Page 42 of Win Me, My Lord (All’s Fair in Love and Racing #5)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

EVENING

A s the main course was served on this final evening of the Somerton house party—a delicious joint of venison with spiced mushrooms—Artemis settled back in her chair and observed, as she’d been doing for much of the meal, peering into others’ conversations without feeling obliged to contribute.

Across from her sat Liam Cassidy, who was now England’s most famous jockey, and who she realized with something of a start was a relation of hers by Rake’s marriage to Gemma.

To his left sat Beatrix, who had insisted he recount every moment of the Race of the Century.

No detail was too minute. Artemis had never met anyone with more knowledge of or interest in the sport of horse racing than Beatrix.

To Beatrix’s left sat her husband, who insisted on being called Dev, instead of Lord Devil.

Fair enough. Dev was attending to the conversation of the man across from him, the Duke of Acaster, who also was an investment partner in his steam engine business.

Further down the table sat Rake and Gemma, and the rest of the guests—Julian and Tessa; the Earl of Stoke; Celia, Acaster’s duchess; and Lady Gwyneth and Bran.

Bran.

Artemis had struggled throughout the meal to keep her eyes off him, as he’d sat diagonally down the table across from her.

How handsome he was in his evening blacks.

He’d mostly kept to himself through the meal. But that was his temperament. He was a man content to let others air their opinions and form his to himself in his own time.

Artemis found his measured approach—like everything about him—to be exceedingly attractive.

“I don’t know what Rake’s wife is thinking,” came a voice to Artemis’s left— Mother . “Couples should most definitely not be seated next to each other at a supper party.”

Mother was the only guest who wasn’t content. Though one wouldn’t know it to look at her cool exterior.

Artemis angled her head discreetly and pitched her voice low so it wouldn’t carry beyond them. “Gemma is still finding her way as a duchess, I suppose.”

Even after all these months, Mother still hadn’t called Gemma by her given name.

Mother gave an elegant shrug of the shoulder, as if indifferent—and anything but.

Typically, the guest of honor would be seated to the host’s right.

But this was Mother. The only place at the table she would be honored to take was, of course, the seat at its head with Rake at the opposite end.

This arrangement clearly suited Gemma’s preference, as she was able to sit next to her husband.

Which, now that Artemis thought about it, was the only reason Rake was assenting to Mother’s preference.

If Gemma had wanted it any other way, that was the way it would have been.

Artemis couldn’t help wondering if Mother understood that.

The precedent had always been that while Somerton was Rake’s house, when Mother was in residence, it was her rules.

That was the way it had always been, so one would naturally assume that was the way it would always be.

Yet …

Once Gemma gave birth to Rake’s first child in the coming months, Artemis suspected the rules would be changing. New rules that were more in line with the current duchess’s point of view than with the dowager duchess’s, which was only natural.

Mother was in no way prepared.

And though it was none of Artemis’s concern, she knew she would be the recipient of Mother’s thoughts on the matter.

Except that was no longer precisely true, was it? Now she had the animal sanctuary at the Grange. The old patterns of her life no longer applied, either, did they?

Unable not to, her gaze cut right beneath lowered lashes and found Bran.

Perhaps he was another new pattern in her life.

All you ever have to do is tell me what you want, Artemis.

No one had ever spoken such words to her.

But they were more than words, weren’t they?

They were a promise.

Her gaze fell and lingered where she rarely allowed it to—on the scar on his face.

That scar—and all the other ones accumulated on his body and in his mind—they were evidence of Bran’s valor, and also his steadiness. When this man made a promise, he kept it.

He’d promised to defend his country, and he had.

He’d promised to give her everything she wanted, and he …

She shied away from completing the thought.

She wasn’t sure she was worthy of it.

She followed the direction of his gaze to find him attending closely to what the Duke of Acaster was saying. The duke was presently holding the attention of the entire table—apart from Mother, who was issuing an edict to a footman—as he expounded on the financial future of horse racing.

“The Race of the Century proved something,” he said, the clear blue of his eyes measured. “Horse racing is no longer the Sport of Kings. The common people have just as large of an appetite for it. Not only to watch, but to participate.”

“A common laborer can’t own a Thoroughbred,” Rake pointed out. “The upkeep for one month alone would send a man to Marshalsea for the rest of his life.”

“But they can take part through betting,” said Lady Ormonde. As Acaster’s sister and part owner of The Archangel, she was well acquainted with the concept.

“Which has its limitations,” said Rake. “One still has to place a wager at the betting post on race day.”

“But what if one didn’t, though?” asked Acaster.

“If you don’t go to the race, then how can you see the horses and make an informed decision for one’s wager?”

Though Rake’s argument followed a solid line of reasoning, skepticism shone in Acaster’s eyes. “But what if a person in London purported to know the goings-on with all the horses and races in England?”

“Impossible,” scoffed Rake.

“You and I know that, but does the average man or woman?” Acaster didn’t wait for an answer. “So, this person goes around providing tips—for a fee, of course—and offering odds they are willing to lay.”

Rake snorted.

“I’ve heard them called tipsters,” said Acaster.

“Tricksters, the lot of them,” said Rake.

“I think they’re just getting started, too,” continued Acaster. “In a few decades, horse racing and betting will look nothing like it does now. Too much money swirls around the sport. The possibilities for profit and corruption are too great a temptation for a swindler to resist.”

Gemma cleared her throat, pointedly. All eyes swung her direction.

“Money is all well and good,” she said. “But lest we forget, those fortunes will be made and lost on the backs of the horses. What will be done to protect them?” Her cheeks grew flushed with fervor.

“Profit should never come at the cost of the animals who depend on us for their well-being. Otherwise, we lose our humanity.” She leaned forward to look down the table.

“Take my brother, for example. He doesn’t use crop or spur on the horses he rides. ”

Cassidy smiled in that genial way of his, but his hazel eyes held a seriousness. “I don’t.”

“And that’s just in one area of Thoroughbred care.” Now that Gemma had warmed to the subject, her gaze rounded on the guest seated to her right. “If you are to be Somerton’s trainer, I would like to hear your thoughts on this matter, Lord Branwell.”

Artemis leaned forward. She very much wanted to hear those thoughts, too.

“No one is going to curb the growing popularity of horse racing due to the treatment of the animals.” The words landed in the room with a heavy thud.

“But what can and should change is the care taken with the animals in their training.” He tapped the table for emphasis.

“My time in the cavalry taught me that the better an animal is treated, the happier the animal, which makes for a better relationship and more fruitful results.”

“But training can’t only be about results on the turf,” said Gemma. She wasn’t yet satisfied. “Those three minutes are nothing, really, in the whole of a horse’s lifetime.”

Bran nodded. “I happen to agree. There are certain training practices I would do away with. For example, the practice of allowing a horse to become gross, then reducing the weight through extreme measures like purging or placing a stove in the box and piling blankets on the horse’s back to produce sweating.

Such senseless practices only cause misery in the animal and have no place in any regimen I introduce. ”

Gemma nodded as he spoke, each word uttered putting her mind at ease.

Artemis found herself speaking up. “And there’s the health of the horses themselves that needs to be evaluated, too.”

Everyone at this table knew the story of Dido—many had witnessed it, in fact—and understood the importance of this, as well.

Mother, who had been silently observing the conversation from her usual remove, emitted a delicate sound that Artemis knew for a scoff. Her fingers tightened around her fork.

“Yet,” said Mother, “aren’t horses simply animals put on this earth to be of service to us?”

Her question was met with silence.

Her shoulder lifted along with an elegant hand. “And when they can no longer be of service to us …” She flicked her wrist, as if the subject held all the conversational weight of a gnat. “Then what use are they?”

It wasn’t mere silence that met this question.

The room had been struck dumb.

Callous.

That was the word that came to Artemis—a word she’d never once in her life associated with her mother. But she saw now, in retrospect, that Mother often voiced such observations— callous ones.

Rake cleared his throat. “I would like to thank everyone for joining Gemma and me at Somerton. As we shall be competitors for decades, it might be for the best that we’re friends, too.”

“Or,” said Julian, “friend ly , at least.”

This got a round of relieved laughter. The subject had— blessedly —been changed.

“Oh, Rake,” Artemis teased from her end of the table, “you’re only being gracious because your Hannibal won the Race of the Century. If he’d lost, this house party would’ve been canceled tout suite .”