Page 520 of From Rakes to Riches

And though the temptation had been strong to leg it to The Drunken Piebald, collect Liam, and flee Suffolk before hedidknow, she’d remained in the duke’s employ.

She had too much at stake.

Her future and Liam’s, in fact.

She couldn’t walk away from all the blunt on the line.

Her nerve must hold.

She had no choice.

Rakesley didn’t—couldn’t—know.

And he wouldn’t.

She would be doubly vigilant in her disguise as Gem—double the dirt, double the incomprehensibility of her mumbles, avoidance of all eye contact, hat slouched lower on her forehead.

And at the end of the next few weeks, she would be collecting £250.

A knock sounded on the door, startling Gemma so forcefully she nearly dumped her stew all over the bed. This was no discreet, muted tap that heralded the arrival of her meals. This was an insistent haranguing of oak.

“Gem,” shouted an impatient voice, adding to the cacophony.

Gemma scrambled off the bed, calling out, “One minute,” in as gruff a voice as she could muster at volume, grabbing trousers, boots, and coat, only remembering to jam her slouch hat onto her head just before she jerked open the door. “Is it Hannibal?” she demanded, heart racing, gut churning.

Cal shook his head. “The duke’s favorite hunter, Flicka, is foalin’ early, and the mite is comin’ out all funny. Flicka is a right mess—all wild-eyed and scared, and ye’ve got yer way with horses and all…”

Gemma’s brow gathered. Something wasn’t adding up. “Did Wilson send for me?”

“He’s in Newmarket for the night.”

“And the animal surgeon?”

“He’s been sent for.”

Thank goodness for small blessings. “And the duke?”

“Erm…” Cal shuffled on his feet.

Gemma knew evasion when she saw it. “The duke’s favorite hunter is foaling. He needs to be notified, or it’ll be you getting the sack.”

Cal glanced up at Gemma—a little resentful, a little awed. “Ye’ve really taken to yer new place in the world, haven’t ye, Gem?”

Gemma only just didn’t snort. No doubt she’d just been called uppity.

“Notify the duke, and I’ll see to Flicka,” she said, brushing past Cal and taking the stairs two at a time. “And don’t dawdle,” she called over her shoulder.

“Aye,” said Cal as he descended the stairs behind her. Gemma detected a distinct lack of appetite for the task.

No one wanted to deliver bad news to a duke.

But it wasn’t Rakesley who concerned her. A mare and her foal were in trouble. She wasn’t sure what she could do for them—she wasn’t an animal surgeon, after all—but she could provide comfort and support.

There was no place she would rather be.

She suspected Rakesley would feel exactly the same.

She wasn’t certain how she knew this about him.

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