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24
Quarrels wouldnot last long if the fault were only on one side.
—LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
The marquess stared first at his glowering son, then at his equally glowering daughter-in-law. There was so much tension in the air he felt he could probably taste it on his toast.
“Well,” he said brightly, “it is a lovely day today.”
Hawk grunted.
Frances speared a bite of egg. She was so furious, she wanted to kill and maim—him! She had, she recalled quite clearly, awakened some two hours before, a silly, very female smile on her face, only to realize that she was in her own bed, in her nightgown, and she was alone. Oh, curse him. She had felt gentled, and soft.
Never again.
And he obviously had felt nothing, absolutely nothing, else why would he have carried her back to her bed? And put her into her nightgown ... and looked at her, and she hadn’t known it. She’d probably been dreaming silly women’s dreams, fool that she was.
“When are you leaving?” she asked her husband in so cold a voice that it could have iced the tea.
Hawk took another bite of toast.
“Leave!” the marquess demanded, looking startled. “What the devil are you talking about, Frances?”
She said, seeing that Hawk was concentrating on the crock of creamy butter beside his plate, “Why shouldn’t he return to London? After all, my lord, he cares not a farthing for Desborough Hall or the stud or our racers or ... or for anything!”
“Father,” Hawk said, gently setting down his slice of toast, “I have sent a draft to your secretary, Conyon, for five thousand pounds. I trust that in the future you won’t waste more of your money or mine.”
It was too much. Frances eased back her chair and tossed her white napkin onto her still-filled plate. “A man’s power,” she said in rattling tones of sarcasm, “you don’t care for anything save your own pleasure—”
“I shouldn’t say that is precisely true,” Hawk said mildly, and gave her a mocking, intimate look that made her flush, not with embarrassment, but with anger.
“You don’t care! Sell the bloody stock! Go back to London! I’m sure I don’t care either!”
“I believe first I shall check into this mystery with Belvis,” he continued in that same mild tone.
“What mystery?” the marquess demanded.
“It would appear that Flying Davie’s dam died before she could have possibly foaled him,” said Hawk. “I think I shall have a look at the bill of sale.” He shook his head. “So many responsibilities, so many duties, so many demands on my time and ... energy.”
“You don’t deserve to die in your bed, my lord! You deserve to be flogged—”
“By you, my dear wife?”
“I should flay you with inexhaustible enthusiasm.”
“I do wish you two would cease your bickering for just a moment,” the marquess said. “Ah, Rosie, more tea if you please.”
Not another word was spoken until Rosie, her ears at attention, was forced with a very lagging step from the breakfast room.
“There has to be a simple explanation for this,” the marquess continued. “What does Belvis say?”
“He doesn’t understand it,” Frances said, calming her ruffled feathers. “He is disturbed.”
“It will doubtless all be explained when I see the bill of sale,” Hawk said, dismissing the matter.
Several hours later, he realized that an explanation was not in the offing. No bill of sale could be found. He and Marcus searched every conceivable place. There were no bills of sale for Tamerlane or for Clancy’s Pride either. Odd, Hawk thought, but shrugged it off. He had no idea what Nevil could have done with the papers, but doubtless they had to be somewhere.
He strolled out to the paddocks to observe Frances astride Flying Davie, taking him through a very controlled series of maneuvers. She was an excellent horse-woman, no doubt about that. And she’d been right about her natural ability with horses. Flying Davie followed her each instruction most willingly. She also enjoyed her riding habit, if that is what it could be called. She was wearing a brown wool skirt that was divided allowing the freedom of breeches.
