And it was true.
The animal sanctuary hadn’t changed her, but rather it had provided sustenance to a seed that had always been inside her—a deep care for animals—and allowed it to grow.
On the other side of Gemma, Rake lowered into the chair. Near-black eyes glittering with anticipation, he sat forward to address Artemis. “The weigh-in finished up?”
That was Rake—never one for chit-chat.
“Almost.”
The three of them turned their attention toward the racecourse, where the horses and jockeys in their colorful array of silks had begun assembling at the line.
Gemma’s gaze narrowed. “No winners from the season that I can see.” Lest one forget, Rake’s wife was as horse-mad as he.
“It’s the blasted Race of the Century,” groused Rake. “No one is going for the Triple Crown this year. Too big of a risk.” He snorted and shook his head. “A silly name for a race, anyway.”
Artemis nodded with agreement. “The year is only eighteen twenty-two,” she said, dryly. “An optimistic point of view, to say the least.”
“Eclipse has been dead and gone these last thirty-odd years,” observed Gemma, “and, to this day, he’s still considered the best ever to run.”
Rake shot Artemis a quick, conspiratorial smile, even as they conceded Gemma’s correctness.Eclipse first and the rest nowhere.Wasn’t the saying still repeated today?
“There might not be any of the season’s winners,” said Rake, “but the rest of the field is certainly here in force.”
Rake was correct. Jostling for position at the line were a few horses Artemis recognized. Good Bottom had had a disappointing season, as had Squirrel and Old Bugger, who was shouldering into the center.
Rake sat forward and pointed, his gaze fixed on a specific horse and jockey. “Who isthat?”
One couldn’t mistake the subject of his query. Most racing silks were designed with two contrasting colors in patterns of stripes or polka dots. But the silks of this duo defied the usual. Set against a field of white silk was a pattern of multi-coloredfleur-de-lis—yellow, orange, red, purple, blue, and green. The effect was bold and garish and, most importantly, reflective of its owner, who, though absent, was making his presence felt.
A smile tickled about Artemis’s mouth. “That is Radish.”
Rake’s brow furrowed. “From Sir Abstrupus’s stable?”
“Aye.”
“He looks more formidable than I’ve been led to believe.”
Led to believe …Artemis’s head whipped around. “Brother, do you have a spy in Sir Abstrupus’s stable?”
Rake lifted an unconcerned shoulder. “It’s a common practice, expected even.”
“That would be ayes,” supplied Gemma.
Rake smiled at his wife. “Cheeky woman.” His attention returned to Artemis, once again all seriousness. “Is Sir Abstrupus here?”
“Your spy didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Sir Abstrupus doesn’t leave the Roost.”
“Ever?” asked Gemma.
“Ever.”
Rake nodded slowly. “You’ve seen Radish run?”
“Aye.”
