Page 502 of From Rakes to Riches

From the hunted look in Gem’s eyes, one would think he was being forced to strip down and run around the racecourse naked.

“Whydo you need my coat?” asked the lad, eyes slitted with distrust.

Perhaps a duke had once made off with a moth-riddled, flea-bitten coat of his?

“It’s too loose,” said Rake, entirely logical.

He was only right.

“Too loose?” Gem’s left eyebrow lifted in skepticism. He wasn’t having it.

“On race day,” Rake began as if he had all the patience in the world, “your clothes will be more fitted.”

The color drained from the lad’s face. “Morefitted?”

“When you’re wearing my livery.” A thought occurred to him, and Rake turned toward Wilson. “Procure more suitable clothing for the lad. I can hardly have my jockey looking like a ragamuffin.”

Wilson nodded with approval. “Aye, Your Grace.”

Gem ground his back teeth, eyes dark with mutiny.

While Rake was at it… “And a wash-up wouldn’t do you any harm either.”

Few possessed the temerity to deny the Duke of Rakesley what he wanted. But, Rake suspected, this lad might’ve been one of those few as several beats of time ticked past, and Gem stood unmoving.

Then came a fractional movement of one shoulder, followed by the other, and the coat was sliding down the lad’s arms and off. He shoved the garment toward Rake, who didn’t feel as much satisfaction in the victory as he’d thought he would.

Instead, it was surprise that traced through him. He’d taken the lad to be slight of form, but now he could see the coat had comprised nearly half the mass of his person.

The lad slid a sure foot into a stirrup and mounted Hannibal in a few sure, experienced movements. Even though he hadn’t won their silent war of wills regarding the coat, the lad appeared entirely too satisfied to be looking down upon Rake from a lofty perch.

Wilson gave Hannibal’s hooves a quick inspection for small stones and loose rocks. Satisfied, he squinted up at Gem, for the sun had decided to make an appearance. “You got your instructions?”

“A lap at a trot, then a canter for four furlongs, then a proper gallop for eight,” said the lad, repeating his orders back to Wilson.

“Then ease him back down to canter and trot.”

Gem nodded, and, again, the question struck Rake—How?

How had a stable lad from The Drunken Piebald come into possession of horseracing knowledge?

A mystery circled this lad, and Rake couldn’t help wanting to solve it.

He tossed Gem’s coat over the fence rail and held out his hand. “And your hat.”

He was testing Gem, but he wanted to see how far he could push the lad.

“My hat will be staying on my head,” he retorted, firm.

“With Hannibal at full gallop?” Rake snorted. “Doubtful.”

Still, he shrugged and let the matter drop. A surely louse-laden hat was hardly worth arguing over.

Gem looked to Wilson. “If that will be all?”

Wilson looked to Rake, who nodded. Wilson then gave his answer. “Aye.”

His head groom understood the proper pecking order, even if Gem chose to ignore it. Jockeys were the known divas of the racing world, and Gem was proving no exception.

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