This time she let him guide her back from her father’s body, although she continued to stare at him. “I do not know what—”
“Send for her brother.”
Clara was not sure who Wykeham had issued the order to, but she nodded.
“The doctor is on his way, Your Grace.” Jennings’ voice.
Clara finally found hers. “Thank you.”
Wykeham’s words were low and near her ear. “No one else knows but the Ashtons. I will wait until after the funeral. If you change your mind, send me a message.”
She nodded but could think of little right now but the unfathomable sorrow that began to flood over her. She pulled away and again knelt by her father, stroking his back. “Papa.” But in the back of her mind, the guilt clung, as did Wykeham’s last words.
You should have married the duke...
...and you still can.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Monday, 7 November 1825
Ashton Park, near the River Kennet
Two in the afternoon
“Release him.”
The gamekeeper next to Michael gave the command, and the dog, currently on point, rushed into the line of brush that crossed the field in front of them. With a thunder of wings, grouse burst from the verdure, a flock of at least fifteen birds. Michael swung his shotgun toward them and aimed at one in front.
It vanished.
He jerked the gun away from his face, blinking. The damned thing had just disappeared in thin air. He turned to the gamekeeper who smirked and pointed. Michael squinted, following the man’s line of sight, yet it still took a few moments for him to register what he was seeing.
There, on a slight rise in the field, a falcon set atop his grouse, now dead from a broken neck. Both birds were almost invisible in the brown and golden grass of the field. If not for the falcon’s dark head and its sudden shift on its prey, he might not have seen them at all.
“It’s a peregrine, my lord, although he must be far afield. They prefer cliffs for nesting.”
A peregrine.
Michael’s chest tightened.It could not possibly be...“Or mews,” he said. He handed his shotgun to the gamekeeper.
“Mews? But the closest mews would be—”
“Beckcott Abbey.” He pointed. “Just over that rise.”
Michael made a low clicking noise with his tongue. The falcon’s head turned. “Maid Marian.” The bird changed position, shifting to face him. “Stay here,” he said to the gamekeeper. Then he moved slowly, approaching the bird carefully, speaking quietly. “Maid Marian. You are a pretty thing. Are you lost? That’s a plump grouse you have there. We did not even see you coming.”
The falcon cocked her head, peering at him, then fluffed her feathers and let out a stark cry. But she did not fly.
As Michael shortened the distance between them, he could see the jesses on her feet, but they looked odd. “You are beautiful, but you are a long way from home.” Clearly, she was going to let him approach, and he kept his tone smooth and even. He pulled out a second set of gloves and tugged them on slowly. “Were you hunting for your mistress or on your own? Why are you way over here?”
He squatted and held out one hand. Almost as if expecting it, the peregrine beat her wings and leaped to perch on his fist. He stood slowly, picking up the grouse as he did.
They studied each other, the peregrine twisting her head, examining him this way and that. He did the same, realizing that the reason her jesses looked odd is that they had been cut short, the ends jagged and torn. They were too short to wrap around his hand, but long enough for him to tuck them into the grip of his fist.
“Do not hurt her!” The shout rolled over the field. “Please!”
Michael looked up, and his breath caught. At the top of the rise, Lady Clara Durham sat astride one of the most splendid chestnut thoroughbreds he had ever seen. She rode bareback, and her dress and cloak fanned out over the horse’s rump—an indication that he was a well-trained lady’s mount. Her gown was a bright blue, the cloak black. Her hair was loose, but it had been cut, now stopping above her shoulders instead of flowing down her back. On her right hand was a thick leather glove.
