Page 12 of The General's Gift
Hawk didn’t respond. He was not in the habit of discussing battle plans.
They passed through the eastern gate. The estate unfolded before them like a regiment on inspection. Not a rose out of place in the hedgerows. Not a weed dared show its face among the gravel. Gardeners clipped with military precision, tools gleaming, eyes forward. One straightened, touched his cap in salute.
This was how a house should run. Unlike those disorderly piles the aristocracy called homes, where parlors bled into drawing rooms and no one knew where the housekeeper kept the brandy, here, every man had a task. Every task, a purpose. Every hour, accounted for.
The butler opened the door, and they crossed to the study.
Major Graves stood by the hearth, spine straight, hands clasped behind his back. At Hawk’s entrance, he pivoted smartly and saluted.
“You requested my presence, sir?”
“You’re assigned to Lady Cecilia Stratton,” Hawk said.
Graves nodded, his brow tightening. “May I inquire as to the nature of the mission?”
“Transformation,” Hawk said. “The subject will be trained and molded into a proper English lady, one fit for polite society and, most critically, marriage. She will converse without embellishment, dine without disaster, and, by God, she will not quote Shakespeare at the table.”
If he enforced order, this mission would be a success. His duty, done. No more late nights thinking about that trembling gaze, and how she alone carried all the color in the world.
“Understood, sir.”
Nicki cleared his throat and made for the couch, stretching like he meant to sprawl across the cushions.
Hawk raised one brow.
The boy froze mid-recline, reconsidered, and lowered himself into the armchair instead.
Only Hawk sat on that couch. His staff knew it. His son knew it. He had brought the ugly thing back from India. The monsoon had come down like the judgment of God, and Hawk—then just a green-blooded captain—had held it as a barricade against a French-led ambush. With three wounded men as his only support and a saber jammed under the frame to brace it, he hadn’t surrendered. Not then. Not ever.
Later, a surgeon had stitched him atop those very cushions, muttering that the damned furniture had more holes than the man. They’d tried to burn it. He’d had it crated and shipped home.
Hawk had earned his first promotion that day. And his name. The Hawk Who Never Surrenders.
Hawk crossed his arms. “The Lady is spirited, Major Graves. Unorthodox. You’ll need to be firm, but patient. And never let her know you’re afraid.”
Graves stood at attention, but something in the rigid line of his jaw betrayed him. The man had faced musket fire with less tension. “With all due respect, sir... why me?”
“You served with honor in the Peninsula. You prefer order. You’re not easily distracted by… tulle.”
“Sir, I’ve held lines under cannon fire. But this—this—”
“You’ve marched through Salamanca on one biscuit a day and been shot at by French hussars dressed as nuns,” Hawk said dryly. “I doubt Lady Cecilia will pose much greater risk.”
Graves exhaled slowly. “Is this truly a military assignment, sir?”
Hawk’s voice turned iron. “This is a campaign. And like all campaigns, it requires discipline, patience, and a willingness to face the enemy without flinching.”
Major Graves exhaled slowly, and then nodded. “Tactics, sir?
Hawk leaned over the desk, hands braced. “During phase one, absolute secrecy. Information is distributed strictly on a need-to-know basis. I won’t have opportunists infesting the park.”
Nicki cocked an eyebrow. “And how do you plan to keep a ballerina hidden in Kent? Chain her to a practice barre?”
“She will be managed,” Hawk said, not looking at his impertinent son.
Graves cleared his throat. “What about the regiment, sir?”
Hawk moved to the window. From there, he could see the long barrack roofs behind the stables—the heart of the 13th Dragoons, the regiment his great-grandfather had raised and bled for. A brotherhood that had thundered across continents, from the forests of Germany to the jungles of India, and now stood as a wall against Napoleon’s ambitions.
