Page 488 of From Rakes to Riches

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There was an art to mucking out a stall.

A fact most stable lads didn’t appreciate.

And, like most arts, it required patience and a method.

First, the horse had to be short racked to the side of the stall and given a bit of hay to keep him occupied. Then the dung and wet straw were skipped out before the remaining clean straw was stored below the manger so the bare planks could be properly swept. After a bucket of water was sloshed across the surface, fresh bedding was returned and banked against the stall walls. A bit of litter on the floor would encourage the horse to urinate—which would also be mucked out—and thusly was a stall made clean.

For the moment.

The process would be repeated in the evening.

And Gemma didn’t mind it one bit.

She loved the sights, sounds, and smells of a stable—especially one run as tightly as Somerton. Every horse had a stable lad assigned to him, and that lad’s sole job was to tend the needs of his horse from grooming, feeding, and watering tomucking out the stall and checking hooves for stones. In the course of a day, a single horse had myriad needs.

Mucking out was the only task the sharp-eyed, terse-tongued Wilson would entrust to her until he’d spoken directly with his master. If she proved her worth, she would be allowed in the same stall as Moonraker.

It was only right by Gemma’s way of thinking. Wilson wouldn’t yet know if the slight, lanky stable lad who tugged his hat low on his forehead and refused to meet his eye and called himself “Gem” knew a horse’s forelock from its tail.

Gemma estimated Somerton housed fifty horses between all the carriage, hacks, and hunters, with the Thoroughbreds being housed in an exclusive, separate wing. Spacious and airy, with its soaring, timbered ceilings and large, high windows that let in light fit for a cathedral, this stable’s glory must surely be unsurpassed in all England. Even the stall she was presently mucking out was larger than most, and it was only for a carriage horse. She could only imagine what the Thoroughbred stalls would be like—except they wouldn’t have been stalls, but rather boxes. She was sure of it.

Magnificent.

Like everything associated with the Duke of Rakesley, she was coming to understand.

Like the man himself.

“So, yer the new lad, I reckon?” came a voice. “Gem, is it?”

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—aduke—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.

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