“I do not—I am not—”
“Farriers usually live next to their shops.”
“Robert—”
His brother clapped him on the shoulder. “Do not question it. Just go. Either you will have to deal with a farrier who has lost his senses, or a delightful surprise awaits.”
“I do not—”
“Your gelding is coming up.”
Michael jerked to stare at the auctioneer. “What?”
“On the long trot.”
Sure enough, one of the Embleton grooms led the bay gelding along the dirt path, and the auctioneer began to read the details.
Robert leaned closer. “Stay rattled. It will play into the drama.”
The bidding began. As before, there were several fast and furious back-and-forths, but as the price went higher, most dropped off. Michael did not enter the fray, and Robert, his grin twisted and broad, stepped in to compete with Wykeham.
For Michael, however, being rattled was not an act. The thought that Clara would arrange—Robert had to be wrong.She could not risk...wouldnot risk... dear God in heaven, what did she think—
“Are you going to bid or not?” Robert spoke into Michael’s ear. “Do not put this on me.”
Michael shook his head to clear it, to focus, as Wykeham called out another bid. Michael stepped in, shouting a higher number. With a wicked grin, Wykeham raised it.
Michael glanced at Philip, who stood near and behind Wykeham. Wykeham caught the exchange and said something to Philip, who held still. Michael increased the bid.
Wykeham mouthed something Michael could not make out, then shouted a raise.
Michael looked again at his father, who gave a quick smile, then sombered and made a visible and overly dramatic draw of his finger across his neck. Wykeham caught the move, as he was meant to, and pushed his shoulders back, a wicked grin of triumph on his face.
Michael gestured to the auctioneer that he was done.
“Sold! Wykeham!”
“Excellent performance,” Robert whispered.
Michael fought a grin, keeping his expression one of solid disappointment. Wykeham virtually skipped to the auctioneer for the slip, smugness lighting his face.
The long game,Michael reassured himself, hoping that Wykeham’s foolishness would not injure the gelding before the game played through. Then he turned his attention to the stallion being led toward the long trot, and he smiled.
Little had spotted the qualities of the black beauty when they had visited Embleton’s stables here in London. Older by six months but smaller than the geldings at barely fifteen hands, he had Arabian bloodlines and superb balance and build. His lines were perfection and his gaits smooth. For a stallion, he remained remarkably calm in the presence of people and other horses, and when they had taken him for a run in Hyde Park, he had been steady, even confronted by a pack of children who had fled from the care of their nurses. His chest was slightly broader than usual, but nothing untoward, and Embleton had spoken of his stamina.
A horse to be prized, but one that others would take for granted.
And, indeed, despite his qualities, the bidding began slowly. Wykeham and Michael stayed out of it, the duke barely paying attention. He had wanted the big geldings to race. He had no interest in a stud horse.
Until Michael placed his first bid. He had waited until it looked as if another buyer would win the auction, then stepped in with his first call. Wykeham’s head snapped around. Michael ignored him. There was another competing bid, which Michael raised.
Wykeham stamped his cane on the ground and shout a bid, significantly higher than Michael’s. A murmur shot through the throng, and some of the clamor eased as men looked from the auctioneer, to Michael, to Wykeham.
“Now,” whispered Robert.
Michael bid.
Wykeham raised.
