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“He died, sir?” Frances asked without much interest “My grandson? Goodness no! Stout boy, at Eton now.”
“No, sir, the foal, Starfire.”
“No, not at all. Some damned villains stole him! Right out of his stall! I searched high and low for him, but no use. Disappeared off the face of England. Damned bounders.”
Frances felt a stirring of something very cold in her stomach. Surely not, she thought—the name was a mere coincidence. Still, she heard herself say, “You said his name was Starfire. He had a distinctive mark, perhaps? Or simply your grandson’s whimsy?”
She was holding her breath, terrified of his answer. It was quick in coming.
“Most distinctive. A white star on his forehead and a spray of white at his fetlocks as well. The rest of him a rich bay.” He shook his head. “His dam was Clorinda, and she had the very same coloring.”
Frances managed to pull herself together, but her mind was teeming. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I should very much like you to meet my husband.”
“Go along with you, girl,” Lord Delacort said, waving an impatient hand. “Bring the boy here. I’ll tell you that I won’t spare his feelings if he’s like his damned brother!”
Oh my God, thought Frances as she walked blindly toward her husband. Everything made sense now. Awful sense.
30
See how love and murder will out.
—WILLIAM CONGREVE
“His lordship isn’t well! His gout ... the chill evening air! Truly, this is all most awkward, my lord!”
Mr. Timmons mopped his brow, but his master, Lord Delacort, was silent as he walked between Hawk and Marcus toward the stables.
“It nears midnight, my lord,” Mr. Timmons continued. He was walking backward, taking double steps to keep ahead of Hawk. “My lord!” Surely this could wait—“
“Shut your trap, damn you, Timmons!” Lord Delacort roared. “You’re an old woman, don’t know why I put up with you! I should have drowned you long ago!”
Hawk’s jaw was set. Frances said nothing. She was suddenly very afraid. Beatrice was with them, the marquess at her side.
“So you think to make me quiver in my boots at the sight of your Flying Davie, eh, my girl?”
“You very well might,” said Frances.
“Really, Father, what is all this about?” Beatrice demanded. “I shall surely catch a chill!”
The marquess said nothing, which was most odd in Beatrice’s experience.
She shot him a quizzical look, but his expression was so formidable that she found she shuddered, and not from the cool evening air.
They reached the left wing of the stables. It looked an armed fortress. Belvis, three grooms, two trainers, and Mr. Uckley surrounded the two stalls.
“You take no chances, I see,” Lord Delacort said, blinking as they came into the well-lit stables.
“No, sir, not a one,” said Hawk.
Frances placed a gentle hand on Lord Delacort’s arm. “Sir, this is most important. You must see Flying Davie. Belvis, would you please?”
Belvis opened the stall and brought Flying Davie out of his stall.
There was absolute silence, all eyes trained on the horse and the gouty old man.
Flying Davie stood docilely, regarding the intruders with baleful patience.
Frances stared at Lord Delacort. She saw his eyes widen, heard him whisper, “Starfire.”
