Michael nodded at the auctioneer, whose calls signaled the increase.
Philip Ashton slipped closer to Wykeham, nodding and greeting men as he stepped by them. The crowd in the right gallery parted to allow passage.
Wykeham called out again, another significant increase, and the murmuring in the crowd spread.
Michael looked at his father, who gave a single nod. Michael raised the bid.
Noticing the glance, Wykeham twisted to glare up at Philip. The two exchanged words Michael could not hear—Wykeham heated and frantic, Philip calm and smooth-faced. Both ignored the auctioneer, until the call echoed over the courtyard.
“Sold! Kennet!”
Wykeham pushed away from Philip and strode straight for Michael, who merely watched as the duke crossed the courtyard. Wykeham paused as he passed, spitting out, “A lot of money for a rubbish horse that will amount to nothing. But that’s what the Ashtons do. A great deal of effort to little effect. I will see you at Epsom.”
Robert opened his mouth, but Michael clutched his arm. “We will take our victories, Your Grace,” he said slowly, “when the time is right.”
Wykeham stared at him, then continued his path across the courtyard.
“Well done, brother.” Robert adjusted his top hat. “Father may have laid the challenge, but I do believe you just primed the pump.”
Michael continued to watch as Wykeham worked his way through the crowd toward another line of stalls. “Let us hope so.”
Chapter Eighteen
Monday, 22 August 1825
Beckcott Hall
Eight in the evening
Clara examined herselfin the dressing table mirror one last time. A dark green muslin day gown from two seasons ago had been stripped of all frills and ribbons, rendering it plain and dull looking in the low lamplight of the room. Sturdy but comfortable leather boots encased her feet, and her hair had been tied at the base of her neck with a single ribbon, although a few combs held the strands away from her face. At least for the next few moments. A black woolen cloak that had once been her brother’s had been unearthed from a trunk in the attic, and the oversized hood almost blocked her vision as well as covering the bright red of her hair. Hot but necessary for the subterfuge. Clara hoped she would not faint from being overheated.
“My word, you look as if you are out for murder and mayhem,” said Radcliff.
Clara giggled. “Do I not? All I need is a domino mask and I would be ready for a pleasure garden.”
Radcliff scoffed. “As if this were not scandalous enough.”
Clara sobered, staring at her image. “There will be no going back from this, will there?”
“No, my lady. Are you sure you want—”
“Yes.” She turned to face the maid. “I am tired of nothing, ever, being my choice.”
“You will be ruined.”
“Only for a little while. Then it will resolve itself—or I will hang.”
“Please, my lady, do not say—”
“I will not marry him, Radcliff.”
“You could always provoke Hadleyton in sight of the duke.”
Clara laughed, which eased some of her tension. “It would only result in making my mother apoplectic. Poor Richard. For a man who risks being called out so often, you would think he would learn to shoot.”
“A nobleman who does not shoot?”
“I have known the man since we were children. He could not hit a ship sitting at dock. No, I am afraid I need to find another solution.”
