“But with great reward.” Robert straightened and braced his hands on the arms of the chair. “Campion’s has vetted the income of some of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Some of the women as well. Some of whom would never publicly bet their fortune—for any number of reasons—on a race or reveal what they could pay for a horse. As the facilitator for these people, you could be the reliable face of secured monies, even if the backers were anonymous.”
“And you know such people.”
“Oh, yes. Remember what a network of information Robbie Green—”
“And Rose,” muttered Thomas.
“And Rose have linked together. Tonight alone, I have discovered that the three horses you plan to buy Monday, including the two geldings from Embleton, will have competitive bids. High bids, with the intention of derailing yours.”
“I would expect no less. Those geldings are potentially two of the finest race—”
“From Wykeham.”
Michael stared at Robert. “Wykeham.”
His brother glanced at Thomas, then Philip.
Understanding settled on Michael. “That’s why you told them.”
“He aims to lay waste to your plans before you even get started.”
“How could he have known—”
“Rumors,” Philip said, his bass voice a low rumble, “are a two-edged sword. They helped spread the word about your recent purchases, which opened the door to Embleton—”
“But also to Wykeham,” Thomas finished. “And we are not about to let him undermine our little brother without a thorough counterpoint in the offing.”
“A flanking maneuver called double envelopment,” Philip said. “You will be the face of a new company, with obvious and notable intentions. Robert and Thomas will engage the friendly forces on either side, and I will provide the entrenched defense.”
Michael swallowed, studying his father’s face. “You make it sound as if we are marching to war.”
“Oh, we are, little brother,” Thomas said. “And we are about to once again remind Society that the Ashtons are a force to be reckoned with.”
Chapter Thirteen
Saturday, 20 August 1825
Beckcott Hall
Half past one in the afternoon
Radcliff brought wordthat luncheon would not be served in the dining room. Instead, by orders of the countess, everyone would have a tray brought out—Clara and Honora would eat in their bedchambers, the earl in his study. With only the three of them remaining in the house, this was not an uncommon occurrence, although it usually occurred by happenstance, not an edict from Honora, who, apparently, had a bit of a headache.
Clara received the news with gratitude. She had dozed only fitfully, her mind still churning over and over the events of the night before, and she certainly did not feel up to facing her mother over food. But she still found the simple fare Radcliff brought to her room hard to swallow, despite her hunger. Her restlessness made her pace, seeking some understanding of all that had happened. The encounter with Michael in the barn had left Clara both exhilarated and exhausted, mentally and physically. Clearly he had wanted her—the way he touched her left no doubts about that. And she definitely wanted him—he stirred in her a heat, a pure desire she had barely dreamed about. In his arms she found not only passion but comfort. A comfort and passion she had replayed several times during the night as her thoughts about Michael and the duke began to clarify.
But Michael’s reluctance to continue with their affection plagued her. It felt as if it were about more than the interruption of Rufus and the stable boy, more than the risk of discovery.
It was about the duke. Wykeham. The despicable man had become a Sword of Damocles over every aspect of her life—her future, her family, and now Michael’s plans. As she went over every minute detail of the past few days, her mind had determined one crystalline fact: she had to find a way out from under that sword.
She continued to pace back and forth, lips pursed, the image of the simpering noble prancing through her mind just as he had through the Scotch reel with her mother. The smug look on his face haunted her, telling her he had already won, already conquered her.
No. She would not have it. She might not ever have Michael in her bed, but she would be damned if the duke ever ended up there, lording his conquest over her the rest of her life. The prospect of those long winter evenings in the North were evolving from a nightmare into a vision of a torturous hell. Clara felt everyone else’s plans swirling around ever tighter—her father’s, Michael’s, her mother’s, the duke’s—a strangling noose.
Clara stopped pacing, her chest tight, her breathing shallow. She grabbed the edge of her escritoire, forcing herself to take long, deep breaths. Calm, she needed to be calm. After a few of those inhalations, Clara picked up the tray from her escritoire and set it on the bench at the end of her bed. She returned and pulled out two pieces of foolscap as she settled in the chair. If she were to make her way through this, she needed to have a plan of her own.
She wrote out a note to Lady Newbury, Rose Ashton, asking if she could call on her later that afternoon. Clara expected her mother to command her presence for tea, but if she could see Rose afterwards, perhaps she would have more information that could help her flesh out the kernel of a plan forming in the back of her head.
A dangerous plan. But no more so that the image of infinite winter nights enduring the presence of a man who would turn every good thing about her life into a wound to be picked raw for decades to come.
