Her stomach was a tight, painful knot of anxiety, but she didn't blink. "I can back any horse in this yard. I have softer hands than your heavy-fisted grooms and I don't give up when I get dumped." West scoffed loudly. "Your Grace, she's touched in the head.
She showed up at dawn demanding to see you." Henry took the cheroot from his mouth. He looked Basia up and down again. This time the dismissal was heavy, suffocating. It was the look of a man who dealt with ledgers and logic and saw only a bad investment standing before him.
"You weigh what, eight stone?" Henry asked. "You don't have the leverage to hold a draft cross, let alone sit a bucking thoroughbred. Go home, girl, before you get yourself killed on my property and leave me with the paperwork." He turned on his heel. He was leaving.
The opportunity was evaporating into the cold morning air. "I heard about the gray." Basia said loudly. Henry stopped. His shoulders stiffened.
West hissed, "Shut your mouth, girl." Basia stepped forward, boots squelching. "I heard you bought a hunter at Tattersalls, a massive iron gray. Paid a fortune for him. And I heard he's put three of your men in the dirt and you haven't been able to put a saddle on him in a month." Henry turned back around.
His jaw was tight. The absolute boredom in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a cold, hard irritation. "Is that right?" Henry murmured, stepping toward her. Up close, he smelled of cedarwood and that sharp tobacco.
There were dark circles under his eyes. He didn't look like a pampered lord. He looked exhausted. "Yes," Basia said, forcing her chin up.
"You're keeping him locked in the back stalls, wasting feed, letting him rot because your pride won't let you sell him at a loss, and your men are too terrified to open his door." Henry studied her. The silence stretched heavy and dangerous. The wind rattled the loose shingles on the stable roof. "You think it's a matter of pride?" Henry asked softly.