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“I’m the one to blame,” said Mr. Uckley, looking so abashed that Hawk hurried to reassure him. It was Marcus who was holding Flying Davie’s halter, the horse quivering with fear, his eyes rolling wildly, but otherwise unhurt.
“Frances!” Hawk suddenly sent frantic eyes toward the inn. “See to Clancy’s Pride!” he shouted over his shoulder, his long legs eating up the distance.
She was sleeping soundly, a drugged sleep, and he shook her until she finally opened groggy eyes.
“You weren’t the target, Frances,” he said slowly, stroking her hair. “Someone drugged our food and set the stables on fire. We’ve been saved by an act of nature. It’s raining so hard the roads will probably be flooded.”
“The horses?”
“Safe, thank God. Belvis is seeing to them. It was Marcus who brought Flying Davie out unharmed.”
Inquiries made of the owner led nowhere. He knew nothing, indeed was indignant at such a suggestion that the food was drugged. No, no strangers had slipped into his kitchen. Of course he would make further inquiries, but Hawk placed little reliance upon his doing anything.
The roads were very muddy the next morning, but not impassable. Hawk elected to continue to Newmarket. They arrived. bone-weary, at nearly ten o‘clock the following night at the Queen’s Inn. The marquess was waiting for them, his face alight with pleasure.
“I’d hoped you’d push on,” he said, embracing his son, then Frances.
Hawk told him what had happened, and the marquess looked ready to explode with fury. “It’s too much, dammit!” he yelled. Frances, afraid that he would expire with apoplexy, offered him a glass of Madeira. “Incidentally, Hawk,” he said after a moment, “I’ve sent a message to Captain Anders of the Keymark, asking the fellow to join us here.”
Hawk smiled. “I did also,” he said, “only I didn’t know the fellow’s name.”
“I should have thought of it sooner,” the marquess continued, upset with himself. “Damn, I’ve been a blind fool!”
“Don’t distress yourself further, Father. Now, would you like to join us for a late dinner?”
Newmarket was a town unlike the others they’d passed through, Frances saw the following morning. It boasted many inns and shops and stables, since for many years its livelihood had been dependent on the races.
“ ‘Tis the Duke of Portland who owns much of Newmarket Heath,” the marquess told her as they strolled along the main street. “He has plans, I hear, to clear off acres of the furze and scrub and lay down grass for training grounds. Costly, though, probably will take him years to get it done, if ever.”
When they reached the stables Hawk had rented for the horses and their trainers, Frances grinned to see many gentlemen clustered about the horses’ traveling stalls.
“Fascinating idea, my lord,” one gentleman was saying to Hawk. “You are to be congratulated.”
“Actually, it was my wife’s doing. She was the one who found the smithy in York.” He looked to see her, and beckoned. “Here she is, gentlemen.”
Frances was quite aware that the gentlemen found no favor with her contribution.
“I say, my lord,” Sir Johnathon Luddle said, “this one stall has been damaged. Fire?”
“Yes, there was an unfortunate ... accident on our way here.”
“Your cattle all right?” asked another gentleman.
“Yes,” Hawk said.
The man snorted. “Damned nonsense, if you ask me, and I’ll wager it was anything but an accident! We’re all paying fortunes to protect our cattle from villains. Did you hear about Ashland’s problems?”
There were many ladies in Newmarket and Frances quickly discovered they were all as interested in gambling as the gentlemen. Gambling, flirting, and gossip as well, in equal portions, she quickly amended to herself. As for herself, she had fifty pounds. It would all go on Flying Davie. Only her husband would be the recipient of her flirting.
There was a party that evening at the Golden Goose, the entire inn having been hired by Lord Delacort, a very elderly gentleman with gout who held court from a mammoth chair in the center of the large parlor, his leg propped up on several pillows. A nervous-looking man, reed-thin, stood by his shoulder, ready, Frances thought, to spring into action when Lord Delacort so much as whispered a command.
“I should own the damned inn,” Lord Delacort was complaining in a lo
ud, quite carrying voice. “Ridiculous to make old Neddy, the proprietor, rich as Croesus. Timmons, you will see to it tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Timmons quickly.
Lord Delacort appeared to ruminate on this for a while, then beckoned imperiously at Frances. “Come here, girl!”
