Chapter Eleven
It was nearly a week later when the plan was at last put into place. Throughout the long days Clara had remained patient, although she had chafed at the knowledge that she was unable to offer assistance in the actual details of the scheme.
In truth it had been Hawksley’s friend Lord Bidwell who had taken charge of arranging the high-stakes hazard game that was perfectly suited to lure Lord Doulton to Hellion’s Den for the evening, and Santos who had devoted several evenings to covertly watching the servants’ routines so there would be no unpleasant surprises.
As for Hawksley, he had disappeared each afternoon only to return when the dawn was breaking.
At first Clara had feared he was avoiding her.
He certainly would not be the first man to go to extraordinary lengths to flee her presence. Some even went so far as to leap behind bushes when they spotted her walking down a lane.
Why should he be any different?
Fortunately, the horrid notion barely had time to slice through her heart before she discovered the truth.
Returning her breakfast tray to the kitchen, she had heard Dillon speaking to his sister, who had recently arrived to take over the housekeeping duties. He had confessed that Hawksley had been forced to return to the gambling hells to earn enough money to pay for the wages of the increased staff.
Her fear had shifted to guilt.
Oh . . . blast.
She knew perfectly well that Hawksley had only hired the housekeeper and maids to please her.
Servants he could ill afford.
Still, there seemed no simple means of confronting him with her knowledge. Even she knew better than to offer him the funds she had brought with her, as meager as they might be, or to suggest that he allow her to care for the house without assistance.
Gentlemen were astonishingly sensitive when it came to such matters. And the less money they possessed, the more sensitive they became.
It was all a mystery to Clara. But then, most things that had to do with the opposite sex were a mystery to her. Such strange creatures.
It seemed best to hold her tongue until she could consider a means of easing his burden without harming his pride.
At last the days passed and the plans were in place and Clara discovered herself rattling through London in the closed carriage with a clearly tense Hawksley.
She allowed his ceaseless lectures to wash over her as she smoothed her hands over the pants and shabby coat Dillon had procured for her. It felt odd to be dressed as a man, but she had to admit Hawksley had been right. Such attire gave her much more freedom than that blasted crepe dress from the netherworld. And best of all, her hair had been shoved beneath a hat rather than concealed behind a heavy veil.
She was fully prepared for her life of crime.
Shrouded in the darkness of the mews, the carriage came to a silent halt and Hawksley assisted her into the narrow alley. Still without speaking, she discovered herself being hoisted over the high wall. She stifled a squeak as she was swung over the top to land awkwardly on the other side.
She was quick, however, to have herself upright and dusted off before Hawksley landed softly beside her. He would use any excuse, no matter how trifling, to force her to remain in the carriage.
As if to prove her point, he regarded her with a searching gaze before reluctantly pulling her toward the looming stone structure.
“Here we are,” he whispered.
Clara’s eyes widened as she counted the arched windows that glinted in the moonlight. She did not doubt her cottage could fit in the kitchens alone.
“Good heavens. It is quite . . . lavish, is it not?”
Hawksley gave an inelegant snort. “Lord Doulton possesses a taste, or many would say a lack of taste, for the large and gaudy. The question is how he has managed to acquire the fortune to pander to his expensive habits.”
Clara nodded. To purchase such a home and staff would require an enormous fortune.
“Hopefully we shall soon discover.”
“Clara.”
His hand landed upon her arm, and Clara heaved a sigh. “Yes, Hawksley, I know. I am to remain at your side at all times, keep my mouth shut, and leap through the nearest window at the first hint of danger.”
The blue eyes flashed in the darkness, his other hand reaching up to gently cup her face. “If something were to happen to you . . .”
A tiny thrill of pleasure shot down her spine. It had been far too long since he had touched her, she inanely realized. She had missed the feel of his warmth.
“It will not. I am not a courageous sort. If something occurs, I assure you that I will scamper away in the most cowardly fashion.”
His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “I would feel much better if I truly believed that.” There was a faint whistle in the distance and Hawksley sucked in a deep breath. “That will be Santos. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us be done with this,” he muttered, grasping her fingers in a tight grip as he led her toward the back of the house. They had reached a pair of French doors when a tall form suddenly detached from the shadows and Santos joined them. Dressed in black, as were Clara and Hawksley, he was tall and beautiful, and when he flashed her a seductive smile she could not help but smile back. He was not Hawksley, but there was not a woman alive who would not go a bit weak in the knees when near the man. A frown abruptly marred Hawksley’s brow, and the glance he shot toward his friend seemed unnecessarily fierce. “You have searched the house?”
Santos chuckled with a strange hint of satisfaction.
“Yes. The staff have all retired to the servant quarters except for a footman and Lord Doulton’s valet.”
“You will keep watch upon them?”
“Of course. Biddles is already within the library awaiting you.” Stepping forward, he grasped Clara’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “Be careful, meu anjo.”
He disappeared through the French doors as Hawksley muttered beneath his breath. They waited a long moment before following him within, both moving with a slow caution that had Clara’s nerves on edge. She discovered it was one thing to logically plot stealing into a house, and quite another to actually do the deed.
Thankfully, she managed to make it to the library without stumbling, sneezing, fainting, or even breaking her neck. Slipping into the vast room, they shut the door behind them and there was a rustle of movement. In moments a small gentleman with a pointed nose and shrewd eyes had lit a candle.
“So glad you could make it, Hawk,” the gentleman drawled, walking forward to regard Clara with a disturbingly perceptive gaze. “Ah, and the intriguing Miss Dawson. My very great pleasure.” Lifting the candle, he studied her flushed countenance. “Egads. Santos did not exaggerate.”
Hawksley gave a low growl at her side. “Not now, Biddles. Have you discovered anything of interest?”
Lord Bidwell turned that unnerving gaze upon Hawksley for a long moment before waving his hand about the room.
“The usual collection of the vulgar. Really, it is astonishing how many who seek to claim the position of gentlemen retain the soul of the bourgeoisie.” They all took a moment to grimace. Although there were a handful of obligatory books upon shelves, it was the artwork that held and captured the attention. Paintings, sculptures, and figurines were hung, crammed, and stuffed into every available space. All of them of dubious quality, and all of them of naked women. “There is one thing of interest, however.”
“What is it?” Hawksley demanded.
Leading them to a distant alcove, Lord Bidwell halted before a life-sized statue of a woman with a bosom that made Clara wonder how it could possibly remain upright.
“If I do not miss my guess, I believe it to be a safe,” Biddles murmured.
Hawksley gave a raise of his brows. “Vulgar, indeed.”
The thin gentleman was busily running his fingers over the statue, giving a faint sniff as he reached the tip of one breast.
“How depressingly predictable,” he drawled, pressing a hidden lever so that the front torso swung open.
Taking the candle from his friend, Hawksley leaned forward to peer into the murky darkness that ran down both legs.
“There is something within. Ah.”
He pulled out a neatly folded paper, and Clara reached out to pluck it from his grasp. “Good heavens, it is my letter.”
“Indeed.” Hawksley narrowed his gaze before returning his attention to the safe. “There is something else.”
“More letters?” Biddles demanded.
“No.” He pulled out what appeared to be several squares of canvas tidily rolled together. “What the devil?”
Clara gave a sudden gasp. Her father had taught her well.
“Hawksley, be careful,” she warned.
He regarded her in surprise. “Do you know what it is?”
“Paintings.” Taking the bundle from him, she moved to a nearby table where she smoothed the canvases flat with exquisite care. “Dear heavens, not just paintings. Titian, Valentino Baroccio . . . and what I suspect might be a Raphael.” Something niggled in the back of Clara’s mind, but at the moment she was too stunned at actually having her hands upon such masterpieces to give it much note. “These are priceless.”
The two gentlemen crowded behind her, peering over her shoulder.
“She is quite right, Hawk,” Biddles said. “These are masterpieces. They cannot be left here and allowed to disappear.”
“Damn.” Hawksley blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was not yet prepared to tip my hand, but it appears we shall have no choice.”
Clara breathed a sigh of relief as she carefully rolled the canvases and handed them to Lord Bidwell. As an art scholar, her father had firmly believed that such works should be offered for all the world to enjoy, from kings to the lowliest servant. He would have thought it no less than sacrilege to leave the paintings in the hands of a scoundrel.
Taking the paintings with obvious reverence, the thin gentleman glanced toward Hawksley. “Shall we continue with our search?”
Hawksley moved to shut the now-empty safe. “Not this eve. I prefer not to press our luck.”
“My thought as well,” Biddles swiftly agreed.
Together they moved across the room, Hawksley cautiously peering out the door before waving them through. Santos appeared next to them as they slipped through the silent house and out the French windows.
It was a distinct relief to Clara when they at last approached the wall and no disaster had befallen them. Logic might assure her that they had taken the necessary precautions to ensure a successful campaign, but she was discovering that adventures were not always about logic and strategy. There was far too much luck involved for her peace of mind.
On this occasion she was prepared for the feel of Hawksley’s strong hands encircling her waist and hoisting her upward. She scrambled over the wall and managed to land upon her feet.
Turning, she awaited Hawksley to join her. Oddly, only silence greeted her and she frowned. What the devil were they doing?
No doubt some stupid male battle over who would go over the fence last, she told herself with a roll of her eyes.
It was then that she heard the sound of footsteps stomping through the garden and the call of a rough male voice.
“I heard ye sneaking about, ye rotten thieves. Show yerself or I’ll blast a hole in yer head.”
Clara’s perfect brain froze in horror. Blessed Saints, they had been caught. And worse, the angry servant sounded more than a little eager to begin firing lead balls about the garden.
Think, Clara, think, she grimly commanded herself. If she did not do something swiftly, then Hawksley would take matters into his own hands. A thought that was enough to make her eye twitch.
She had to do something. But what?
A distraction, the voice of reason whispered in the back of her mind. That was what was needed.
Swiftly, she bent down and searched until she found two stones that fitted comfortably in her hands and darted down the alley. Along the way she managed to drop one of the stones painfully upon her toe but she never faltered. Reaching the corner of the property, she drew her arm back and tossed the remaining stone over the wall.
Luck for once was on her side and the stone landed with a loud splash in a nearby fountain.
“Hah, yer mine now, ye bloody sod,” the servant growled as he barreled toward the fountain.
Clara silently moved back down the alley, not at all surprised to discover the three gentlemen vaulting over the wall by the time she returned.
None of them spoke as they skirted the stables and headed down the block to where Hawksley’s carriage awaited them. They clambered within and Hawksley gave a rap on the ceiling to set the vehicle into motion.
Only when they were well away from the expensive townhouse did Biddles suddenly lean forward to where she sat next to Hawksley to grasp her fingers and lift them to his lips.
“We are in your debt, my dear,” he murmured, his gaze slanting toward the tense gentleman at her side. “I admire a woman with such quick wits. You are fortunate I am already wed, Hawk.”
Not about to be outdone, Santos snatched her fingers from Biddles’s grasp and brushed his lips over them in a lingering kiss.
“I am fortunate that I am not.”
There was a growl of irritation as Hawksley grabbed her wrist and tugged her fingers free. Then possessively he tucked her in the crook of his arm and glared at his two companions.
“You will both keep your lips to yourself unless you wish to be tossed from this carriage.”
Santos merely chuckled as he lounged carelessly in his seat. “You cannot keep her hidden away forever, Hawksley.”
Clara felt herself tugged even closer. Not that she was about to protest. As far as she was concerned, he could hold her in his arms for the rest of eternity.
“Actually, Santos, that has yet to be decided,” he warned in dangerous tones.
It was nearly an hour later when Hawksley escorted Clara to her dark chambers in the Hawk’s Nest.
The priceless canvases had been left in Biddles’s care with the hope that Lord Doulton would have no means of connecting him to the theft, and Santos had been charged with the task of planting rumors that the artwork had been smuggled out of England by an unknown band of cutthroats.
Such a flimsy tale would not fool Lord Doulton for long, but it might keep him from turning his suspicions toward Hawksley for at least a few days.
Halting in the shadows of the upper hall, Hawksley glanced down at the woman at his side.
As always when she was near, he felt that potent mixture of exasperation, pride, and gut-wrenching tenderness.
And of course, that damnable lust that clawed at him with ruthless determination.
Bloody hell, he had been a fool to insist she dress as a young lad. At the time his thought had only been to ensure that a casual observer would mistake her for a young male servant.
How the devil was he to know that the soft breeches would cling to her sweet bottom with such tenacious perfection? Or that the masculine coat would reveal the enticing curve of her breasts?
Or that the knowledge that Santos and Biddles were enjoying the same erotic view was enough to make him smolder with possessive anger?
Ignoring the small voice in the back of his mind that warned it was dangerous to linger here in the dark, he reached out to pluck the hat from her head and tossed it aside. In a heartbeat her satin hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“Biddles was right, you know,” he said softly, his fingers lingering of their own accord to toy with a silver curl. “You were magnificent.”
She grimaced, the emerald eyes still shimmering from her night of adventure.
“Actually, I was terrified,” she confessed. “I dropped the first rock upon my toe, and to be honest, the second barely made it over the wall.”
“You did what was necessary even though you were terrified. That is the true measure of courage.”
She shivered. “It was a near thing, was it not?”
His expression abruptly hardened. The fear he had experienced when he thought they might be exposed was still too fresh to be shrugged aside.
“Too near,” he muttered.
She regarded him a moment before she stepped close enough for her soft, feminine scent to weave about him.
“Oh no, Hawksley. Do not even consider it,” she warned.
“Consider what?”
“Locking me in this house.”
Against his will Hawksley discovered his lips twitching in amusement. It was a wonder that this woman had not yet been burned as a witch.
“Actually, I was considering an offer Santos made to have you tucked away in one of his cottages.” He fingers shifted to brush over the lush curve of her lips. His muscles hardened with a swift arousal. Damn. It had been days since he had allowed himself to be near her. And with good reason, he reminded himself sternly. He was not a chivalrous man. He was a rogue, a rake, and a pirate. He took what he wanted. And he wanted this woman with a force that was nearly blinding. “It would be far safer.”
Indifferent to the sudden danger shimmering in the air, she reached up to grasp the lapels of his coat. The movement brought her body next to his, and Hawksley bit back a groan of torment.
“You cannot send me away. I will not allow it.”
“Not allow?” he rasped.
“You have need of me, Hawksley. You know that.”
His hands cupped her face with a flare of compulsive desire. Damn and blast, but he had need of her.
Shrouded in her sweet heat and feeling the brush of her soft curves against him, Hawksley could barely breathe. He wanted this woman. He wanted her enticing innocence, her heat, her ready passion.
More than anything, he wanted to hold her in his arms and not feel alone for the first night in more nights than he cared to remember.
“Yes, I have need of you.”
A shudder raced through him and she regarded him with darkened eyes.
“Hawksley?”
“Damn,” he cursed his unfamiliar weakness.
“What is it?”
He briefly closed his eyes, battling the fierce urge to pick her up in his arms and carry her off to his chambers.
“’Tis not only Lord Doulton you need fear, kitten,” he warned her in a thick voice. “I am not at all certain that you may trust me.”
She pulled back to frown at him with obvious disbelief. “That is absurd. I would trust you with my life.”
His smile was without humor. “And what of your virtue? Do you trust me with that?”
She grew motionless as she considered his stark words. At first Hawksley feared he might have frightened her with his honesty, and a pain clenched his heart. The last thing he would ever desire was for this woman to lose her faith in him. Astonishingly enough, he realized that her trust was more important to him than her passion.
Just another assurance that this woman had him utterly daft.
“Do you wish me to be honest?” she whispered.
Oh Lord. Even as he struggled to breathe, her eyes began to smolder with a dangerous fire. A fire that seared straight through him.
“Of course.”
“I have begun to suspect that virtue is highly overrated for a female of my age and temperament,” she murmured, deliberately pressing herself against his hard body.
Hawksley’s heart halted at her stunning confession. A confession that he did not need to be hearing. At least not when they were all alone in the dark with nothing to prevent him from claiming her. Nothing but his own badly battered chivalry.
“Clara . . .”
“You once asked me if I wished to be your mistress, and I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”
Actually feeling his control slipping from his grasp, he gazed helplessly into those beautiful emerald eyes.
“You have?”
“Yes.”
He groaned, his fingers tightening upon her cheeks. “Bloody hell. I need to—”
Without warning Clara tossed her arms about his neck. “Do you not wish to know what I have concluded?”
Feeling her pressed tightly against his stirring body, Hawksley clenched his teeth in agony. Hellfire. Surely he had done nothing to deserve such torture? Well, perhaps he had. Still, it did not seem entirely fair considering there were any number of gentlemen who had no doubt done far worse.
And then, without warning, he remembered Biddles’ simple words.
“Then make her your wife . . .”
At the time Hawksley had been too shocked to even consider the ridiculous suggestion. Not in all his thirty years had he given serious thought to binding his life irrevocably with a woman’s.
Why should he?
His brother held the title and responsibilities of producing the necessary heir. And of course, Fredrick also held the family fortune that would ensure that his bride was not forced to live in a shabby house on the edge of the stews.
Hawksley had no need for a bride and nothing to offer even if he did desire one.
Now, however, he could not entirely scrub the tantalizing thought from his mind.
Married. To his angel.
Why not?
She fascinated him in a manner he had never before experienced. Her swift wits, her unique intelligence, her kind heart, and her breathtaking beauty. She certainly would never bore him.
And perhaps most importantly, she had accepted him precisely as he was.
From the beginning, she had seen him at his very worst. And yet in all their time together, she had done nothing to try and mold him into something he could never be.
It was a hell of a lot more than most people who claimed to love him had ever given.
Just for a moment the image of his father’s face rose to mind. He grimaced at the thought of informing the proud, pompous nobleman that his unwanted heir was determined to marry a woman with no wealth, no position, and none of the usual social graces.
No doubt he would be horrified.
His grimaced turned to a slow, satisfied smile.
There might not be any means of turning his back upon the responsibilities that had been thrust onto him, but there was no reason he could not thoroughly enjoy his father’s utter fury when he discovered Hawksley had wed a woman he would consider thoroughly unworthy to eventually become the Countess of Chadwick.
Aye . . . He gazed down at her sweet, beautiful countenance. His wife, his future countess. Suddenly he felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
There would be no more aching battles to contain the desire that gnawed within him. No more nights spent alone in his bed. No more facing life without a partner at his side.
It all seemed astonishingly simple. And right.
With a groan he wrapped his arms about her and buried his head in the scented softness of her hair.
“Clara, you are certain this is what you want?” he muttered.
Her arms tightened about his neck, nearly strangling him in the process.
“Yes, Hawksley, I am certain.”