“How did you cheat?”
The demand came from behind Michael, and he turned. Wykeham stood there, his eyes bulging and red, his cheeks mottled and blotchy.
Michael recognized the look all too well. Wykeham was drunk—and he repeated the question.
A well of silence circled the two men as those around them went quiet. The roar of the crowd seemed distant, and Michael knew the next few minutes would be vital to both their futures. This was a precarious situation—one did not accuse another man of cheating at a horse match without consequences.
“A man does not have to cheat when he has the better horse,” Michael said softly. “The stallion merely outran the bay.”
“Nonsense!” Wykeham made no effort to keep his voice low. “The bay was clearly the stronger horse!”
A crowd of men began to gather near his father, but Michael ignored them, focusing on Wykeham. “Stronger, yes, but without the stamina or the experience of the black. The bay is still unsure of himself on the track. The stallion was born to run.”
“How did you know?” came a call from the crowd.
Michael did not look away from Wykeham as he answered. “Because I examined them both at Embleton’s stables and at Tattersall’s. I have ridden them both. And I walked the track with the stallion before today’s race. When you plan to race a horse, you need to know the horse. And the course.”
“What weak-minded rubbish!” Wykeham spat, taking a step closer to Michael. “I want to know how you cheated!”
The silence around them spread, except for a hissed, “Wykeham, have you lost your mind? Are you accusing—”
“I am. How did you cheat?”
“I did not. I merely chose the best horse to run.”
Wykeham glared but did not respond for several minutes. The bleariness in his eyes deepened, and Michael wondered for a moment if the man were about to pass out. Then Wykeham blinked and straightened. “I will find out.”
“There is nothing to discover.”
Around them, the crowd began to disperse, and Philip shifted, encouraging them to do so. Clearly, Wykeham had lost the will to continue. The man swayed, then braced himself with his cane. But he gathered a last surge of determination, straightening. “Well, I know one race you are destined to lose.” He looked around, to his left, then his right, squinting toward the back of the booth.
Confusion clouded Michael’s thoughts for a moment, then horror set in as Wykeham shouted through the crowd behind him, “Girl! Come here!”
Michael saw the flaming red of her hair first, and his stomach clenched. Whatever style her hair had been wrestled into had come free, and tendrils of curls had escaped from a bonnet made of straw and silk. Her dress matched Wykeham’s livery, and as she was pushed forward by others around her, she stumbled, falling against one of the footman, who steadied her.
Wykeham pointed at the ground beside him. “Here, you clumsy chit.”
Michael took a step forward, only to be stopped by his father’s hand. He waited, fighting the rage building within, as Wykeham grabbed Clara’s arm and yanked her forward. He looked up at Michael with a wicked glee. “This race I will win. This pony I will ride first.”
A gasp behind Wykeham drew everyone’s attention to Honora Durham, who had gone stark white. “Your Grace!”
Michael shuddered with rage, and he knew he would kill the man if someone did not stop him.
Then someone did, as a small, sweet voice spoke quietly. “Actually, Your Grace, you have already lost that race as well.”
*
Clara had notmeant to speak. The pure humiliation of the moment had pinned her to the ground, the heat of embarrassment roasting her inside and out. To be compared to a horse. To be thrown at Michael as if she were the next wager at Campion’s. She had been startled to see that even her mother had been horrified by the duke’s words.
But the rage in Michael’s eyes brought her out of her stupor. His hands clinched at his side, dark fury in his cheeks. His body shook as if he were a spring about to release all his anger and power at Wykeham. She feared for both men in that moment.
And the words were out before her mind could hold them in.
Her mother swooned, dropping to the ground in a lump, her skirts settling over her.
Wykeham snapped around at her, staggering again. “What did you say, girl?”
Clara raised her eyes to face him, digging deep for the courage. “Those words were for you only, Your Grace, and I believe you heard them plainly. You may drop your suit, for I am already ruined.”
