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“Where is Lady Frances?”
Otis felt a brief shiver of foreboding. He wanted to glide out of the drawing room and go directly to his room and bolt the door. “Ah, my lord, she left this afternoon for York. She had dealings, and I believe that she and Agnes—Agnes accompanied her of course, as well as a footman—were spending the night there. She will return on the morrow, my lord ... as you should know, my lord.”
Otis had known she was fleeing, and at this moment he wished that he had taken the footman’s place. He had assumed, more fool he, that she had told his lordship. The earl looked brutal, which was odd, Otis reflected motionlessly, because he hadn’t moved a muscle.
Hawk asked very calmly, his voice genial, “Where is she staying, Otis?”
Otis wished he could ease himself behind the wainscoting. Instead, he drew a deep breath. “I don’t know, my lord.”
“How many inns are there in York, do you think, Otis?”
“I couldn’t hazard a guess, my lord. A great many, I should suppos
e.”
“You are doubtless right,” Hawk said smoothly. “Fetch Marcus for me, if you please, Otis. I desire his company at dinner, unless, of course, he also accompanied my wife on her little jaunt?”
“No, my lord, Mr. Carruthers is here. He, ah, planned to dine with you, my lord.”
“Instructions from Lady Frances?”
“I believe so, my lord.”
Marcus didn’t like it, not one bit. He wondered if the earl would ask him to remove himself immediately from Desborough Hall. To his intense surprise and relief, the earl greeted him graciously enough, remarking blandly after they were seated at the dining table, “Such a pity that Frances must needs be gone this evening.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Marcus. A footman served the vermicelli soup and Marcus grabbed his spoon.
“I believe,” said Hawk after a moment, eyeing his steward’s shaking hand, “that we are to be blessed with a fricandeau of veal and lobster cutlets this evening.”
“Most delightful, my lord,” said Marcus, wishing he could taste the doubtless delicious soup. It slithered down his throat.
Hawk raised his wineglass, twirled it between long fingers, and said in an interested voice, “Her ladyship has told me of all your plans, Marcus. Is my father charging me interest for the five thousand pounds?”
The soup suddenly slithered down the wrong way, and Marcus coughed. “No, my lord, not to my knowledge. He was, er, most enthusiastic about it all.”
“I see,” said Hawk, still twirling his wine, seemingly intent on the deep red liquid. “Her ladyship told me of all her expenditures—repair of the paddocks, the new trainers ... ah, I seem to forget the other expenses.”
Solid ground, Marcus thought with vast relief. He listed each expenditure, slowly and precisely. When he paused, the earl merely nodded to him to continue. “And, of course, Lady Frances decided to place advertisement about the stud, and—”
The wine stem shattered. “She what?”
“Not in the Gazette or any local newspapers, my lord,” Marcus added quickly, staring at the blood-red wine spreading its stain over the white tablecloth. A footman had started forward, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of the earl’s face. “In the Racing Calendar and the Turf—”
“My God, I don’t believe it!” Hawk interrupted, his voice so filled with rage that the footman took a hasty step back. “She has reduced me ... Desborough Hall ... to a bloody tradesman?” He slammed his fist on the table and a sauced slice of veal jumped off its platter.
Hawk roared to his feet, nearly upsetting his chair. He drew up suddenly, realizing that there was a servant present. He cursed softly under his breath, then drew himself stiff as a poker at the entrance of Otis.
“Otis,” he said pleasantly, “you and the footman may remove yourselves. I will ring when we need you.”
“Yes, my lord,” Otis said, casting a pitying look toward poor Marcus Carruthers.
The footman nearly raced Otis to the door.
“Now,” said Hawk, leaning over the table, his palms flat, “will you tell me that you endeavored to talk her out of this nonsense?”
Marcus licked his lips. He felt a sudden pain in his belly.
“Actually, my lord,” he managed finally, clutching thankfully at a sop, “Lord Danvers is due on the morrow with his mare. He wishes to put her to stud with Gentleman Dan. It is a fee of two hundred pounds, my lord,” he added hopefully. “He wrote to Lady Frances immediately upon learning that Desborough was again a stud. He was most delighted, my lord. I believe Lady Frances has received other inquiries as well in the past two weeks.”
