Page 573 of From Rakes to Riches

A long-suffering sigh poured from the duchess. “Not that I’ve been made aware of. Really, I’ve stopped bothering with checking. Rumors, of course, persist, but nothing of substance. The Crown will give it another six years before they either find someone else or allow the title to go extinct.” She shrugged an ivory shoulder. “In the meantime, I shall carry on as dowager duchess.” Her gaze met Rake’s. “Anyway, the main thing is the horses in the duke’s stables are mine outright. Acaster left them to me in his will.”

A fact she reminded Rake of at every opportunity—and that she was, objectively, the perfect match for him.

And the woman to his right, trying to decide which spoon to use for her soup… She wasn’t.

He slid his hand over and discreetly tapped the outer spoon.

“Speaking of horses, Celia,” said Artemis, angling back in her chair to allow the footman to take her empty soup bowl. “Your Light Skirt is a sweet goer, if I ever saw one.”

“Isn’t she just?” Celia allowed the fish course to be placed before her.

“She’ll take the One Thousand Guineas,” said Artemis with her usual certainty. She sliced into her fillet of trout. “Mark my words.”

Rake dragged his attention away from Gemma, who’d taken a bite of the trout and was chewing the fish slowly as if savoring it flavor by individual flavor. The woman appreciated good food. “Artemis,” he said, “you should enter Dido in the One Thousand.”

As expected, she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “I suppose I can’t blame you for trying, brother,” she scoffed. “I’ve no doubt she could take the One Thousand Guineas?—”

“She could try,” inserted Celia. “But with all due respect, she would have to get past my Light Skirt—and that won’t be easy.”

“Of course,” Artemis allowed, like the good sporting woman she was. “But it’s my Dido who will be besting Hannibal and taking the Two Thousand in one week’s time.” She held up her wineglass, cheekily toasted Rake, and downed the contents in one go.

“Are you trying for a place in the Race of the Century, duchess?” asked Julian.

Rake noted Gemma had moved forward in her seat, food forgotten. She was watching the conversation with the keen awareness of a competitor taking the measure of her rivals. Perhaps a useful morsel of information would escape that would give her an edge.

Celia gave the room her bright laugh intended to charm all it met. “Aren’t we all?”

“I still say it’s a ridiculous name for the race,” said Artemis. “The century isn’t even?—”

“Half over yet,” Rake finished for her, pulling a chuckle from Julian.

“Well,” Artemis sniffed, “it isn’t.”

“Any word yet on the mysterious investors?” asked Julian with an off-hand smile.

All eyes shifted toward Lady Beatrix, who moved forward ever so slightly, eyes brimming with knowledge. “Rumors abound, of course,” said the lady. “But I have it on good authority that the Duke of Richmond is one investor, and the other is…” Her mouth curled into a smile—the sort of smile comfortable with making a room hang on her words.

“Beatrix!” exclaimed Artemis, utterly put out with her friend.

“Gabriel Siren,” relented Lady Beatrix, at last.

Artemis’s eyebrows crinkled. “Who?”

“Owner of the Archangel,” supplied Julian.

“TheArchangel?” asked Artemis, no more enlightened than she’d been before.

“How would you describe the Archangel, Rake?” asked Julian. “It’s not really a gaming hell.”

“It’s where those with money go to make more money,” said Rake.

The duchess laughed. “Oh, is that all?”

“And this Gabriel Siren,” said Artemis. “Who is he?”

“A young buck who only left Cambridge a few years ago, well behind Julian and me.”

During the conversation, Rake felt Gemma beside him, attentive, taking it all in, forming her own impressions of the revelations and those who spoke them.

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