“Did you sleep at all? You look as if you have returned from a month at sea.”
In truth, Michael had not so much as closed his eyes. After seeing Clara to the hansom cab the farrier’s wife had fetched, he had walked the streets until after dawn, his mind trapped by memories of the evening, by her scent, the feel of her skin under his hands, the blush when she had reached her climax, the tender way she had touched and held him after. Even after he had returned to his bedchamber, he could not rid himself of thoughts of her. It took an epic garnering of willpowernotto seek her out, even in this moment.
“No.” Michael turned back to the horse, stroking his nose.
Robert chuckled. “You will, but not today. Have you named him yet?”
Michael shook his head. “Not yet. Embleton was calling him the Star of Midnight.”
“Apt if a little too like the name of a bad novel.”
“I was thinking of Kennet’s Job.”
His brother paused. “Like Job in the Bible?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t that a story of unending suffering?”
“But also one of redemption. Job rose from the ashes.”
“So did a phoenix.”
The horse snorted and tamped his front leg. Robert stepped next to Michael and reached to run one hand down the stallion’s neck. “He likes it. Are you sure about this one? Is he up to what you and Father have planned for Saturday? You know the consequences if he is not. It will be another Hambletonian vs. Diamond, only he will be Diamond.”
Michael hesitated, taking to heart his brother’s reminder of one of the more famous match races in English history—one at which almost three-hundred thousand pounds had changed hands. His gaze wandered over the sleek body of the black. The words Philip had exchanged with Wykeham during the sale of the stallion had been a challenge. A one-to-one match race, between the black and any horse of Wykeham’s choosing, to take place Saturday afternoon at Epsom Downs in Surrey. The stakes would be high, winner take all. Philip put up the stallion and five-thousand pounds. Wykeham resisted at first, then Philip had added the debt to Campion’s, which made it a wager the duke could not resist. As they had expected, Wykeham put up the bay gelding and three-thousand pounds. A lopsided bet, but one that would garner a great deal of attention. Especially from those who would love to see either of the dukes get a bit of a comeuppance. Philip was generally liked by the aristocracy, but the respect most certainly was not universal. One did not have a commanding voice in Parliament without making a few enemies.
“I am sure. I have seen him run, and I have ridden him.”
“Do you have a jockey in mind?”
“Yes. A young chap named Logan.”
“I know the name. Chatter in the Jockey Club rooms is that he’s a strong rider.”
Michael nodded. “I am meeting with him this afternoon. If he suits, we will head to Epsom on Thursday, stay at an inn near there.”
“Word is spreading fast about the race. I came through the entry hall after breakfast. The salver there already held a stack of missives for Father. Two for me.” Robert reached into his coat. “And one for you.” He held it out but pulled it back before Michael could take it. “It is not, apparently, from a certain lady.”
Michael tried to hide the disappointment he felt, which he knew to be all too unreasonable. “It would be improper for her to contact me like this.”
“Not that it has stopped her before.”
Michael glowered. “What do you—”
Robert held out the note again. “Remember. Unlike yours, my valetlikesto gossip.”
Michael lifted the note from Robert’s hands. “Rotter.” As his brother chuckled, Michael broke the seal on the foolscap and unfolded it. The note contained only three sentences, all of which made his eyebrows arch.
Lord Michael,
There is no need to borrow your brother’s waistcoats. Come to my shop tomorrow morning at half past ten. I have ideas you should hear.
Madame Adrienne Chenevert
She had listed the direction for the shop at the bottom. Michael read it twice, then handed it to Robert, who read it with the same resulting expression.
“How very curious.”
