“Yes, but you don’t have to fight it and sit for hours while someone wrestles it into submission or to have hairstyles that hurt. Or have people make fun because it is an unfashionable color or has too many curls. It comes loose when I ride, and I’ve gotten it tangled in the reins or in a tree.”
He finished tucking his shirt into his breeches and buttoning the fall. Then he sat down next to her and pulled on his boots. “You do seem to wear an extraordinary number of pins and combs.”
“All of which poke and prod and stab my scalp.” She sagged on the bed.
He twirled a lock between two fingers.
Clara looked up at him, caught by the studious gaze he gave her hair. Not a look of desire as much as one of cogitation, of trying to solve a problem. And her heart swelled a bit more with love for this man. “Michael.”
“Hm?”
“We must go.”
He seemed to snap back to the present. He dropped the lock, kissed her quickly, and headed for the stairwell. “I will see you in mere moments.”
The sound of his boots on the treads reminded Clara of the precarious nature of their situation, but it also sparked her imagination with thoughts of what it might be like to be with this man every day, to hear his boots in the hall, to see him at breakfast as he prepared for the day, to lay next to him every night.
The alternative simply was no longer acceptable.
“This has to work,” she whispered to whatever gods or fates might be listening. “All of our plans have to work.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Saturday, 27 August 1825
Epsom Downs, Surrey
Half-past noon
Michael watched thecrowd of people who had gathered near the Epsom Downs home stretch, deciding that the majority of thetonwas either bored beyond reason or his father’s place in Parliament carried more weight than he had realized. He stood near the largest of the Kennet carriages—a massive vehicle that could seat eight, plus the coachman and two footmen—which his father had brought up from the Ashton Park estate just for this event. They seldom used it in the city because of its size and what his mother referred to as its “royal gaudiness.” It had a shiny black finish but was trimmed in the Kennet house colors, as well as having the gold blazon of the Kennet duchy on the doors. All the Kennet servants wore the house livery today, including the grooms.
Michael did admit it all made an impression.
But the Duke of Wykeham presented a similar one, and the two ducal carriages sat next to each other, both beside the Prince’s Stand, the only permanent structure at the Downs. Both dukes were resplendent in full kits in their respective house colors, and Michael could not help comparing them to birds—Philip, the big, proud peacock, who did not strut as much as saunter around the grounds—and Wykeham, who cocked around the grounds like a small but self-important rooster. All crow but few chicks.
Michael had come down early with the carriage, grooms, horses, and the jockey, Logan, to find that most of the nearby inns were already overrun, as were several of the local country estates. He had secured a place but tried to keep a lower profile at what the scandal sheets had called “The Dukes” Match.” But the stack of trade cards his father had printed had disappeared into the hands of potential betters and investors, and he had received his fair share of curious looks over the past two days. Many of the cards had been handed out by Jimmy, the lead dealer at Campion’s, whom they had brought along to manage the wagering. He had set up in one of the local pubs, and business had been brisk. As of the previous evening, almost one-hundred thousand pounds was in play.
Theton, it seemed, would bet on anything.
“My lord? You sent for me?”
Michael turned to Whitby Little, who stood slightly behind him. Little gave a quick bow and Michael nodded. “How is he?”
Little glanced around, as if searching for listeners, although no one nearby paid them any attention. The crush of people milling about seemed more interested in socializing and drinking. “He’s steady, my lord. Calm as a summer morning.”
“You think putting him on the course helped?” Michael and Logan had walked Phoenix the entire length of the course twice yesterday, and Logan had ridden it once, putting the horse through all his gaits.
“I do.”
“Wykeham—”
“His gelding has not set foot on it.”
“The man is a fool. This course can foul up even the most experienced flat racer.”
Little held his tongue, and Michael almost laughed. Speaking out against members of the aristocracy was a privilege confined to other members of the aristocracy. Little dare not speak out in a crowd. Michael took a deep, steadying breath. “No matter. This day will be monumental for all of us, including the horses.”
Little nodded and left to return to the makeshift shelter for the horses, and Michael began to pace. That unnamable restlessness had returned in full flare last night, and he felt as if his heart were racing without pause. He wanted to know how the betting was going this morning, but he did not want to risk a visit to Jimmy at the pub—the call of strong drink remained a raging hunger, especially today.
