“It seems as if she were right.”
“In her eyes. Not mine. But now your sisters are married, and you are not.” He coughed, then reached for a handkerchief inside his coat. He wiped his mouth. “I know Wykeham may not make you happy, but I do believe he will be kind to you. And that you will not be too unhappy.”
Clara felt the truth in his words. “I know.” She swallowed. “I know you love me.”
Durham coughed again, then pushed to his feet.
Clara stood as well. “Papa—”
He shook his head. “I merely need to rest.”
“Then I will go with you.”
Her father nodded but did not speak as she took his arm, walking with him as he left the study and slowly climbed the stairs, pausing several times to catch his breath.
“Perhaps we should move your study to the third floor or your bedchamber to the first.”
He patted her arm. “I believe your mother already has plans for the latter underway.” He paused on the second-floor landing. “Do try to be kind to her. She is not taking to this idea well.”
“I cannot fault her for that. I am not particularly fond of it either.”
Durham gave a low chuckle. “Your wit will serve you well, child, despite what your mother thinks. The duke is not quite the monster he pretends to be.”
“Can we not talk about him right now?”
Durham coughed, reaching for the handkerchief again. As he replaced it, he murmured, “I will not mention him more than necessary.”
“Thank you.”
They continued, stopping only once they reached the earl’s bedchamber door. He touched her cheek. “Send me notes. You may not see me much, but I want to know how you are doing.”
“I will, Papa. I promise.”
He nodded, then entered his bedchamber and closed the door. Inside, he began to cough again, furiously this time, a seemingly unending struggle to breathe.
Clara leaned against the door, grief swamping her. But she did not cry this time. Instead a slow anger began to build in her, a fury fed by her mother’s refusal to talk, by the illness that drove her father to associate her with a man far more despicable than anyone wanted to accept, by the secrets and protocols that made Society turn its daughters into little more than brood mares.
His wild child.
Her father had called her his wild child. And as Clara pushed away from the door, she realized that she was not quite done with that title.
Not yet.
Chapter Seventeen
Monday, 22 August 1825
Tattersall’s
Half past noon
Embleton’s groom walkedthe white-gray gelding across the courtyard just after noon, and Michael immediately sensed a shift in conversations in every corner. It was the finest horse to be auctioned so far, a tall boy at almost seventeen hands, exquisite balance, and a luxurious coat. He showed just enough spirit under the groom’s handling to demonstrate his readiness to run. As the groom led him up and down the long trot, Embleton mingled among several clusters of observers, and Michael watched him as much as the horse as the auctioneer began reading the details on the animal, from bloodline to the length of his tail.
Embleton would be a valuable ally. When Michael had shown him the trade cards, he had asked for several, tucking them neatly away in his coat pocket.
Then the bidding began.
At first, it moved fast and furious, one call right after the other. Michael waited, slipping closer to the auctioneer. Then as the bids slowed, he placed his first one. As the auctioneer acknowledged him as “Kennet,” heads turned. Two bids later, Michael heard Wykeham’s nasal tenor raise the bid. Michael returned the favor.
