Page 623 of From Rakes to Riches

She wasn’t even in England.

Or on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, for that matter.

“Not that he should be whipped,” said Julian, oblivious to the endless circle of Rake’s thoughts these last two weeks. “But Filthy Habit responds to a light tap of the crop at crucial moments. He can get distracted. It keeps his focus from drifting.”

As if to illustrate the point, Filthy Habit trotted past, his jockey in the process of cooling the animal down. He was a beautiful, well-built colt. Rake had no doubt he would be taking the Derby crown in a week’s time and giving Hannibal a run for his money come the end of September in the Race of the Century.

“I need to tell Smithwick to give him two more miles of cooldown,” Julian called over his shoulder as he hopped the fence.

Rake watched his friend recede into the distance and thought of Artemis, who wouldn’t be joining them at the Race of the Century. He still felt that loss keenly.

Unable to help himself, he’d sent a note to Endcliffe Grange a week ago, just to make sure she hadn’t been beset by highwaymen on the Great North Road. Yesterday, he’d received a terse three-word reply.

Leave me be.

He was to stay away. She couldn’t be any more clear.

Which was difficult to accept. His instinct was to try to fix the situation. But he understood control wasn’t what was needed. Artemis needed time. Time was the great healer.

Or some rot like that.

He hadn’t actually found it to be true for himself. Every day, it was a struggle for him not to book passage on a packet bound for America and scour every inch of New York until he found Gemma.

He would start with the stables.

A horse and jockey bolted past, catching Rake’s eye.

But what held it was a hazy sense of recognition.

He knew the horse—Good Sir Longshanks—but not the jockey. Yet there was something familiar about the lad. The way he sat the horse lightly. The flame of red-gold hair curling from beneath his cap.

It wasn’t Gemma, of course. This jockey was taller, lankier…a man.

Then he made a bend, and recognition streaked through Rake.

He was one of the two men Gemma had met at The Running Horse.

Not Deverill.

The other one.

Her brother.

Liam.

The sudden whirlwind of Rake’s mind unloosed a gossamer thread of logic. Liam washere, which could only mean that Gemma was…

His heart hammering against his ribs, Rake spun in a slow circle, taking in every inch of course and grounds. He wouldrecognize her in an instant, for he knew the lines and angles of her form better than he knew his own.

Nothing.

His brow creased into a deep furrow.

Liam was…here…

In England.

But…

---