Chapter Ten
Hawksley regarded her with that blank stare that was all too familiar to Clara. It often accompanied what she considered to be a brilliant deduction, but what others seemed to find as gibberish.
“You have reasoned out . . . have you received some new information?”
She gave him a steady glance. They both knew that she had not been allowed to step a foot outside the house without Dillon hovering like a rabid guard dog at her side. Nor did anyone know where to reach her even if they did wish to send her a missive.
Not that she had felt in any way imprisoned, she had to concede. She had no desire to flaunt her presence in London when someone wished her dead. Nor did she feel like indulging in the various entertainments when Mr. Chesterfield was missing and poor Hawksley’s brother murdered.
Perhaps there had been a few occasions when she had been restlessly aware of Hawksley’s absence. And a sense of regret that he seemed to have lost all interest in kissing her after their delicious interlude in the carriage, but she was swift to squash such selfish emotions.
Hawksley was naturally consumed with the need to capture his brother’s murderer. She more than anyone understood such an intense distraction. She often forgot everyone and everything when puzzling a mystery.
And so she had devoted her time to more productive means than fretting over the strange yearning for Hawksley’s company.
“No. I just took the time to consider the facts.”
“What facts?”
“So far as we know, the only connection between myself and Lord Doulton is Mr. Chesterfield,” she explained. “So we must begin with that.”
His head tilted to one side as he regarded her with a curious intensity.
“We still have no evidence that Lord Doulton had anything to do with Mr. Chesterfield.”
“True, but we must start somewhere,” she pointed out.
“Very well.”
Clara carefully organized her thoughts. Her conclusions called for a great deal of supposition, but she believed the logic to be sound. Now she had to convince Hawksley.
“If we may suppose that your brother took the manuscript to Mr. Chesterfield and learned something nefarious about the document, then it might be that your brother returned to Lord Doulton to question him on how he came to possess such an artifact.”
His lips twisted. “It is possible. His curiosity would have been roused as to why a gentleman without the least interest in things scholarly would have an ancient papal petition lying about his house.” His hand abruptly hit the table. “God, for such an intelligent gentleman he could be so bloody naïve.”
Clara ignored the pang in her heart. Hawksley was in need of her intellect at the moment, not her emotions.
“And in approaching Lord Doulton he might have revealed Mr. Chesterfield’s assistance.”
“Ah.” Comprehension dawned in the blue eyes. “Which would explain why Lord Doulton would turn his attention to the church historian.” There was a short pause as he followed her line of reasoning. “But I still do not comprehend how you became involved.”
“What if Lord Doulton did manage to either frighten Mr. Chesterfield away from London or . . . worse?” She stumbled over the mere mention of Mr. Chesterfield lying dead in some shallow grave. The thought was simply too unbearable. “He might have searched his home to discover if there was anyone to whom Mr. Chesterfield might have revealed his knowledge of any disreputable dealings.”
He conceded her logic with a nod of his head. “It is what I would do.”
“If he did so, he might very well have come across a letter Mr. Chesterfield was writing to me. His disappearance did occur at the same time he would be expected to send his monthly correspondence.”
His fingers abruptly tightened upon hers. “You believe Chesterfield wrote to you of his suspicions?”
She grimaced, not yet prepared to take that great a leap of faith. For all her belief that her intellectual connection with Mr. Chesterfield was somehow superior to an emotional connection, she was beginning to suspect that it revealed very little of the true nature of the man.
In just a few days she knew far more of Hawksley than she had learned in an entire year of correspondence with Mr. Chesterfield.
“That is impossible to say, but in any event the letter would have been composed of mathematical equations,” she reminded him. “Lord Doulton would have been unable to read it.”
“Then . . . ah, he would have presumed it was some sort of code.”
She smiled at his ready understanding. “Precisely.”
Absently he stroked her fingers, his brow furrowed. “But if he stole the letter and knew you never received it, why would he consider you a threat?”
Clara gave a small shrug. “I can only suppose that he sent someone to keep watch on me. After all, he could not be certain that Mr. Chesterfield had not written more than one letter to me.”
“And when you made plans to travel to London . . .”
“His worst fears were confirmed.”
His eyes darkened with a suppressed fury. “Damn.”
Sucking in a deep breath, she prepared herself for the next hurdle to overcome. Convincing Hawksley of her theory was one thing. Convincing him that she was the best suited to prove her theory was quite another story.
Men were rarely reasonable when they were being . . . well, men.
“’Tis still all speculation, but I do believe it would be worthwhile to see if we can discover whether or not Lord Doulton has my letter or anything of Mr. Chesterfield’s in his possession,” she murmured cautiously. “If nothing else, it would assist to confirm we are on the right path. And there is always the hope that Mr. Chesterfield did mention something of your brother or the manuscript in his missive to me.”
A grim determination clenched his features, reminding her forcibly of the first time she had laid eyes upon him. He was a man who desired action. A means to strike at his enemy, not to lurk about in the shadows.
“I think you are right.” With a smooth motion he was on his feet. “I shall contact Santos and Biddles. I will need their assistance if I am to search Lord Doulton’s house.”
Realizing he was preparing to charge off into the dark, Clara abruptly stepped directly before him, her hands on her hips.
“We shall need their assistance.”
“We?” He gave a startled frown before his gaze narrowed. “Oh no, Clara. I absolutely refuse to allow you to put yourself in such danger.”
Quite prepared for his typical reaction, Clara maintained her air of calm certainty.
“Actually, Hawksley, ’tis not your place to forbid me anything,” she stated in firm tones. “If I choose to search through Lord Doulton’s home, I am perfectly free to do so.”
The diamond earring winked in the candlelight as he slowly leaned forward, no doubt believing he could somehow intimidate her.
Ridiculous, of course. Most females might shrivel beneath a forbidding male. She only found it a reason to dig in her heels with greater effort.
“I could force you to remain here.”
“You could.” She smiled slowly. “But you would not.”
He glared at her for a long moment, then with a low curse he tossed his hands in the air.
“Bloody hell. It is what I would do if I had the least amount of sense.”
Moving forward, she lightly touched his arm. “Consider, Hawksley, you shall need me to transcribe the letter, if there is one, since we dare not take it and alert Lord Doulton of our interest in it. And you cannot deny that I am far more likely to take note of anything unusual.”
He was silent a long moment, a muscle in his jaw jerking as he gritted his teeth. At last he gave a sharp laugh as he reached out to tilt her chin upward.
“Will you tell me one thing, kitten?” he murmured.
“What?”
“Do you happen to notice whether or not I have suddenly acquired a ring through my nose?”
On this occasion it was Clara’s turn to appear bewildered by his enigmatic words.
“A ring?”
“Never mind.” With a faint shake of his head, he lowered his head to claim her mouth in a swift, demanding kiss. “I must speak with Biddles. I shall return later.”
Clara watched his retreat with a sigh.
His ready belief in her skills deeply touched parts of her that were perhaps best left untouched.
And worse, that kiss had stirred dark needs that most certainly were best left unstirred.
Blast and blast. She was beginning to suspect that this adventure might be more costly than she had ever anticipated.
Biddles leaned back in his chair, his pointed nose twitching as he watched Hawksley toss back the finely aged whiskey.
Even in the shadows of the cramped office above Hellion’s Den, the dandy managed to be near blinding in a canary coat and jade waistcoat. With a froth of lace at his neck and cuffs, he should have appeared ridiculous. There was nothing ridiculous, however, in the narrowed eyes that held a disconcerting glint of sly amusement.
It was a glint that would have been worrisome to Hawksley under normal circumstances. Biddles possessed a rather wicked ability to see more than he should. And a habit of using that advantage to manipulate those about him.
At the moment, however, Hawksley was impervious to everything but his dark thoughts.
What the devil had he been thinking?
Or more to the point, why had he not been thinking?
He knew quite well that it was beyond foolish to allow Clara to put herself in such danger. Hell, she should not even step outside his door, let alone waltz into the home of the gentleman who desired her dead.
Anything could happen. They could be spotted by a nosy neighbor. A servant could stumble upon them. For God’s sake, Lord Doulton himself might make a sudden appearance.
It was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. A breathless panic. An itchy rash.
And yet, he had gazed down in those pleading, magnificent emerald eyes and his brain had turned to mush.
Idiot.
He was a spectacular idiot. There simply was no other explanation.
At last Biddles cleared his throat. “I will have you know, Hawk, that I pride myself on serving only the finest and most rare of spirits. However, if you insist on guzzling it as if it were no more than swill, I shall send to the kitchens for a bottle of Blue Ruin.”
With a blink Hawksley realized he was standing in the middle of the office with an empty glass clenched in his hands. He grimaced as he set aside the glass and sucked in a deep breath.
“Forgive me, Biddles. I fear that I am rather distracted.”
“Understandable, old friend. You have endured much.” The thin face hardened. “Lord Doulton shall pay, that I assure you.”
Hawksley gave a short laugh. “’Tis not Lord Doulton who has my nerves twisted into knots. That honor can solely be laid at the feet of Miss Clara Dawson.”
“Miss Dawson? You intrigue me.” Biddles abruptly leaned forward, his sly smile returning. “Tell me, Hawk, what has she done that has you in such a twit?”
Hawksley folded his arms over his chest. “Do not smile at me in that manner, Biddles.”
“What manner would that be?”
“A condemned man who is pleased to have a partner in his misery.”
“Is that how you feel? Condemned?”
“That all depends upon the hour.”
The pointed nose twitched in avid curiosity. “Beg pardon?”
Hawksley blew out a sigh. He was not particularly comfortable in revealing his emotions. Hell, under normal circumstances, boiling tar and feathers could not have wrenched a confession from him.
But Miss Clara Dawson had ensured these were not normal circumstances, and he possessed a near-overwhelming urge to discover if he had completely lost his mind.
“I haven’t a clue what I shall feel from one moment to another,” he growled. “In one breath I desire to toss Miss Dawson into the nearest carriage and have her sent back to that damnable village so that she will no longer be a plague to me, and the next I want her flat on her back in my bed.”
Far from appearing shocked by his words, Biddles tilted his head to one side with a smirk.
“I should choose the bed if I were you. According to Santos, this Miss Dawson is not only beautiful but extraordinarily intelligent.”
Hawksley’s teeth snapped together. A pox on the dashing smuggler. “Santos plays a dangerous game.”
“He is not happy unless he is walking the edge of disaster.” Biddles shrugged. “Still, his taste in women is impeccable. If I were you I would make her my mistress before he can seduce her away.”
Hawksley was not even aware he was moving until his hands slapped loudly onto the desk. “Damn you, Miss Dawson is a lady, not a light skirt.”
The little rat did not even blink. Instead he leaned back in his seat and templed his fingers beneath his chin.
“Then make her your wife.”
“Wife?” Hawksley jerked back as if he had taken a roundhouse to the chin. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Why not?”
Why not? Good God, there were a dozen, nay, a hundred reasons why not. The fact that he could not think of one was simply because he was so utterly stunned by the absurd suggestion.
“What the blazes would I do with a wife?” he at last blustered.
“If I need tell you, Hawk, then perhaps you should give up on women altogether,” Biddles drawled.
His gaze narrowed. He did not need anyone to tell him what could be done with Clara, a wedding ring, and a bed. It was seared into his mind.
“There is more to a wife than bedding her.”
“Quite a bit more,” Biddles readily agreed. “Should you be fortunate enough, she will also be a friend, a helpmate, and the one person in the world whom you will trust above all others.”
Hawksley’s chest tightened in a frightening manner before he forced himself to frown. Helpmate. . . fah.
“You sound like a ghastly poet.”
“No, merely like a happily married man.”
“Not all men can claim such satisfaction,” he swiftly pointed out. “Indeed, the clubs are littered with husbands seeking solitude from their nagging wives.”
Biddles gave a superior lift of his brow. “That is because they sought a wife they believed would suit their needs. One who was beautiful, or wealthy, or from the proper family.”
“And you think I should seek a bride who does not suit my needs? Rather absurd logic, even for you, Biddles.”
“I do not think you should seek one at all,” he corrected smoothly. “I believe that fate will ensure you stumble across the true woman for you. Or sometimes fate just tosses her straight at your head.”
Just for a heartbeat Hawksley recalled the moment he had opened the door to the carriage. There had been a jolt of recognition. As if he had been waiting for the lovely angel. Perhaps all his life.
No. God, no.
He shoved his hands through the long strands of his hair. “Enough. I have no interest in acquiring a wife.”
Biddles’s expression became suddenly somber. “’Tis unfortunate, but there is no escaping the fact that you now possess responsibilities that cannot be ignored forever, Hawk. One of which is to marry and produce children.”
Hawksley froze, his countenance grim.
“Responsibilities that I will not consider until after I have caught Fredrick’s murderer.” He squared his shoulders. “Now can we please turn our attention to the reason I sought you out this evening?”