She followed the direction of his gaze to find him attending closely to what the Duke of Acaster was saying. The duke was presently holding the attention of the entire table—apart from Mother, who was issuing an edict to a footman—as he expounded on the financial future of horse racing.
“The Race of the Century proved something,” he said, the clear blue of his eyes measured. “Horse racing is no longer the Sport of Kings. The common people have just as large of an appetite for it. Not only to watch, but to participate.”
“A common laborer can’t own a Thoroughbred,” Rake pointed out. “The upkeep for one month alone would send a man to Marshalsea for the rest of his life.”
“But they can take part through betting,” said Lady Ormonde. As Acaster’s sister and part owner of The Archangel, she was well acquainted with the concept.
“Which has its limitations,” said Rake. “One still has to place a wager at the betting post on race day.”
“But what if one didn’t, though?” asked Acaster.
“If you don’t go to the race, then how can you see the horses and make an informed decision for one’s wager?”
Though Rake’s argument followed a solid line of reasoning, skepticism shone in Acaster’s eyes. “But what if a person in London purported to know the goings-on with all the horses and races in England?”
“Impossible,” scoffed Rake.
“You and I know that, but does the average man or woman?” Acaster didn’t wait for an answer. “So, this person goes around providing tips—for a fee, of course—and offering odds they are willing to lay.”
Rake snorted.
“I’ve heard them called tipsters,” said Acaster.
“Tricksters, the lot of them,” said Rake.
“I think they’re just getting started, too,” continued Acaster. “In a few decades, horse racing and betting will look nothing like it does now. Too much money swirls around the sport. The possibilities for profit and corruption are too great a temptation for a swindler to resist.”
Gemma cleared her throat, pointedly. All eyes swung her direction. “Money is all well and good,” she said. “But lest we forget, those fortunes will be made and lost on the backs of the horses. What will be done to protect them?” Her cheeks grew flushed with fervor. “Profit should never come at the cost of the animals who depend on us for their well-being. Otherwise, we lose our humanity.” She leaned forward to look down the table. “Take my brother, for example. He doesn’t use crop or spur on the horses he rides.”
Cassidy smiled in that genial way of his, but his hazel eyes held a seriousness. “I don’t.”
“And that’s just in one area of Thoroughbred care.” Now that Gemma had warmed to the subject, her gaze rounded on the guest seated to her right. “If you are to be Somerton’s trainer, I would like to hear your thoughts on this matter, Lord Branwell.”
Artemis leaned forward. She very much wanted to hear those thoughts, too.
“No one is going to curb the growing popularity of horse racing due to the treatment of the animals.” The words landed in the room with a heavy thud. “But what can and should change is the care taken with the animals in their training.” He tapped the table for emphasis. “My time in the cavalry taught me that the better an animal is treated, the happier the animal, which makes for a better relationship and more fruitful results.”
“But training can’t only be about results on the turf,” said Gemma. She wasn’t yet satisfied. “Those three minutes are nothing, really, in the whole of a horse’s lifetime.”
Bran nodded. “I happen to agree. There are certain training practices I would do away with. For example, the practice of allowing a horse to become gross, then reducing the weight through extreme measures like purging or placing a stove in the box and piling blankets on the horse’s back to produce sweating.Such senseless practices only cause misery in the animal and have no place in any regimen I introduce.”
Gemma nodded as he spoke, each word uttered putting her mind at ease.
Artemis found herself speaking up. “And there’s the health of the horses themselves that needs to be evaluated, too.”
Everyone at this table knew the story of Dido—many had witnessed it, in fact—and understood the importance of this, as well.
Mother, who had been silently observing the conversation from her usual remove, emitted a delicate sound that Artemis knew for a scoff. Her fingers tightened around her fork.
“Yet,” said Mother, “aren’t horses simply animals put on this earth to be of service to us?”
Her question was met with silence.
Her shoulder lifted along with an elegant hand. “And when they can no longer be of service to us …” She flicked her wrist, as if the subject held all the conversational weight of a gnat. “Then what use are they?”
It wasn’t mere silence that met this question.
The room had been struck dumb.
