Frances, sensitive to her husband’s moods, a consequence that troubled her not a little, found herself yet again entering her husband’s bedchamber late that night. This time he was in his dressing gown, not in his lovely natural state, sitting in front of the fireplace. A lone candle burned by his elbow.
She saw that he was holding a piece of paper in his left hand.
“What is this?” she asked, coming around his chair to face him, her finger pointing to the paper.
“Oh, Frances.” He grinned at her. “I was on my way to you, my dear. Are you so very anxious for my company?”
She refused to be drawn. “Something has disturbed you, Hawk. What is it? What is that?”
“Surely a husband is entitled to keep some things to himself, Frances,” he said. He carefully began folding the paper into a small square.
“Hawk ...” she began, straightening herself for battle.
“When are your sisters to arrive?” he asked, deflecting her charge.
“Oh, did I not tell you? I suppose I thought it my secret.” Hawk merely smiled at her. “Very well, my lord, Sophia wishes to wait until the fall. She said something about a Little Season and my sisters gaining their polish before they’re tossed into the marriage mart in the spring.”
“We shall contrive to gain you a bit more polish before you squire them about,” he said.
She watched him slip the small square of paper into the deep pocket of his dressing gown. He patted his thighs, and she decided a bit of guilt was in order. She gingerly set herself down, but made no move to cuddle against him.
“I sent the two hundred pounds I won at York to Sophia,” she said, her voice a challenge. “She told me of a grand seamstress in Glasgow.”
“Then the girls will likely be arriving in royal procession, for I sent another three hundred pounds to your father.”
That was something of a shock, and Frances gave him a brilliant smile. He felt the familiar stirrings of lust and drew her against his chest.
“You are so very unexpected,” she said, relaxing at the feel of his large hands roving up and down her back. He shifted his position and she felt his hardness against her bottom.
“Not really,” he said, grinning at her. “Just a simple man who wants to bed his wife.”
Frances could find no fault with this pronouncement. She could find no fault either with the following hour, and it wasn’t until she awoke the following morning that she remembered the square of paper Hawk had placed in the pocket of his dressing gown. Even then it was but a vague memory.
She was in Hawk’s bed, alone, and she was, she knew, smiling a very satisfied smile. I adore you, Frances. And then he’d come inside her, deeply and fully. She remembered vaguely telling him something, but she couldn’t recall her words. Had she told him she loved him? That made her frown a bit. She forced her mind to her other concern.
What was written on that piece of paper? Why hadn’t he wanted her to see it?
Two days later, Frances made her usual rounds in the stables. She’d gotten into the habit of working out Flying Davie over the five-mile track that wound over flatlands on the northern part of Desborough property, circling back to the paddock.
“You’ll be working out Tamerlane today, Lady Frances,” Belvis said.“Davie is to remain in the paddock this morning. I’ve got Timothy trying some of my special defense strategies.”
“I think he should carry a pistol,” Frances said, remembering the slash on Timothy’s thigh from another jockey’s riding crop.
Belvis chuckled. “Not a bad idea. Lord, it might come to that. I hear that the Duke of Portland is trying his damnedest to improve racing standards, but it’s slow going.”
Belvis gave Frances a toss onto Tamerlane’s back. “Remember to keep him close for the first mile.” He added on a grin, “You might imagine jockeys beside you—mean devils, the lot of them. Kick at them, my lady. Try some of your more colorful Scottish curses on them.”
She saluted him and click-clicked Tamerlane into the stableyard. She waved at her husband, then guided the stallion past the paddock to the flat field beyond. She laughed aloud with pleasure when Tamerlane snorted, jerking at the reins.
“You want to run, my boy,” she said, patting his glossy neck. “All right, let us show everyone what you are made of.”
Her riding hat was firmly fastened to her head, but when she loosed Tamerlane, she felt the wind tearing at it, and she smiled, feeling that mad exhilaration. Every so often, she turned her head to the side, growled at a vicious-looking jockey, and kicked out at him. Tamerlane held to his course.
There was but one jump on the entire course, a short three-foot fence that marked the end of Desborough property and the beginning of the Bourchiers‘. They’d discussed with John pulling down the fence, but hadn’t gotten to it just yet. Frances enjoyed the jump, and as they neared it, she pressed herself against Tamerlane’s neck.
He soared over the fence and it was in that split second that Frances saw the raw-toothed thresher on the other side, its vicious iron spikes sticking upward. She didn’t think, she reacted, trying desperately to stretch out Tamerlane’s stride to clear the spikes.
He did, almost. Frances heard his agonized scream, felt his body twisting beneath her, and felt herself flying over his head.
She landed hard, and for many moments was insensible. She pulled herself upward and her eyes immediately fastened on the huge gash in Tamerlane’s back left leg. The thoroughbred was standing very still, his chest heaving; she knew he must be in dreadful pain.
She jumped to her feet, tried her best to calm the stallion, then began running back toward the stables. The shortcut she took lessened the distance by some half-mile, but when she burst into the yard, the stitch in her side was so intense that she could scarce breathe.
Hawk saw her first. “Frances! What the devil!”
“Tamerlane ... the jump, somebody placed a thresher up behind it. Hurt, he’s very hurt.”
“You’re all right?” he asked.
“Fine, please, we must hurry!”
She heard Belvis shouting to bring the traveling horse stall as she gathered together ointments, bandages, and painkilling herbs she’d brought with her from Kilbracken.
Hawk took her up in front of him. He said nothing, merely dug his heels into Ebony’s sides to quicken his pace.
Tamerlane was standing where Frances had left him, his proud head lowered. Hawk felt his throat close when he saw the gash.
“We will not put him down!” Frances said firmly. While she soothed the stallion and fed him the opiate, Hawk, along with Belvis, looked at the thresher. Tamerlane’s blood showed like fresh rust on one of the spikes.
“Who would do such a thing?” Belvis said blankly, shaking his head. “Who, for God’s sake?”
“Frances rides this way almost every day,” Hawk said.
They both whirled about at the sound of Tamerlane’s wild snort, but Frances had him in control. She looked filthy, her riding skirt ripped, her hair tangled and snarled, and she was focused entirely on Tamerlane.
She cleaned the gash very gently, applied the ointment, and bandaged the leg. “All right,” she said, drawing a deep breath, “let’s get him into the stall.
“He’ll be all right,” she said over and over again as she and Hawk watched Belvis close the stall door and leap into the driver’s seat.
“Let’s go back now, Frances,” Hawk said.
Suddenly Frances felt the most searing, intense pain she’d ever experienced. Her face went white, and she staggered.
“Frances!”
“My shoulder,” she gasped. “Oh God, Hawk, it hurts!”
He thought quickly, weighing his options, then said, “Let me help you sit down and I’ll take a look.”
He could feel her pain, feel her trying her best not to yell. When she was seated on the ground he said, “Now, let me get the riding jacket off.” It was more easily said than done. The pain was excruciating, and Fra
nces prayed for oblivion.
The jacket finally off, Hawk saw that the blouse was next. “I’ll be as easy as I can,” he said, and began unfastening the long row of satin-covered buttons.
Frances couldn’t help the moan this time. It was deep and agonized and Hawk felt himself growing cold. He ripped the blouse off her to spare her more pain.
He saw the problem quickly enough. She’d dislocated her shoulder. He thought quickly, then said, “Frances, I can fix your shoulder now. It will hurt like the very devil, but then it will be over. Or I can take you back to the house and we can get the doctor to—”
“Do it,” she said between gritted teeth.
Hawk swallowed. He’d done this several times during his army days, but the men were big and strong. She looked fragile, her flesh white and soft. He cursed, placed his hands on the shoulder, and forced the bone back into its socket. She didn’t scream, she didn’t make a sound.
“There,” he said, so relieved that he was shaking. “It’s over, Frances.”
Her head fell back and he saw that she had fainted.
“I’m proud of you, love,” he said as he gently laid her back on the ground, her riding jacket beneath her.
She regained consciousness very quickly and blinked up at her husband.
“It’s over,” he said, gently stroking her cheek. “You’ll be all right now.”
Her face lost its pallor and turned a light shade of green.
“You want to vomit?”
Frances swallowed convulsively. She shook her head.
“It’s natural. Here, my dear, close your eyes and hold very still.” He sat beside her, his back against an oak tree, and eased her head onto his thighs. He began to speak, softly, slowly, to distract her. “I remember the first time I did that, I was in Spain. One of my men had been thrown from a horse, just as you were. He had the very same reaction, but felt human again by the following day. It is curious that you felt no pain until it was all over. No one seems to understand how you can not even be aware of an injury until your mind is released from its urgency.”
“I was terrified for Tamerlane,” she managed in a thin voice.
“Yes, you were, and you kept your own injury at bay until you’d taken care of his. I remember after one particular battle, Grunyon got to me and demanded how I could have gotten so much blood on my boots. I had a thigh wound and wasn’t even aware of it.” He chuckled at the memory. “After he pointed it out, I of course felt the most awful pain imaginable.” He paused. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding a bit surprised. “I don’t want to retch anymore.”
“You will be bruised.”
“Hawk, why?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand her. “I don’t know.” The question had been swirling about in his brain, but with no answer. “Have you dismissed one of your lovers?” he asked, lightly ruffling her hair. “Did he not take it kindly?”
She wanted to laugh, but tried a brief chuckle, but it hurt too much. “What if I had been riding Davie?”
Riding Flying Davie indeed, he reflected, his thoughts striding down a new avenue.
“Are you ready to go home?” he asked, not yet wanting to answer her question.
“All right,” she said.
Hawk stripped off his coat, lifted her in his arms, and placed the coat about her shoulders. “Now, don’t try to do anything, Frances.”
It wasn’t easy to get her on Ebony’s back without causing her a great deal of pain, but Hawk finally managed it. “Now, just lie back against me and try to relax. We’ll take it very slowly, love.”
Frances felt as though hot pokers were embedded in her shoulder, but she refused to give in to the pain. “I think,” she said, “that I should prefer a beating.”
He dropped a kiss on top of her head. “The next time you infuriate me, I’ll consider it,” he said, grinning over her head.
He realized after some moments that she’d fallen into a stupor, and felt relief. He urged Ebony into a gallop.
When they reached the stableyard, he saw Belvis’ face go from relief to profound concern.
“She’s all right,” Hawk said quickly. “She dislocated her shoulder, but didn’t realize it until all the excitement was over.”
“I’ll send one of the boys for a doctor,” Belvis said.
“I fixed it already, but I do want Simons to take a look at her. Hold Ebony, will you, Belvis.”
Hawk eased her down, keeping her tightly against his chest. Now that the crisis seemed to have passed, Hawk thought, striding toward the house, he was beginning to feel very shaky himself. He cursed quite fluently, but it didn’t help ease the feeling of intense helplessness, the feeling of murderous rage. Why? And who?
The doctor, Mr. Simons, examined her, and pronounced Hawk a fine practitioner. “She’ll be just the thing in a couple of days, my lord. Your quick action saved her interminable pain. You are lucky in your husband, Lady Frances.”
Frances was drugged with laudanum and the doctor’s face was spinning above her in the most disconcerting manner. “Yes,” she said, the words coming out of her mouth without her mind’s permission, “he is the very best of husbands.”
Hawk smiled down at her. He gently patted her cheek and she turned her face against his open hand. He felt a surge of such deep caring that he couldn’t have spoken had his very hide depended upon it. And then he felt the terror of losing her. He closed his eyes for a moment against his intense reaction.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that his father was regarding him most thoughtfully. He didn’t fight his feelings, and merely nodded to his father.
“Sleep now, love,” he said softly, and gently eased his hand away. He stood beside her bed, not moving until her breathing evened into sleep.
“Father,” he said, turning, “I believe that you and I have some talking to do.”
28
If I love you, what business is it of yours?
—GOETHE
“So, my boy, it’s all over with you? Rolled up foot and guns? Tip over arse, eh?”
“Yes,” said Hawk. “She is my wife, I love her, and I am supposed to protect her. A fine husband I am!”
“Have you told her of your feelings?”
“No.” Hawk turned and poured himself a brandy. His father regarded him with some surprise. “Why ever not?”
“I suppose I am not so certain what she would say to me if I did tell her.” He drank the brandy in one long pull, wiped his hand across his mouth, and gave his father a crooked grin. “We argue and she yells at me to go back to London to my mistress. I wonder if she cares at all. Our courtship wasn’t particularly designed to engender the more tender feelings, and our initial relationship was ... awful, in bed and out of it.”
“She cares,” the marquess said. “Frances’ feelings are akin to an open book, if one knows how to read properly.”
“I don’t believe I have gotten beyond the preface,” said Hawk, then immediately thought of her in his bed, her intense pleasure, her desire to please him as he pleased her. She was an open book to him at those precious times.
He heard his father say, “I had intended to take myself off, but now ... this is a bloody mess, Hawk, and I don’t mind telling you that I loathe mysteries.”
“As I see it, Father, there is only one of two possible reasons. The first—somebody wants Frances removed. The second—she was supposed to be riding Flying Davie this morning, and he was the target.”
“From what Belvis told me, had it not been for Frances’ quick thinking, Tamerlane might have had to be put down. Now he believes that the leg will heal, not in time for the Newmarket races, though.”
“I cannot imagine why anyone would wish to harm Frances,” said Hawk, pursuing his own thoughts. “Now, Flying Davie is another matter. Who, though?”
“He made a fine appearance last week, Hawk. Many men weren’t very pleased.”
“Yes, a lot of money was lost, I doubt not.”
/>
“If Flying Davie was the target, then it had to involve someone here at Desborough. It required knowledge of Frances’ habits with the horse.”
“I know,” Hawk said, and downed more brandy. “The goddamned bastard.”
“Indeed. Of course this person is being paid by someone else. The question is, who?”
Hawk toyed with the idea awhile before blurting out, “It is possible, Father, that Nevil was murdered!”
The marquess simply stared at his son, but Hawk saw his hands fisting at his sides. He got a hold on himself and said tersely, “Tell me.”
Hawk fetched Amalie’s letter and gave it to his father.
“This Amalie,” said the marquess a few minutes later, “is apparently an honorable woman—she certainly has your safety at heart. But perhaps she hasn’t put herself in a terribly safe position, if what she says is true.”
“No, she hasn’t, and I was worried. I sent her five thousand pounds and told her to leave London.”
“Nevil, as much as it grieves me to say it openly, was a greedy bastard. I knew it but chose to keep myself out of it. More fool I!”
“None of it was your fault, Father,” Hawk said. “None of it. Every man chooses his own road, you know that. The question still remains, though, none of what?”
The marquess ruminated, saying finally, his voice meditative, “If Lord Dempsey was responsible for Nevil’s death, then perforce it had to do with racing. And that, unfortunately, brings our Edmund to the fore.”
Hawk cursed very explicitly.
“I know, my boy. There is Beatrice and all that.”
“It occurred to me, Father, that it was Beatrice behind Edmund’s push to buy me out. Perhaps it wasn’t.”
“Or worse, perhaps it was.”
The two men stared at each other. Hawk very carefully set down his brandy snifter. “I am going to speak to Belvis. The horses, particularly Flying Davie, must be protected.”
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