Chapter Eight
Hawksley awoke with a curse, the slanting morning sunlight revealing that he had managed to oversleep.
Not that he couldn’t be excused for his rare indulgence, he grouchily acknowledged. He had paced the floor for hours as he had battled the urge to toss nobility into the midden heap and give in to the passion pulsing through his body.
Why should he not?
He was a rake, a scoundrel, and a perpetual disappointment to his family and the world in general. Why should he balk at seducing a female who was clearly as eager as himself to explore the smoldering desire?
He would ensure she was well pleased, both in bed and out. Hell, he would lavish her as if she were a princess.
In the end, however, he had forced himself to splash his face with cold water and crawl beneath the blankets to fantasize what he would be doing with Clara if only he were not such a fool.
There was something about the woman that brought out a sense of honor he barely knew he possessed. And made him long for her . . . what?
Her respect, he at last concluded with a hint of embarrassment.
Absurd, but there it was.
With a shake of his head he plunged himself in the bath that had been left for him and shaved without assistance. Once clean he attired himself in the plain black garb that he had donned since his brother’s death and pulled his still-damp hair into a ribbon at his neck.
The house was silent as he made his way down the stairs, and a frown touched his brow as he searched through the parlor and dining room to no avail.
He began to suspect where his missing guest might be discovered.
Angling toward the back of the house he entered the kitchens, halting at the doorway in sudden amazement.
Oh, not at the sight of his angel dusted with flour and her silver curls already tumbling from her tidy knot. That was a sight he fully expected to discover.
It was the squat, pug-nose man standing beside her that made him choke back a sudden laugh.
Covered in a large apron with his countenance red with exertion, the one-time thief was busily pummeling a lump of dough with obvious relish.
At his side Clara gave a light laugh, reaching out to pull back his large fists. Hawksley’s heart gave an odd leap at her engaging smile, and suddenly the morning seemed a bit brighter.
“No, no, Dillon, you are not attempting to murder the dough,” she corrected the burly servant, taking the dough into her slender hands to knead it with a rolling motion. “You must fold it gently and wait for it to tell you when it is done. You see?”
Dillon regarded her in understandable horror. “The devil I will. I am an Englishman, not some bloody French chef. The day I fondle a lump of dough is the day you might as well have me neutered and tossed into the gutter.”
Hawksley bit his lip as Clara slanted the man a wide-eyed glance. “Well, if you wish your crust to be a charred, tasteless lump, then by all means continue to pummel it like a proper Englishman.”
For a moment Dillon merely glared at her, and then clearly no more immune to those beautiful green eyes than Hawksley, he moved forward to snatch the dough from her hands.
“Blast it all . . . Give it here.”
Watching with the eye of a master chef, Clara at last gave a satisfied nod of her head.
“Much better, Dillon. I shall turn you into a proper cook yet.”
The servant merely snorted, although Hawksley did not miss the covert smile of pleasure that touched his lips.
“If you tell anyone of this I shall . . . Well, I cannot think of anything horrible enough to threaten you with that Hawksley wouldn’t have me flayed for, but I assure you it will be dire.”
Unperturbed by the gruff warning, Clara gently patted his arm. “My lips are sealed. Now while you finish that, I shall take Hawksley his tray.”
With those concise, deliberate motions that fascinated him, Clara plucked a heavy tray from the counter and moved toward the door.
Swiftly Hawksley backed into the corridor and awaited her in the shadows. What he had to say to her would be best said in private.
Holding still until she was nearly level with him, Hawksley reached out to firmly snatch the tray from her hands.
“On how many occasions must I remind you that you are not a servant in my home?”
Stifling a gasp, she clutched her hands to her heart. “I was merely bringing you your breakfast.”
His features hardened at her defensive words. It was not that he was offended by the knowledge that she had already taken firm control of his household. Or that she had clearly bewitched his staff.
It was quite simply a deep offense at the thought of her waiting upon him as if she were a lowly servant.
“I am well aware of what you were doing and I assure you that it is utterly unnecessary. If I desire breakfast I am perfectly capable of entering the kitchen and retrieving it for myself.”
She blinked at the edge in his voice. “Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
She bit her lip, her gaze wary. “I suppose I have rather taken over your home . . .”
“’Tis not that.” With a hint of impatience he balanced the tray on one hand and reached out to grasp her arm with the other. “Come in here.”
Too startled to properly argue, Clara allowed herself to be tugged into the small morning parlor where Hawksley set aside the tray and turned to regard her with his arms folded.
“What is the matter, Hawksley?” she demanded.
“You are my guest here,” he said in stern tones. “If the house or food is not pleasing to you, then I shall hire servants to have it made suitable. You are not to tire yourself working as a common scullery maid.”
Surprisingly, a small flush touched her cheeks, although he could not be certain if it was pleasure at his insistence or anger that inspired the delicate color.
“I told you I enjoy such work.”
“Be that as it may, I will not have you playing maid beneath my roof. Here you are to be waited upon, as is only fitting for a lady.”
This time there was no mistaking the faint twinkle of amusement in the emerald eyes.
“I suppose you will insist upon having your own way?”
“I fear I must.” Reaching out, he touched her cheek. “I have great need of that astonishing mind of yours. I cannot have you distracted by stray battles against dust and lumpy crust. Agreed?”
She eyed him squarely, as if easily sensing she was being manipulated, but much to his relief she at last gave a decisive nod.
“Very well.”
“Good. Now will you join me while I eat?”
Together they settled at the small table, and Hawksley hid a smile as she reached out to straighten the plate of toast and perfectly center the sugar and cream upon the tray.
He was quite certain she did not even realize her instinctive need to keep all in tidy order.
Placing the napkin in his lap, Hawksley allowed himself to thoroughly enjoy the plates of smoked ham and warm toast with marmalade.
Since leaving his family estate he had lived the life of a bachelor. What did it matter if his home was tidy or his food cooked to perfection? All he needed was a roof over his head and a place to store his meager belongings.
Now he realized that he had unwittingly missed all the small comforts that made a house a home. The touches only a woman could provide.
With a soothing calm Clara waited for him to polish off the last of his tea before at last leaning forward.
“Did you manage to have the paper translated?”
Hawksley pushed aside the tray before reaching beneath his jacket to pull out the vowels and arrange them in the center of the table. Carefully he placed them together as if they were pieces of a puzzle.
“What there was to translate. Even together they only complete a portion of the page.”
“Did you learn anything at all from them?”
Hawksley’s lips twitched as he recalled his meeting with Biddles. As always, the little ferret had been a font of information.
“A bit. The writing is old Latin, as you suspected. And more fascinating, it appears to be some sort of petition.”
“A petition?” She regarded him with a curious expression. “A royal petition?”
“Papal.”
“Papal,” Clara murmured, mulling over his revelation before her eyes abruptly widened and she was on her feet. “Dear God . . .”
Hawksley regarded her with a lift of his brows. He had expected a measure of surprise at his revelation, but not this blatant amazement.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Chesterfield,” she breathed.
A flare of possessive annoyance hardened Hawksley’s expression. He found that he deeply disliked the man’s name upon Clara’s lips.
“Now is hardly an appropriate moment to be worrying over your mathematical genius.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “Mathematics was only a hobby for him, as they are for me. His profession was that of a church historian, specifically translating ancient manuscripts,” she said, leaning her hands on the table as she stabbed him with a glittering gaze. “If your brother managed to suspect that this paper was religious in nature, he most certainly would have sought out Mr. Chesterfield if he desired more information.” She allowed herself a dramatic pause. “And just as importantly, it would explain the mysterious appointment with MC he noted in his journal.”
Hellfire. Hawksley rose to his feet, belatedly realizing what had captured her interest.
“MC. Mr. Chesterfield.”
“Precisely.”
“Yes.” He gave a slow nod. “It certainly fits. Like you, my brother could not possibly allow a mystery to go unsolved. Especially not if it included some musty bit of history.”
“And perhaps he would have begun to question how Lord Doulton could possibly have come to possess a petition to the pope,” she muttered. “Such a document is not something that is commonly lying about a gentleman’s home.”
A slow smile curved his lips. God, it had been so long since he had managed to uncover the faintest trail that might lead to his brother’s murderer. He had begun to fear that he was beating his head against an impregnable wall.
Now he wanted to shout in happiness. Or better yet, grab Clara in his arms and soundly kiss her for her assistance.
Very, very soundly.
Instead he contented himself with grasping her fingers and squeezing them in silent appreciation.
“I think it time I pay a visit to this Mr. Chesterfield.”
The green eyes sparkled with excitement. “Allow me to change my gown. I will not be a moment.”
She would have slipped away if he had not tightened his grasp to keep her standing before him.
“Hold a moment, kitten.”
She frowned at his stern tone. “What?”
Hawksley was wise enough to consider his words carefully. Miss Clara Dawson was not a woman who meekly accepted a gentleman’s commands. No matter who that gentleman might be.
If he wished to keep her safe he would have to use logic, not male intimidation.
“You cannot simply go dashing about London,” he pointed out in smooth tones. “For now we can hope that Doulton believes you to be dead. I have no intention of disabusing him of that notion.”
“How would he possibly recognize me?”
Hawksley shrugged. “We cannot be certain he does not somehow know you and what you look like.”
The delicate features tightened. “You intend to hold me prisoner in this house?”
His lips twitched at the mere thought of attempting to hold her captive. So far she had chosen to remain with him of her own will. Should she change her mind he did not doubt for a moment that she would be away before he could blink.
Still, he could not resist a bit of teasing.
“Well, there is that lingering fantasy of tying you to my bed.”
An enchanting blush touched her cheeks, but it did nothing to ease her annoyance.
“Hawksley.”
“Be at ease, kitten,” he murmured, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead. “I have no intention of holding you prisoner. As delightful the thought, not even I am that brave. I do think, however, that we must see about some sort of disguise before you go about town.”
“Oh.” She mulled over his words before giving a nod of her head. “I suppose that is reasonable.”
“I do have my moments.”
She offered a grudging smile. “A few.”
“Mmm.” He gently dusted the flour from her cheek, his fingers lingering before he sternly pulled them away. “Allow me to go speak with Dillon and we will make our plans.”
On this occasion it was her turn to reach out and halt his retreat.
“You do not intend to sneak out behind my back?”
He gave a lift of his brows. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“Out of some misguided need to protect me.”
His features softened as he met her searching gaze. “I have every intention of protecting you, but I am honest enough to admit that I have need of your assistance. Whatever my varied talents, they do not include your unique ability to notice those niggling details the rest of us overlook. I promise I shall return in a moment.”
Her expression of gratitude warmed his heart far more than was reasonable, but distracted with his thoughts, Hawksley missed the dangerous sensation.
With swift steps he returned to the kitchen, discovering his manservant muttering beneath his breath as he carefully chopped a mound of vegetables.
“Dillon, I have need of you,” he commanded.
“Thank God,” Dillon breathed, yanking off the offending apron with obvious relief. “Do I get to hit someone?”
Hawksley gave a chuckle. “I fear not. I desire you to discover a housekeeper who can not only be discreet but possesses the skills to keep this house in the sort of order that Miss Dawson prefers.”
A rare smile touched the battered face. “Ach, t’will not be easy. Miss Dawson is right particular.”
“So I have discovered,” Hawksley retorted dryly.
“Mayhap I can convince my sister to come and lend a hand for a few weeks. Before she was pensioned off she was the housekeeper for Lord Tierney, and you know how fussy he was.”
Hawksley gave a swift nod. He was familiar with Lord Tierney and his notable obsessions.
“Perfect. Tell her that we shall have need of her as soon as possible.”
“I’ll go fetch her now.”
“While you are out I shall also need you to procure two gowns for Miss Dawson.”
Surprisingly, Dillon’s features abruptly hardened with a grim expression.
“She ain’t the sort of woman to be accepting gowns from gentlemen,” he growled.
Hawksley grimaced wryly at the unmistakable warning. How the devil could Clara claim she possessed no ability to charm the opposite sex? Since he had taken her from the carriage, she had managed to bewitch every man foolish enough to cross her path.
“I am well aware that Miss Dawson is a lady,” he assured his servant. “But if she is to leave this house, she will need to be suitably disguised. I would suggest a few of those black crepe gowns that widows always feel the need to drape themselves in and a heavy veil.”
“Oh . . . aye. I shall see what I can discover.”
With a rueful shake of his head, Hawksley turned to retrace his steps back to the woman who had already managed to storm her way into his life.
Gads, first he was playing the cavalier and now he was hiring servants to please her finicky nature.
If he did not watch himself, he would end up with a leash about his neck.
His steps briefly faltered as the disturbing thought flared through his mind. Then just as swiftly he was dismissing it as ridiculous.
Fah. He was in absolute control of the entire situation.
Absolute control.
Clara squirmed uncomfortably on the leather seat of the carriage.
She had never considered what those poor Egyptian mummies must suffer through. Of course, they at least were dead before they were put through such torture.
She, on the other hand, was very much alive and swathed from head to foot in enough black crepe to encircle a woman three times her size, not to mention a wide bonnet with a thick veil that made breathing far from a certain thing.
At least she would not be traveling far enough to test her stomach in the closed carriage. And better yet, Hawksley had not broken his promise, she acknowledged, stealing a pleased glance at the man seated at her side.
Most gentlemen in his position would no doubt have insisted that a lady had no business being part of a murder investigation. They would claim that they were only attempting to protect her when in the back of their minds they would be certain she would only be a nuisance.
But not Hawksley.
He believed in her strange talents.
He believed in her.
The knowledge sent a warm flutter through her stomach.
Regarding the fiercely beautiful profile, Clara barely noted when the carriage rolled to a halt. It was only when Hawksley turned to consider her with a tight smile that she realized they had arrived.
“This is the address. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, you are my cousin from Devonshire who has recently suffered the loss of your husband and are in town to settle his affairs.”
Her lips curled into a smile. He had drilled her on her part for the past hour.
“I shall not forget.”
“And you are not to lift your veil for any reason.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How many times must I promise you I will not?”
Clearly realizing he was being a tad ridiculous, he offered a rueful grimace. “Very well.”
Pushing open the door to the carriage, he stepped onto the road and lowered the stairs. Eager to at last discover something of Mr. Chesterfield, Clara twitched aside her heavy skirts and hurried down the stairs.
Unfortunately, she had neglected to take into account the thick veil and predictably missed the first step. With a cry she discovered herself plunging into Hawksley’s waiting arms.
For a moment she simply leaned into his chest, breathing deeply of his intoxicating scent as he held her close. Despite the urgency of their task, it seemed a very nice place to linger. Hawksley seemed to agree as his arms briefly tightened, then with obvious reluctance he steadied her and dropped his arms.
“Careful, kitten.”
She gave an impatient tug on the veil. “Blast. I can barely see through this ridiculous thing.”
“Which means that no one else can see through it either.”
“That will certainly ease my mind when I break my neck,” she said dryly.
He gave a soft chuckle as he firmly pulled her arm through his. “Just hold on to me, I won’t let you fall.”
Together they stepped through the narrow gate and approached the townhouse.
Although respectably situated in Cheapside, the residence possessed little to recommend it. The gardens were shabby, the shutters peeling, and the front knob unpolished. Not at all what she had expected from her intelligent, methodical Mr. Chesterfield.
Perhaps sensing her surprise, Hawksley cast her a sideways glance as they stepped onto the stoop and he used the knocker. Clara shrugged, forcing herself to concentrate upon matters at hand as the door was pulled open to reveal a wiry, nearly bald butler with a sour expression.
“Yes?”
“We are here to see Mr. Chesterfield,” Hawksley announced.
The butler narrowed his beady eyes. “Mr. Chesterfield ain’t at home.”
“We do not mind waiting.” Hawksley took a smooth step forward. “If you will show us to—”
With a surprisingly swift motion the servant shifted to block the doorway. “I fear you misunderstand, sir. Mr. Chesterfield has left London.”
Beneath her fingers Clara could feel Hawksley’s muscles tense. “Left London, you say? Where has he gone?”
“He had family business to attend in the north. If you would like to leave a card, I will see that—”
Realizing that the butler was on the point of shutting the door in their face, Clara rapidly searched her mind for a means of entering the house. Not only was her concern for poor Mr. Chesterfield increasing by the moment, but she knew that Hawksley was desperate to discover some connection to his brother within.
If she did not take matters in hand, the dangerous pirate was quite capable of forcing his way in.
“No, that will not do at all,” she stated in tones that would have done a duchess proud. “I traveled a great distance to meet with your master. He was transcribing a rare manuscript for my lately departed husband. His mother and I are anxious to have it returned.”
The sour expression soured further. “Manuscript? I ain’t knowing of any manuscript.”
“It must be within.” Clara allowed herself a strategic pause before clutching at Hawksley’s arm. “Unless . . . dear Lord, what if he has taken off with it? We must go to Bow Street at once. That is my only inheritance.”
Something that might have been amusement flashed in the blue eyes, but with a readiness that Clara admired, he swiftly followed her lead.
“Of course, dear cousin. We shall inform the authorities immediately.”
“Here now, there’s no call to do anything rash,” the servant blustered. “Mayhap I can search the master’s study and find the manuscript.”
Clara met his offer with a disdainful sniff. “Fah. You are merely providing your master with more time to escape with his ill-gotten treasure.”
“Quite right.” Hawksley leaned forward in a threatening fashion. “I must insist that we be allowed to search the study for ourselves.”
There was a tense moment as the servant grimly attempted to choose between the lesser of two evils.
It was no doubt the air of violence that shrouded the looming Hawksley that at last swayed the balance. He was an intimidating beast under the best of circumstances. When he chose to use the full force of his will he was downright unnerving.
“Come in, then.” Turning on his heel, the man led them through a small foyer and up a flight of stairs. Stopping at the first door on the left, he threw it open and regarded them with a petulant impatience. “This be it.”
Both Hawksley and Clara paused in distaste upon the threshold. The narrow chamber was quite simply a mess.
Books, papers, magazines, and a healthy dose of pure rubbish managed to clutter every shelf and table. Clara might have thought that someone had broken in and created the destruction if not for the thick layer of dust that coated the clutter.
Her stomach clenched at the mere thought of entering the room, let alone touching anything. There could be anything under the grime.
Bugs, mold, creepy ancient creatures.
Glancing down at her horrified expression, Hawksley gave her fingers a sympathetic squeeze before pulling her across the threshold.
“I will begin with the desk, my dear, if you wish to sort through the piles near the window.”
With grudging steps she crossed toward the stacks of books on the window seat. Once there, however, she could not force herself to touch the crumbling manuscripts.
She would as soon put her hand in a viper pit.
Holding her skirts off the floor, she gave a loud cough in the butler’s direction. “Mr. Chesterfield is not a very tidy gentleman, is he?”
The servant stiffened in offense. “True genius rarely concerns itself with such mundane matters.”
Hawksley gave a bark of laughter as he rummaged among the papers. “Clearly you have never been in the companionship of true genius. I assure you that tidiness is a matter of utter necessity.”
“Sir—” the butler began to protest, only to be interrupted by Clara.
“Good heavens, I shall be a mess,” she muttered, stiffening her spine. If she could not assist Hawksley in one manner she would find another. “I must have an apron if I am to work among such filth. Kindly collect me one from the kitchen.”
“Nay, I’ll not be leaving strangers alone in my master’s study.”
“Very well, I shall go and fetch one myself.”
With firm steps Clara marched back toward the door, meeting Hawksley’s warning frown with a reassuring smile.
“Hold on here.” The butler wavered as she neared the door, clearly debating whether to chase after her or keep a suspicious watch upon the threatening form by the desk. Like most men he concluded that a mere woman could not poise any true danger, and he threw up his arms in defeat. “Damnation.”
Heading down the hall, Clara reached the stairs and with a furtive glance over her shoulders turned to head up the steps. Mr. Chesterfield might very well have taken leave of London to deal with family matters, but her instincts refused to accept that it was anything so simple. She very much feared that the man was in danger.
Finding the private bedchamber by the process of elimination, Clara sucked in a deep breath and shoved open the door.
She discovered that the cramped room was passingly tidy with an attempt to hold back the encroaching dust; still, she was relieved that she had on a pair of thick gloves as she gingerly began her search.
Near a quarter of an hour later she acknowledged that she had pressed her luck as far as she dared, and slipping from the chamber, she hurried down the stairs and back into the study. She had barely stepped over the threshold when the butler came hurrying toward her, his expression suspicious.
“I thought you had gone to get an apron?”
“I could not find one that was not as filthy as the rest of the household,” she informed him coldly.
Strolling from the desk, Hawksley placed her hand upon his arm. “It does not matter, my dear. I can find no evidence of your manuscript.”
“It seems that we shall have to go to the authorities after all.”
The butler paled at the threat. “Nay . . . I . . . I will find your bloody manuscript.”
“And how could we possibly trust you?” Clara demanded.
“Perhaps we should give him the opportunity to search, my dear,” Hawksley murmured, his gaze holding hers. “It would be a pity to make a fuss if it is simply misplaced.”
Easily sensing what he desired of her, Clara gave a slow nod. “I suppose I can wait a day or two.”
“When you find the manuscript, you may send word to the Hawk’s Nest,” Hawksley commanded.
The butler did not bother to hide his relief. “Aye.”
With an arrogant nod of his head, Hawksley led her out of the gloomy townhouse into the pale spring sunlight. In silence they crawled back into the carriage.
Only when the door was shut and they were clamoring down the cobbled road did Hawksley abruptly tilt back his head to laugh with rich enjoyment.
“Bloody hell, kitten, you were brilliant.”