Robert and Thomas also passed their reins to the groom and strode toward the arched entrance ways into Tattersall’s. Michael tucked the cards into his inner coat pocket, hesitating a bit as he examined the flow of men around them. All ranks, from the lowliest stable boy to dukes in their finest kits strolled through those arches, heads held high. The scent of animals, pungent and exhilarating, clung to the air, a perfume of both power and money. Whitby Little waited a few feet away from Michael, eyebrows arched in question as Michael took a steadying breath.
“Never forget you are the son of a duke.” Philip’s bass voice rumbled just behind Michael’s shoulder.
He turned to face his father. “A third son,” he muttered. “The invisible one.”
Philip scowled. “Michael Ashton, you are as worthy, as intelligent, and as capable as any man in that courtyard. The hard knocks you have taken have made you stronger than you were four years ago, and our family is stronger and more powerful with you in it. You are not invisible. Just as we know when you are pacing the halls and riding under the stars, everyone in the household, from the scullery maids on up, has seen how you have cared for your mother when I could not, for Thomas after he was shot, for the horses, even though they were already well-cared for. You may be the quiet one, but you are not the forgotten one. You are an Ashton.”
Michael stared at his father, trying to mask his astonishment, without much success. Neither would words form. He swallowed. “Father—”
Philip had none of it. “Don’t dawdle, boy. Embleton has already registered his horses and his groom has stabled them. Go.”
Michael glanced down, fighting a smile. “Yes, sir.” He pivoted and joined Little, who followed him into the courtyard.
The noise was almost deafening. The clatter of hooves on stone competed with dogs yelping and barking from the kennels, the calls of men, each trying to outdo the next to get someone’s attention, and the bellow of the auctioneer soaring over them all. It was chaos with an ebb and flow that began to take shape in Michael’s eyes as he moved slowly toward the right side of the courtyard, his goal being the stable in the far corner of the gallery. But his gaze continued to roam the courtyard as he examined some of the horses being led to and fro, the ones already on the long trot, and the faces of the buyers and sellers.
He searched especially for the Duke of Wykeham. Michael knew it might be difficult to spot the shorter, slighter man in the crush of the crowd, and he and Little had almost reached the stalls where Embleton’s groom had placed the geldings before he spotted Wykeham within one of the open stalls, running his hands over the bay gelding, as if he knew horseflesh.
Which, obviously, he did not.
Michael halted some distance away, watching as the gelding shied and moved away from Wykeham’s touch. Embleton’s groom fidgeted nearby, his hands twitching.
“Hmph.” Little let out a low huff. “Out on the road that horse was calmer than a cow with her cud.”
“Perhaps the duke’s touch is less than gentle.”
“He’s gonna make it buck.”
Even as Little spoke, the gelding stamped a foot, trying to move away from the duke.
Enough.
Michael moved closer. “Wykeham!”
The duke straightened, stepping away from the gelding. Immediately, Embleton’s groom was at the horse’s side, soothing the animal.
Wykeham smirked. “Ashton. I was not sure you would be brave enough to come after all. After your surrender.”
Michael stepped into the stall. “That was Society. This is business.” He reached out to stroke the bay’s nose. Even with the groom’s attention, the horse still felt skittish, and Michael stepped between it and the duke, emphasizing his height over the duke’s.
His expression remained smug, but the duke stepped out into the aisle. “An intriguing bit of bluster on your part, since you have no experience with business. I fully expect you to be as inept here as in the ballroom.”
Michael smiled. “So you think I have learned nothing from my father?” He paused, dropping his voice a bit. “Or my brother?”
Wykeham blinked and his smile froze, but he did not relent. “One does not learn business”—he gestured with his cane—“or horses by proxy.”
The movement of the cane caused the gelding to balk, and a hot snort blasted Michael’s back. Michael glanced at Little, who joined in the effort to calm the horse.
Michael took another step toward Wykeham. “Apparently not, since you have not seemed to learn how to behave around a fine animal such as this. Can you not see that it is you disturbing him?”
Wykeham glanced around at the gelding. “An animal so out of control would be worthless on the track.”
“And thus worthless for your purposes.”
Wykeham paused, his eyes narrowing. “And what would such as you know about my reasons for buying an animal today?”
Michael arched his eyebrows. “You are the one who pointed out this particular horse, as fine as he is, would be worthless ‘on the track.’ Yes?”
The duke tapped his cane twice on the stone floor of the aisle. “Do not presume you know me, Ashton, or my reasons for being here. You know nothing.”
