Good God, thought Hawk. Unfortunately, the absent Alicia didn’t answer Frances’ question.
On the edge of sleep, Hawk had his own endless stream of questions, and none of them with answers. Why did they want the Desborough stock? Why did they want Flying Davie dead? Ah, Edmund, I think
you are one of the villains in this, but dear God, I hope Beatrice isn’t. He couldn’t bear the thought that his sister could actually be involved.
Was Frances pregnant?
The Desborough procession pulled into the courtyard of the Lame Duck Inn the following evening at six o‘clock. Situated on the outskirts of Doncaster, near the Doncaster racing tracks, the inn boasted a stable of requisite size, enough rooms for the fifteen members of their party, and a private dining room.
The day had been warm and Frances had hated every minute spent inside the stuffy carriage. Agnes wasn’t the most stimulating of companions, her conversation consisting primarily of comments on each village they passed through, regardless of its claim to the unique or, more likely than not, the commonplace. This, of course, for her Scottish mistress, who had never seen England and required constant edification. Frances wanted to throttle Agnes by the time she alighted from the carriage. All her stubborn husband’s fault, of course.
“You will not ride with your shoulder still sore,” Hawk had said, and Frances cajoled, pleaded, shouted, and cursed, all to no effect, blast him!
“I will not take a single chance that your horse could become excited and you hurt your shoulder again.”
“Damnable, overbearing, arrogant—”
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Oh, nothing, Agnes! I am just bored sitting here doing nothing. The day is so very fine, not too hot, save in here, of course. That dratted man ...”
Frances found no fault with either the Lame Duck Inn or its proprietor, Mr. Smith. Lord and Lady Rothermere were treated with great deference and provided a meal that tested Mrs. Smith’s culinary abilities.
When their meal was over, Hawk rose, kissed Frances, and said, “Why don’t you get some sleep now, my dear?”
“And you, Hawk?”
“I am your gallant knight. I will stand outside your door, lance in hand.”
“I should rather have you inside my door. About that lance—”
“Frances! You shock me!”
“I but speak the way you do, husband,” she said, gazing up at him through her thick lashes.
He felt that inevitable surge of lust for her, and it required all his strength of purpose to leave her. He contented himself with a kiss that left him breathing hard.
He slept near to the stable, Mr. Uckley’s loud snores dinning in his ears. They managed a fairly early start the following morning, their destination that day the King George Inn in Grantham.
Hawk slept in his saddle, a trick he’d learned in his army days on the Peninsula. Marcus, saddle-sore, rode with Frances in her carriage.
That evening, Hawk again left Frances and took himself to the stables to keep guard.
He was drowsy, his eyelids very heavy. Something was wrong, he knew it. He heard Belvis snoring. Something was very wrong....
Shouts of “Fire! Fire!” jerked him awake. He stared blankly at the flaming roof of the stable, then shook his head vigorously to clear his dulled mind.
“Oh God,” he said, and began to shake Belvis violently.
He heard the screams of the horses and bounded to his feet.
His movements were at first sluggish. Men were filling the courtyard, flinging buckets of water on the stable roof, and bravely trying to save the horses within.
Suddenly the heavens opened and it rained torrents. Within moments, the fire was out, leaving only dismal trails of smoke weaving upward.
Hawk, his face blackened with smoke, looked at Belvis. “We were fools,” he said. “Complete fools.”
“Drugged?” said Marcus.