"Thomas, see that Mr. Lawson is attended to. Captain, step away from the horse."
Vale stared at him. "Your Grace—"
"I said, step away."
The trainer withdrew, his mouth a thin line.
Storm stood trembling beside the damaged fence, the loose reins dragging dangerously near his front feet. Emma did not approach.
"We ought to clear the gentlemen from the rail," she said. "He needs somewhere to move without feeling surrounded."
James signaled the spectators back. Several protested quietly, disappointed that the entertainment had ended. Emma watched until the nearest men had retreated beyond the gate. Then she turned to Thomas.
"Has he been difficult to groom?"
"Not especially. He dislikes having his back brushed lately, though."
"And did anyone report it?"
Thomas glanced toward Vale before answering. "I mentioned it last Thursday."
Emma said nothing. She had noticed the captain's eyes narrow. James noticed, too.
"Why was I not informed?" he asked.
"I believed Captain Vale would address it, Your Grace."
Vale folded his arms. "A sensitive back is hardly unusual in a working stallion."
"Neither is pain," Emma replied. The words emerged more sharply than she intended. She lowered her voice. "Forgive me, Your Grace. My father always says a horse cannot explain himself in words, so we must be careful before deciding he has nothing to say."
James studied her. Her hands were roughened by work, and a small burn marked one finger. She wore no fashionable bonnet, no silk gloves, and none of the practiced deference he encountered in drawing rooms. Yet she had remained beside the gate while experienced horsemen argued over mastery.
"What would you do?" he asked.
Emma looked toward Storm. "First, I would give him time to settle. Then, if he allows it, I would have someone he trusts remove the tack without forcing him. Afterward, a veterinary surgeon should examine him."
"You presume a great deal," Vale interrupted.