His roar brought forth four stablehands as if they’d been shot from a cannon.
“Where is her ladyship?”
Dan, the eldest, said with a very small nervous quiver in his voice, “‘Er ladyship is likely in the training office with Mr. Belvis, milord.”
The training area was away from the stables, near the eastern paddocks. It had begun to rain in earnest, and Hawk felt water trickling down his neck by the time he gained shelter.
The office door was ajar, and he strode in. The comforting smell of leather, linseed, and various unguents assailed his nostrils.
“Belvis! What the devil is going on here? I thought you had left?”
The moment of reckoning, Frances thought, trying to hide her nervousness. She should have told him, perhaps over breakfast, when he had sirloin in his mouth.
“Hello, my lord,” she said in a ridiculous attempt to stem the tide. “D-did you wish something?”
Hawk looked at Belvis. He was a short, very wiry little man, balding, his face merry but seamed from years spent working in the out-of-doors. He looked younger than Hawk remembered.
“Yes, Frances,” Hawk said, his voice now well-controlled. He even smiled. “I should like to see you, if you please. We will go to the tack room.”
I don’t want to go!
“As you wish, my lord. I will be back, Belvis. Please continue.”
Continue what? Hawk wanted to demand, but he held his tongue.
The tack room wasn’t at all as Hawk remembered it. It was, first of all, spanking clean; all the harnesses, bridles, saddles, were shiny with care and fastened neatly in their proper places.
Hawk pointed to an old chair. “Sit,” he said curtly.
Frances sat.
“Now, madam, you will tell me what the devil is going on here.” His legs were planted apart, his arms crossed over his chest. He was, she realized, spoiling for a fight.
“Yes, Frances?” he asked, his voice silky.
18
My sentence is for open war.
—MILTON
Frances felt as though she was in an open field and the enemy was charging toward her, bayonets at the ready. There was no retreat, of course. She said, pleased at the steadiness of her voice, the reasonableness of her tone, “Desborough Hall is a very respected racing stable and stud, my ... Hawk. I managed to talk Belvis into returning, as you saw, so that we could bring things up to where they were before your brother died.”
“Did Carruthers clear the money for this ambitious project of yours?”
Frances felt a surge of relief. It was an obvious inquiry, and he’d asked it a very calm voice. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the bayonets.
“No, of course not,” she assured him. “I would do nothing so improper as that, and neither would Marcus agree to such a thing.” She slanted him a wary look, then forged ahead. “I borrowed the money from your father.”
“You what?”
So much for calm and reason, she thought. “Your father lent me—us—the money,” she said again.
Hawk wanted to roar, but he managed to contain it, and said with his patented sneer, “I suppose my precious sire also lent you the money for all the wasted expenditures in the house? Crockery? Linens? Uniforms? My God, madam how much blunt do I now owe my father?”
“Of course not! That is, I did not borrow money from your father for the household. Why, as household expenditures, I assumed, and Marcus agreed with me, that such decisions were mine to make. The household is, after all, my responsibility.”
“How much money did he give you to start things up again?” He waved his hand about.