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.”
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“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.”