Page 511 of From Rakes to Riches

That was all horse racing was, really—a game.

And the duke could stand to lose every once in a while.

She’d provided information about the track itself—the marked-out furlongs, the maintenance of it—but she’d left out information about Hannibal and the ride. It felt oddly personal, and she wanted to keep it for herself—though she would soon have to reveal that Hannibal was now rideable.

And thatshewas riding him.

That particular truth could wait for the next letter.

And Rakesley?Liam’s question echoed in her mind.

A strange relief pulsed through her. She hadn’t yet had to discuss Rakesley. The duke was easy enough to omit from her letters to Deverill, but it would present more difficulty with Liam. She would open her mouth and surely stumble on her words, and Liam would know.

Notknowknow, but hear enough hesitation and know something was amiss.

But…was there anything toknow? Was anything really amiss?

She wrestled with the question.

The short answer wasno. She was solidly embedded in the Somerton stables, both groom and jockey for Hannibal—the only person who could handle him, in fact—and she would be riding him in the Two Thousand Guineas.

The simple fact was things were better thannotamiss.

And yet… Something was setting her nerves ajangle.

Something in the way Rakesley looked at her…

Nay, not looked at her.

Observedher, more like, as if watching her from a distance and taking measure—like one would with a dodgy piece of horseflesh.

And he kept those observations to himself.

Still, she’d caught a tell in his dark, inscrutable eyes. A glimmer of light…the light of interest.

Did he somehow…know?

Could he know she was not a Gem…

But a Gemma?

Impossible.

He would’ve dismissed her on the spot.

She needed to hold on to her nerve. Only a few weeks remained until the Two Thousand Guineas, and then she and Liam would have enough blunt to stop running and begin again with a new life.

Gemma’s boots crunched across the gravel at a light jog as she passed beneath the clock tower that hadn’t yet struck seven. The stable yard was empty of grooms and lads, and a blessed feeling of relief soared through her. Her absence hadn’t been discovered.

“Gem,” sounded an authoritative voice at her back.

Startled, she whipped around, her heart banging out a hardthudagainst her ribs. Wilson strode toward her, his mouth compressed in its usual down-to-business line, a question in his eyes. He was wondering where she’d been this early in the morning. Gemma braced herself for the question.

“His Grace wants a word with you,” he said, instead, leaving the question unasked.

But that didn’t mean he hadn’t stored it away for the future.

Gemma’s stomach flipped over and dread stole in. She gave a tight nod and made for Hannibal’s box, braced for the inevitable—Rakesley was about to call her out for the woman she was and give her the sack.

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