She looked magnificent.
He moved the peregrine slowly away from his body. “Call her!”
Clara hesitated, then raised the glove, her call echoing over the field. “Har! Har!”
The peregrine jerked, head pivoting. Michael released his grip and gave a push upward. Maid Marian took flight, streaking low over the grass, ascending abruptly as she closed on Clara, landing on the upheld fist and settling with a soft beat of wings. Clara stroked the bird with the back of her other hand, then slipped a hood over the falcon’s head. The bird calmed.
Clara looked up at Michael and nodded, then she turned the horse with her knees and headed back toward Beckcott Abbey.
“Clara!” He took three running steps but stopped as she urged the chestnut into a canter. Within seconds, she was gone from sight.
Michael felt an unexpected urge to go after her. He did not want to—her unexpected appearance had caused a sharp pain to re-emerge, one he had thought buried these past three months—yet he did. The sight of her, looking so much like a—yes, a Celtic goddess—on that hill reminded him how much he had cherished her. And how much her betrayal had stung.
Still stung.
He had tried to put it all aside, walking away from her and into an autumn filled with more activity than he could possibly have foreseen. The race and the following drama had caused his new business to explode. Dozens of noblemen, most not wanting their family names involved, had come to him for facilitating their wagers with the different gambling organizations. It meant expanding Campion’s involvement beyond games of chance and into the broader gambling culture of theton, members of which would bet on anything from horse races to how much a gentleman could belch after too much ale. It was an obsession, and it was making Robert and Michael a great deal of money. The coffers overflowed, which meant more money for horses. The stables at Robert’s Maidstone estate—now officially the Surrey-Ashton School for Boys—had been completely renovated and stocked. The first students would arrive in January for the spring term, mostly recruited from the staff at Campion’s. They would attend without charge, with an eye toward apprenticeships in the future.
They had hired several additional managers, and as September moved into October, Michael gradually moved out of the role of facilitator to focus on the horses. He had come to Ashton Park with his mother in an effort to replenish the number of horses here, and he had brought Phoenix up as a stud. After the race, requests for that service had piled in as well.
“Do you know that woman?” The gamekeeper asked, pulling Michael from his reverie.
Michael nodded. “Lady Clara Durham.” He pointed back toward their horses, which grazed placidly a hundred yards away. “We should return. I’m sure Mother will want me for tea.”
The gamekeeper looked surprised. “The old earl’s daughter?”
“Yes, why?”
The gamekeeper hesitated, and Michael stopped. “What is it?”
“I should not say—”
“Oh, bloody hell, man. We are out in a field with our Wellies covered in grass and mud. Speak.”
“She did not look much like a lady in mourning.”
Michael stopped. “What? What are you talking about?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You did not know? The old earl died. Back in August. Rumor has it that the daughter and dowager countess are only here until the new earl settles the estate.”
That urge to go after her strengthened. “This is the gossip among the servants?”
“Yes, my lord. My sister is one of their scullery maids. There is a dowager house on the property, but they say the daughter will be sent north. No one knows where. Perhaps to marry.”
Marry?
Surely she would not...
But he had not heard anything about the suit being canceled.
Not that you have bothered to look up for the past three months.
He had to find out. He resumed his trudge back toward the horses. “We have to get back. I need to speak with my mother.”
*
Monday, 7 November 1825
Beckcott Abbey
