Chapter Eighteen
The darkness stirred as Clara battled her way to consciousness.
And promptly wished she hadn’t.
Even before she was fully awake she could feel the heavy throb at the base of her neck. A dull ache that seemed to have settled in for a good long stay.
The temptation to slide back into the numbing blackness beckoned only to be sternly squashed. Even with her senses dulled, she could determine that she was laid upon an unfamiliar mattress and shrouded by the stench of stale air and mold.
It was imperative that she discover where she was and why she had been taken. And to do so as swiftly as possible.
Her very life might depend upon it.
Gritting her teeth, she forced her heavy lids to lift.
At first she could see very little. An oppressive darkness filled the room, broken only by the weak glow of a flickering candle.
Above her she could make out a wooden beam ceiling that was held up by thick stone walls. Stone walls that were damp and coated with a thin layer of mold. It was enough to make her shudder in horror.
Her gaze darted about, but she could discover no windows and only a narrow door across the room.
Blast. She had been hauled off to a cellar, she concluded with a trickle of fear. That was surely a bad thing?
No one carried a woman to a cellar without a ghastly purpose.
Ignoring her pain, Clara struggled to sit up. She would not have her throat slit while she lay helplessly on the bed. A courageous notion; unfortunately, she had barely pressed herself upright when the room began to swirl and she clapped a hand to her mouth as she feared she might sick up.
“Argh . . .” she groaned.
“Easy, my love,” an unexpected voice murmured from behind even as a wet cloth was pressed to her neck.
Terrified to realize she was not alone, Clara sharply pulled away and turned to regard the man hovering beside the bed.
He did not look like a dangerous ruffian, she had to admit.
Indeed, he reminded her of nothing more sinister than a timid shopkeeper, or even a vicar.
In puzzlement she allowed her gaze to travel over the narrow countenance framed by rapidly thinning brown hair and eyes that seemed pale and watery in the dim light. Even his body was small and stooped, as if he spent more time bent over a book than brawling in pubs.
Still, when he held out a hand, she was swift to shrink from the approaching fingers.
“No . . . Do not touch me.”
He slowly straightened, blinking at her in mild surprise. “I assure you I have no intention of causing you harm.”
“Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe after you accosted me upon the street,” she charged.
“Oh no, you are mistaken.” He gave a fervent shake of his head, settling himself on the edge of the mattress. “It was I who rescued you from a dangerous footpad. Indeed, you might say that I saved your life.”
Clara frowned. He seemed quite sincere in his astonishment that she would believe for a moment he would wish her harm. But even as she wondered if she had perhaps made a mistake he leaned forward enough for her to catch a vague scent of peppermint and cloves that seemed to cling to him.
A chill shot down her spine.
This was the same man who had attacked her. There was no mistaking that scent. But for some reason he was determined to convince her that she had nothing to fear from him.
She could not imagine what he wanted from her or what he intended to do, but it seemed best for the moment to play along.
Had her father not always said that it was best to humor a madman?
“Then it seems that I owe you my gratitude,” she said slowly.
“You owe me nothing.” He offered a smile that revealed several teeth that were beginning to rot. Well, that at least explained his odd scent, she told herself. He no doubt used the cloves and peppermint to mask his bad breath. “I am only relieved that I happened to be keeping a watch upon you when I spotted the ruffian attempting to bundle you into a carriage.”
Her heart skipped a horrified beat even as she struggled to keep her expression calm.
“You were keeping a watch upon me?”
“But of course,” he retorted, not seeming to consider that she would find his odd behavior anything out of the ordinary. “I very much wished to speak with you, but I dare not reveal my identity by approaching you while you were in the company of others.”
Reveal his identity? Her gaze slowly roamed over the shabby coat and loose breeches before returning to the expectant expression. Comprehension dawned with a jolt.
“You are . . . Mr. Chesterfield?”
“Just as brilliant as I suspected, and even more lovely,” he breathed in appreciation. “Astonishingly lovely.”
For a moment Clara grappled to accept what was happening. This was Mr. Chesterfield. The gentleman she had corresponded with for over a year. The gentleman who was the reason she had charged willy-nilly to London. The gentleman who at one time had seemed precisely the sort of man who would make a nice, stable husband.
The gentleman who had attacked her on the street and now had her hidden in a cellar.
The gentleman she was beginning to suspect was a raving lunatic.
Damn and blast.
“How did you know I was in London?” she demanded in what she hoped was a causal manner.
“I received your letter, of course. Forgive me for not responding, but it was impossible. I could not risk putting you in even more danger.”
Clara stiffened, recalling the deadly ambush that had been set for her. “You knew I was in danger?”
“Not until too late,” he swiftly assured her. “Believe me, had I known I would have done whatever necessary to protect you.”
She wisely hid her doubt. For now it seemed best to pretend to accept whatever he might say.
“That still does not explain how you knew where to find me after I arrived.”
He heaved an audible sigh. “In truth, I just managed to reason where you might be hiding. Rather tediously dull of me to have taken so long, but in my defense I have not quite been myself the past few weeks. Even after my servant came to me with the story of a beautiful lady arriving upon my doorstep with the renowned Hawksley, I still did not put two and two together.” The rotting smile returned. “Having at last come to my senses, I was anxious to meet you face-to-face. Not, however, in such a painful manner.”
She shivered as her hand instinctively rose to touch the lump on the back of her head.
“Where are we?”
He grimaced. “Ah yes, not the sort of accommodations that I had hoped to provide for you, but for the moment I have little choice. The cellars are preferable to a bullet through the heart.”
“We are beneath your home?”
“My home for now,” he corrected, a rather odd glittering entering his pale eyes. “Soon enough I will be in the position to offer you much more than this.”
Clara licked her lips. For once she did not blurt out the first thing that came to her mind. Not when that warning voice was whispering in the back of her head that one careless word might very well bring about another painful blow.
Or worse.
“Because of the money you hope to gain from Lord Doulton?” she asked cautiously.
“Lord Doulton?” he demanded in puzzlement.
“I know that he has stolen artifacts from the Vatican. Artifacts that he gained from his cousin, who murdered two soldiers in their sleep.”
“Ah yes, a most heinous crime.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders, seemingly unconcerned at her knowledge of the ghastly murders. “Although few men can resist the lure of untold fortune.”
“I also know that Hawksley’s brother came to you with a rare parchment that he desired you to translate.”
“Rare?” The glitter in the pale eyes became hectic as he abruptly rose to his feet to pace across the narrow cellar. “’Tis priceless. The sort of document that a collector can only dream of possessing. Only a dolt such as Lord Doulton could have failed to realize its value.”
“But you recognized it, of course.”
“Of course.” He glanced back at her with a hint of annoyance that she would doubt his brilliance. “I am a scholar.”
Clara took careful note of his reaction. It seemed that like every man, his pride was his weakness. Perhaps she could use it to her advantage.
“It is a petition of some sort, is it not?” she asked softly.
“The most famous petition in all of history.” With a dramatic motion he pressed his hands to his heart. “A demand from King Henry VIII to Pope Clement to grant him a divorce.”
“Good heavens,” Clara breathed in shock.
“There, I knew you would appreciate such a wondrous treasure,” he exclaimed, moving back to kneel before her.
“Most certainly.” She cleared her throat, refusing to ponder for even a moment what such a document would be worth. Or what a man might do to get his hands upon it. “I even understand why you would try and blackmail Lord Doulton once you realized what the petition was.”
“Blackmail?” Genuine astonishment rippled over the narrow countenance. “Do you believe me capable of such childish games? Besides, Lord Doulton is even deeper in debt than myself. What could he possibly offer?”
She gave a sharp shake of her head. “You are mistaken. I know that Lord Doulton was in possession of the finest works of art.”
He offered a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh yes. He came to me the moment they arrived with the notion that I might find buyers for him.”
She blinked at the unexpected confession. “He came to you? Why?”
“I have connections throughout England with those gentlemen who enjoy possessing rare objects, and who are wise enough not to ask unpleasant questions.”
She battled back her revulsion. God, this man was nothing that she had believed him to be. How had she not sensed such weakness?
“I . . . see.”
He shrugged, not the least troubled by his illegal activities. “It is harmless enough. I receive a small commission to make such transactions. Certainly I could not survive on the small sum I receive translating manuscripts.”
“Of course.” She forced a stiff smile to her lips. “And Lord Doulton came to you to assist in these transactions?”
“Such a fool.” He rose to his feet with a scowl of disgust. “I easily sold off the lesser works and the artifacts that could not be readily recognized. But I warned him from the beginning he could not possibly sell off such famous works of art. No collector would risk possessing a painting that had so obviously been stolen, especially not a collector who might not wish to have attention called to where he had received other works. That is not even to mention having the entire wrath of the Vatican brought upon his head. Still, he continued to toss away his newfound fortune as if it were endless.”
Clara slowly absorbed his words, even as she edged herself toward the end of the bed and tugged her skirts to ensure they would not tangle in her legs if she needed to move swiftly.
“If you did not intend to blackmail Lord Doulton, then why did you write to me of money from heaven?”
The pale eyes widened in surprise. “You read my letter? How?”
She hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal. “It was hidden in Lord Doulton’s safe,” she at last confessed.
“And you managed to enter his home?”
“Yes.”
There was only admiration in his expression as he gave a nod of his head. “Such a clever girl. I knew you were perfect for me,” he murmured before his features hardened. “Unfortunately, after Fredrick’s death, Lord Doulton began to lose his nerve. He had come to the conclusion that I was plotting behind his back, and he forced his way into my home while I was composing my letter to you. The fool pulled a pistol upon me and I was forced to flee for my very life. Once he left the house, I circled back and attempted to give the illusion that I had fled the city.” A muscle in his cheek began to twitch. “I fear it did not occur to me that he would suspect that you were my accomplice and attempt to halt you from arriving in London.”
“So that explains your watch and glasses,” she muttered, recalling her confusion when she had searched his chambers. A pity she had not considered the possibility that he had never left.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” She managed to get one foot onto the floor even as she sought to keep him distracted. “I am still uncertain where you intended to get your money.”
“The petition, of course. It was hidden among the artwork, but Lord Doulton is too much a buffoon to ever take notice of a scrap of paper.” A disdainful smile curved his lips. “He was so dazzled by the pretty colors that he missed the greatest treasure in his possession. And I had no intention of drawing it to his attention.”
“You intended to take it from him?”
“When the moment was right.” He abruptly smacked a fist into his open palm, making Clara jump in surprise. “It did not occur to me that he could possibly be so stupid as to use it as rubbish.”
Slowly the puzzle pieces were beginning to fall into place, and Clara cursed herself for being an idiot.
She had committed the worst sin in logical thinking. She had allowed herself to be swayed by Hawksley and his intense suspicion of Lord Doulton. It had kept her from keeping her mind open to other possibilities.
Not that she would have readily turned her suspicions to Mr. Chesterfield, she reluctantly acknowledged. At least not beyond a spot of blackmail. He had been far too clever to leave a trail of evidence leading to his door.
She turned until her other foot was firmly upon the dirt floor.
“And then Fredrick arrived upon your doorstep with his vowels.”
The thin features twisted into a frightening expression of fury. “I could not believe it. To see my fortune torn into bits . . .”
“You must have been devastated.”
“You cannot know.” A stain of red marred his cheeks. “A collector can work an entire lifetime and never have his hands upon such a historical relic.”
Clara swallowed heavily, sensing the building tension in the air. There was no doubt that Mr. Chesterfield was unstable. And that he might be capable of lashing out without warning.
“You hoped to sell the petition?”
“In time.” He jerkily paced from one wall of the cellar to the other, barely even noticing her presence. “Unlike art collectors, those of us who deal in rare manuscripts have no need to display our collections like puffed-up peacocks and risk unpleasant speculation. The pleasure comes from simply holding a piece of history in our hands.” He came to an abrupt halt, his breathing heavy. “Unfortunately, I have only half of the petition at the moment. That prig Fredrick refused to leave the remaining pieces.”
“Most inconsiderate of him.”
He rounded on her with a growl of anger. “It was . . . unthinkable. The petition was mine. It would have made me renowned among all collectors.” He stilled as Clara instinctively shrank away from his pulsing fury, and then with an obvious effort he sought to send her a reassuring smile. “And finally I would be in the position to ask you to be my wife. You see, I was to have it all.”
Hiding her rising terror, Clara swallowed heavily. There was something troubling her. Something beyond being held in a cellar by an obvious madman.
What was it?
Willing her reluctant brain to work, she bit her bottom lip and considered what she had learned thus far.
Mr. Chesterfield had been involved from the beginning. That much was certain. Still, he had gained little from the theft of the artwork. Nothing more than a small commission.
Except...
Except for the petition.
A petition that he coveted with a frenzied lust.
Clara felt an icy fist clutch at her heart.
“Did you tell this to Lord Doulton?” she whispered even though she knew the answer.
“That idiot. Certainly not.”
“Then . . .” She hastily swallowed her words.
Careful, Clara, she silently warned herself.
Now was not the time to reveal that she had just figured out that Lord Doulton would have no reason to kill Fredrick.
Not when it was painfully clear that the person with the most pressing reason to wish the man dead was standing just a few feet away.
“What?” her captor demanded.
Determined not to panic, Clara stretched her lips into what she hoped was a reasonable imitation of a smile.
“I was just thinking how terribly clever you are.”
He frowned, although it was obvious he was pleased with her seeming admiration.
“Not quite clever enough. I still do not have the remaining pieces of the petition, and without them what I do possess is nothing more than worthless rubbish.”
“I do not doubt you will find them.”
With a casualness he could not quite pull off, Mr. Chesterfield plucked at the sleeve of his worn coat.
“Actually, I had hoped you might be of service.”
“Me?”
“It occurred to me that Fredrick might have given the vowels to his brother for safekeeping.”
Her heart came to a full halt before jolting back to life with a painful leap.
Dear heavens, he suspected that Hawksley had the vowels in is possession. Which unfortunately explained his sudden interest in her.
An interest that was not at all reassuring.
“Hawksley?”
“Well, he does possess the reputation of being a dangerous enemy who has killed more than one man upon the field of honor. Who better to keep watch over such a valuable prize?”
She lowered her lashes, covertly glancing about the barren room. Her heart sank at the realization that there was nothing at all to use as a weapon. And worse, the only means of escape was the narrow door across the room.
However swift she might be, she could not reach the door before Mr. Chesterfield could halt her.
“A reasonable conclusion,” she at last forced herself to rasp, knowing her only hope was to keep him talking and await an opportunity to flee. “But I fear you are mistaken. Hawksley knows nothing of the petition.”
The pale eyes narrowed as he stepped toward her. “Now, now, my dear. You must not lie to me. I know that Hawksley has been asking awkward questions about historical manuscripts. Why else would he do so if he did not possess the vowels?”
The chill within her deepened. If Mr. Chesterfield believed Hawksley to have the vowels, then he was in grave danger.
No matter what had occurred between them, she could not bear the thought of him being hurt.
Quite prepared to sacrifice everything to ensure his safety, Clara slowly rose to her feet.
“That is why you brought me here? To discover if Hawksley possesses your petition?”
“Of course not.” He appeared shocked by her accusation. “I have every intention of making you my bride. But you must see that I cannot ask you to live as a pauper with a man who is laughed at and mocked by his peers. You deserve a fine house with servants and a husband who can command the respect of all those about him. Everything I have done was for you. To please you.”
The fierce edge in his voice assured Clara that he was perfectly serious. In his twisted mind he had managed to convince himself that everything he had done was for her. No doubt even the murder of poor Fredrick.
A tidy means of avoiding any unpleasant pangs of guilt.
She gave a slow shake of her head. “I am sorry if you truly did this for me. It certainly is not what I would have wished. Obviously neither of us truly knew the other.”
His brows snapped together in an ominous manner. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I have no taste for fancy homes or servants, and I assure you that the only respect you ever need have earned was my own.”
“No.” Whirling about, Mr. Chesterfield shoved trembling fingers through his hair. “There was no other way. I had to have the petition. I still have to have it. It is the only way.”
Clara silently edged toward the door. She could almost feel what little sanity the man possessed slipping away.
She had to get out. And swiftly.
“Why?” she demanded in soothing tones. “I have told you I do not care for riches. Why can we not simply be happy with being together?”
“It is too late.” Without warning he spun about, backing her toward the wall as his chest heaved with his tumultuous emotions. “I will not be denied what is rightfully mine. Now tell me where those vowels are or I will hunt down Hawksley and kill him as I did his brother.”
Her hands clenched at her side until her nails drew blood, but her mind remained thankfully clear.
If she could not escape, she would at least make certain that nothing happened to Hawksley. That she could not bear.
“You are right, there is no purpose in lying when you are clearly far too clever for me,” she retorted, surprised that her voice did not so much as waver. The Lord knew she had never been so terrified in her entire life. “He did have the vowels, but he had no notion of their worth. He gave them to me to study.”
“I knew it.” Stepping so close his foul breath threatened to overcome her, Mr. Chesterfield clenched her shoulders in a painful grip. “Tell me where they are.”
Swiftly searching her mind for a suitable lie, Clara was distracted as she glanced over Mr. Chesterfield’s shoulder to discover the wooden door silently sliding open.
Expecting Mr. Chesterfield’s servant, she nearly swooned in relief as a familiar male form stepped into the darkness.
Hawksley.
He had found her.
Unaware of his danger, her captor gave her a violent shake. “Tell me.”
Her eyes never strayed from the fierce blue gaze as Hawksley moved forward and raised his arm. With one smooth motion he struck Mr. Chesterfield on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol.
There was a strangled groan before the villain slid to the ground.
Then silence filled the cellar.