Page 599 of From Rakes to Riches

Now to convince her of it.

Nay, not now.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he would have everything he’d ever wanted.

22

NEXT DAY

Race day at Newmarket dawned perfect—the bluebird sky cloudless, not a whisper of breeze in the air.

It was the sort of day that all but guaranteed a flawless run.

Gemma ran the brush along Hannibal’s shiny black coat and held that last thought in reserve, lest she get ahead of herself and transfer the feeling to him.

Which wouldn’t do.

He needed calm.

Though this wasn’t a usual day in his usual box at Somerton, she’d done all she could to keep to his usual routines at the usual times. It was as important for her as it was for Hannibal.

Nerves pulled and strummed through her body at a high vibration—anxiety, fear, excitement, and anticipation all having their way with her.

But she was Hannibal’s jockey.

She was the one in control.

She must hold tight.

Today, she even looked like a jockey. Gone were Gem’s dirt-encrusted clothes and slouch hat. In their place shone Rake’scolors of spring green and midnight blue, the striped silk shirt pressed and sharp, matching silk cap, and gray riding breeches perfectly fitted. Hair tied back in a tight queue, she was clean and presentable.

Anyone who looked at Gem closely enough today would easily be able to see Gemma.

She didn’t give a toss. She was no longer Deverill’s spy, and today was her first and final professional race as a jockey.

She smoothed her palm along Hannibal’s velvety nose and brought her forehead to touch his. Together, they would go one for one.

Not long from now, they would be at the starting line, bodies packed in…the sweat, the determination, the panic, the elation…the gun would sound…

And they would be off to their destinies.

The blood charged hard through her veins at the very thought.

A head poked into the stall. “Everything as it should be?” asked Wilson, the twitch of one eye giving his anxiety away.

Gemma nodded. “Any trouble last night?” She couldn’t help asking.

He snorted. “Not a whiff of it.” His knife was out of view, which didn’t mean it wasn’t near at hand. Horses, money, and trouble made familiar bedfellows, and Wilson was having none of it.

And Wilson was off. He understood not to break into Gemma’s routine with Hannibal. Wilson wasn’t the most likeable fellow, but Gemma respected him. He ran a fine stable.

One she would never see again.

A pang of regret for something she hadn’t quite yet lost sliced through her.

A slight figure passed the open gate and gave a playful salute.Cal.Though she’d only seen him for the split of a second, hiseyes shone bright with the energy of Newmarket on race day. One couldn’t help being infected by it. She would miss him, as well.

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