerned shoulder. “It’s a common practice, expected even.”

“That would be a yes ,” supplied Gemma.

Rake smiled at his wife. “Cheeky woman.” His attention returned to Artemis, once again all seriousness. “Is Sir Abstrupus here?”

“Your spy didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Sir Abstrupus doesn’t leave the Roost.”

“ Ever? ” asked Gemma.

“Ever.”

Rake nodded slowly. “You’ve seen Radish run?”

“Aye.”

“And?”

“Am I to be your spy now?”

Rake lifted a single black eyebrow. “ Artemis .”

She was being a difficult little sister, that Artemis said.

“He’s fast and focused,” she provided. “He works for every inch of ground and likes it that way.”

“Stubborn?”

“Aye.”

“A mudder?”

She nodded. “As if born to it. He could put on a show today.”

“ But? ”

He would have heard the hesitation in her voice.

“He’s never run a single race.”

Gemma’s brow lifted with surprise. “Never been tested against a field?”

Artemis shook her head. “No.”

Immediately, she realized something—she was withholding information.

Lord Branwell Mallory was Radish’s trainer.

Of course, if Rake asked, she would provide him that information, but for some reason she was unable to volunteer it.

Radish would prevail today.

She felt it in her gut.

But then, when it came to horses, her gut had been wrong in the not-so-distant past—deadly wrong.

She couldn’t trust her gut.

Hadn’t the past tried to teach her that lesson time and time again?

And it wasn’t only Dido.

It was Bran, too.

Hadn’t her gut once been wrong about him, as well?