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coat and tossed it on the bed. “Arrived yesterday.”
    William eyed the letter. Even at a distance he could make out his brother’s unmistakable handwriting. He would read Graham’s letter later, after the conversation with Bley.
    William stood from his bed with slow, deliberate movements. His eye throbbed, his lip stung, and with every breath a sharp pain pierced his side. Everything within him screamed to crawl back to the comfort of the wide bed and remain still until the pain subsided. But he’d anticipated Mr. Bley’s visit for a week. If he was to restore Eastmore Hall to what it had been, this was the first step. He had to persuade Bley to purchase a foal sired by Slaten. He needed the money—now more than ever.
    William shuffled to the wardrobe and opened the door. He may no longer have the funds of a country gentleman, but at least he could appear as if he did. After Martha brought hot water and coffee, he gingerly washed his face and decided to forgo shaving. He dressed in buckskin breeches fashioned by Weston’s in London and top boots polished with the most reflective gleam. He took great pains with his cravat, carefully folding and tying the billowing white linen, an art he had been forced to master after he dismissed his valet. He fastened the buttons on his tan single-breasted waistcoat and then pulled on his dark green kerseymere tailcoat. Once dressed, he stood back and assessed his reflection in the looking glass.
    He never did care for pretentious clothing—his interest had always been more in sport—but when his funds had flowed freely, he’d spared no expense to look every bit the part. All the money he had spent on such luxuries now seemed a frivolous waste, especially when he hadn’t a sixpence to scratch with. From the neck down, he was immaculate. From the neck up, he looked like a bloke who’d been bested in a bout of boxing.
    He combed his fingers through his hair, gingerly removing tangles and debris, noting the need for a haircut. But then he reminded himself that Bley was not coming to see him. He was coming to see Slaten.
    Slaten. If it were possible to blame anyone besides himself for his current situation, it might be the horse . . . although it couldhardly be the animal’s fault, for his downfall began years before. When Isabelle broke their engagement, gambling on horses became William’s profession, taking him to the heights of glory and the depths of ruin. But luck had always returned . . . a faithful, if fickle, companion.
    He’d taken Slaten, an accomplished racer, for payment of a debt. At the time he had considered it an even—if not advantageous—exchange. The animal was well-known for his wild, competitive nature, which translated to success on a course. But William’s efforts to pad his pocketbook were dashed well over a year ago. William had used the last of his money to enter the horse in a prestigious race. But when the horse stumbled mid-race over another horse that had taken a spill, Slaten permanently damaged a tendon in his leg, bringing his racing days to an end. It was at that moment when all was lost.
    William lifted the coffee to his wounded lip, but the housekeeper’s steaming beverage did little to soothe William’s wounds or his spirit. Lewis was right. Bley would not be in Darbury long. He would have this one opportunity to get Bley to speak for Slaten’s unborn offspring. So today he would push through anything, any pain.
    He had to.
    Before leaving the house, William instructed Martha to light fires and open the main visiting rooms. Heating the rooms was expensive, but in the event Mr. Bley should enter Eastmore Hall, William needed to at least give the impression he was a man of sizable means.
    William walked the path from Eastmore Hall to the L-shaped stable, a relatively new structure fashioned of stone and timber. He avoided looking back at Eastmore. Even as recently as a year ago, the stately home boasted the most incredibly manicured