"I think it's a matter of competence," Basia countered. "50 guineas. That's your price for a breaker. I'll ride the gray.
If I sit him, you pay me, and you give me the job." Henry laughed. It was a short, humorless sound. "And if he caves your ribs in?" "Then you can drag me out to the road, and it won't be your problem." Henry looked at West, then back at Basia. He dropped his cheroot and crushed it slowly beneath the heel of his boot.
"Fine," Henry said. The word dropped like a stone. "You want to break your neck for 50 guineas, I won't stop you." The walk to the isolation stalls felt like a march to the gallows. Basia followed the Duke and his head groom past the main courtyard, leaving the warmth of the occupied stables behind.
The air grew colder here, trapped between the high stone walls of the older medieval section of the estate. Weeds choked the cobblestones. No one came back here unless they had to. Her bravado was leaking away with every step.
Her knees felt weak, a slight tremor shaking her thighs. 50 guineas. It was a fortune. It was a cottage, a winter's worth of coal, a doctor for her father's lungs.
It was survival. But as the sour sharp sting of concentrated ammonia hit her nose, reality crashed down on her. They stopped before a heavy wooden door bound in black iron. The top half was shut tight, barring any light from entering the stall.
Deep uneven gouges scarred the wood on the outside as if something had tried to kick its way through the solid oak. "His name is Balthazar," Henry said. He stood a few paces back, his hands clasped behind him. He watched her face closely looking for the inevitable hesitation.
"But the men call him Ruin. He's an Irish draft cross, 16.3 hands of pure malice." Basia stared at the door. From inside, she heard a sound that made her stomach turn over a low guttural sigh, followed by the heavy rhythmic thud of a massive hoof pacing against the straw. Thump.