Page 498 of From Rakes to Riches

The track came into view, and she felt Hannibal ever so subtly tug at the bit. He was a three-year-old Thoroughbred entering his prime, and he wanted to run.

She wanted him to run too.

She wanted him to prove himself—to prove his worth to Rakesley.

And for that to happen, she needed to be at her best.

Toward that end, she’d snuck off to visit Liam last night at The Drunken Piebald. As usual, her brother had made the best of a bad circumstance, beginning with having wrapped one of the inn’s scullery maids around his little finger, using the charm inherited from their Irish mother.

Charm that Gemma envied, for she possessed not a bit of it. Generally, people met her eye and saw not a twinkle but a resolute seriousness. They usually glanced away immediately.

“Talk me through tomorrow’s ride,” she’d said to Liam as the door clicked shut behind her.

“And a good evening to you, sister,” he returned lightly.

She pulled the room’s only chair close to the bed, perched on its edge, and waited.

Liam’s smile fell away, and he considered her. “You’ve seen me do it hundreds of times on the courses, Gemma,” he said. “You know what to do.”

The doubts she’d been suppressing came tumbling out. “I know how to ride, aye, but I’ve never done it like this.” What she knew about riding and racing could comprise a large entry in the encyclopedia, but she’d never put the racing part into practice. “Not like what will be expected of me tomorrow.”

“You’ll be a natural out there.” He grew serious. “You won’t be using a crop?”

Gemma shook her head. “Of course not. You know they’re not necessary when a horse wants to run.”

Liam nodded, slowly. “Aye, but some owners want to see them for the show. The spectacle of it. You know that.”

“No crop,” she repeated. “I won’t be riding the set-to with crop and spur. Hannibal wants to run.”

“You’ll be riding the Chifney style?”

“As you do,” she reminded him.

“And you’re comfortable with a simple snaffle and slack rein?” Liam canted his head. “You trust Hannibal?”

Gemma swallowed any lingering doubt. “I’m confident in him.”

“And the rush at the end?”

The rush was the key to the Chifney riding style. To play a waiting game until the last furlong, then let the horse have his head at the finish. It was called the Chifney Rush, and it required patience and strategy.

“Hannibal is big and strong,” she said. “I think he’ll have it in him to be a goer at the end.”

Liam went as somber as Gemma ever saw him. “But you’re small, sister. It’s one thing to win a race from the lead, but a whole other thing to spend the race in the pack and make a break at the end. It’s not only patience and strategy. It requires strength and a large dollop of meanness. You’ll spend most of the race muscling for your place.”

Gemma understood that, but she couldn’t see any other way to ride and do right by Hannibal. She had to try. “Well, tomorrow isn’t the race.”

“Start him slow,” said Liam. “Allow him to work his way into the run. This will show him to his best advantage. Tell Rakesley you won’t be testing starts but getting a feel for Hannibal’s action.”

Gemma’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling, incredulous. “Me telling the Duke of Rakesley what to do?” She snorted.Not bloody likely.

Liam cocked his head. “That’s how jockeys talk to owners. Most of them need to be told, because they don’t rightly know one end of a horse from the other.”

“Not this owner.”

Liam didn’t blink. “You must establish it from the start, Gemma.”

She’d nodded her acceptance of the advice, while a part of her stood back in skepticism.

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