The sensation would not last, of course. Everyone she had ever been attached to had left her. But for the moment she intended to cling firmly to the illusion that she possessed someone she cared for.
A friend.
A lover.
A man who stirred emotions she had buried years before.
Breathing deeply of his scent, she smiled. “Thank you.”
He became motionless before his chest rumbled with a startled chuckle.
“Good Lord. You never fail to amaze me.”
With an effort she leaned back to meet his amused gaze. “What?”
“Most females would be slapping my face, regardless of whether they had enjoyed my touch or not. They certainly would not be thanking me.”
She grimaced ruefully. “I never seem capable of doing what is expected of me.”
“Which is no doubt why I find you so fascinating,” he murmured. “There is nothing coy or deceptive about you. There is a purity in your soul that is all too rare.”
She laid her head back on his chest with a sigh. Unlike her, he always knew precisely what to say.
“This has been a most unusual trip to London.”
He kissed the top of her head. “Most unusual.”
For the next two days Hawksley barely rested as he scoured London for information on Mr. Chesterfield and ancient papal records.
He spoke to the handful of gentlemen who could claim an acquaintanceship with the reclusive scholar. He approached church officials, renowned scholars, and a number of collectors who specialized in religious artifacts.
He even spent hours rummaging through his brother’s library, all to no avail.
He told himself that his sudden burst of energy was merely the result of having a new path to investigate after weeks of being thwarted at every turn.
In truth, however, he knew at least a portion of his restlessness was due more to the young woman currently seated across the table from him than his conviction that he would learn anything of value.
Damn and blast, but she had him twisted in knots.
The moment he entered the Hawk’s Nest he was aware of her presence. It was in the lingering scent of vanilla in the air, the sound of her graceful footfalls as she directed the newly acquired maids to a flurry of constant cleaning, and the sweet laughter that echoed through the house.
She even haunted his private chambers despite her careful habit not to intrude into his sanctuary.
Lying in his bed at night, he was plagued with the memories as he had held her in his arms and tasted of her sweetness.
Hellfire. It had been bad enough when he could only imagine what she might look like as he coaxed her to her climax. Now that he knew precisely how her face would flush and her eyes darken with pleasure, it was near torture to keep his hands off her.
He wanted her. He wanted to thrust himself deep in her heat and listen to her cry out in fulfillment.
And he very much feared that no matter how noble he might attempt to be, sooner or later temptation would overcome chivalry.
Obviously it was imperative that he bring Lord Doulton to justice without delay.
Only then would Clara be safe from his evil, and Hawksley would be able to return her to her tidy cottage.
And he would be allowed to seek relief from his aching passions.
Please, God, allow him to find relief. He was quite certain that his sanity depended upon it.
Glancing up from the perfectly poached salmon and potatoes in cream, Hawksley met the emerald gaze that was openly regarding him in a speculative manner.
It was not the first time he had caught her gaze upon him during the meal, and he wondered if he was about to be lectured for having abandoned her over the past two days.
It would be what most women would do. Of course, this was Miss Clara Dawson. Which meant he didn’t have a bloody clue what she might say or do.
“I have not grown horns, have I?” he murmured, setting aside his fork.
She frowned at his odd words. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were staring at me in a rather alarming manner. I feared perhaps my cloven hoofs and tail were showing.”
Her lips twitched although her gaze remained steady. “Not as yet.”
“Thank goodness.” He lounged comfortably back in his seat. For all his aching desires, he could not deny there was a distinct pleasure in sharing his meals with Clara. It was a treat he refused to deny himself. “Dare I ask what is upon your mind?”
“I am merely curious.” Placing her elbow on the table, she cupped her chin in her palm. “I know very little about you.”
His brows lifted. “I would say you are rather intimately acquainted with me, kitten.”
“I do not mean . . .” A delicious blush stole to her cheeks before she was sternly gathering her composure. “What of your family?”
Despite his best efforts Hawksley felt his muscles tense. Oh, he understood her curiosity. Even sympathized with her need to know more of the man who for all practical purposes held her captive. Still, he had devoted nearly twelve years to forgetting he even possessed a family. It was not easy to pretend indifference.
“What of them?” he demanded in clipped tone.
She absently blew a stray silver curl from her brow. It was a habit that Hawksley found oddly charming.
“Do you have any?”
“Too damnably many. Thankfully, we are estranged.”
“Thankfully?” She did not bother to hide her shock. “But that is horrible.”
“You say that only because you are not familiar with them.”
She gave a slow shake of her head, her eyes darkening with remembered pain. “No, I say that because I have lost everyone I love. I am alone because of fate, not out of choice.”
Hawksley’s chest tightened with regret. Damn. He was an insensitive lout.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to be flippant,” he murmured. Then, with a grimace, he forced himself to swallow his pride. “I assure you that I did not turn my back on my family by choice. I was requested by my father to leave his home the day I celebrated my eighteenth birthday.”
“Oh.” A shocked sympathy softened her features. “Hawksley, I am sorry.”
He shrugged, as always discomforted by any hint of pity. It was not what he desired from this woman.
“No doubt he felt he possessed reason,” he confessed wryly. “I have never found it particularly easy to bend to another’s will.”
Her brows lifted. “Really? You shock me.”
“Minx,” he chastised her teasing. “Very well. I am stubborn and opinionated and far too frivolous of mind to suit Lor—” He abruptly bit off his words. He was not quite certain why, but he had no desire to reveal the identity of his father, or the fact that he now had been burdened with a title he had never desired. Perhaps it was a fear that Clara would suddenly treat him as something he was not. Or that she would become uncomfortable in his presence. Or perhaps it was something he did not want to ponder. In any event, he was not yet prepared to share all his secrets. “My father.”
She had no doubt noted his hesitation and tucked it in the back of her peculiar mind. Thankfully, however, she did not press him with tedious questions.
“He truly requested you leave your home?” she demanded softly, clearly unable to conceive that any father would toss his own child from his house.
Hawksley had no such trouble. He had been a disappointment to his father for as long as he could remember. It had only been a matter of time before the pompous old prig had rid himself of such a constant irritation.
“Oh yes. He claimed my wicked ways would never be tamed as long as he was there to haul me out of trouble. He presumed I would soon tire of living upon my own wits and come crawling back for his forgiveness.”
She pondered his words for a long moment before a small smile touched her lips. Hawksley felt his heart perform that unexplainable flop in his chest. Even attired in a plain blue gown with her hair pulled into a simple knot, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon.
“Obviously your wits proved more tenacious than he suspected,” she retorted.
“I would say it was my pride, not my wits, that was tenacious.”
“What of your brother? Did the two of you remain close?”
“In truth we were not that close when we were young. He is . . .” Hawksley painfully corrected himself. “He was eight years my senior, a vast difference in age when we were children. It was not until I arrived in London that we at last came to know one another.”
Without warning she reached out to softly touch his hand. “And then you lost him.”
His fingers clasped hers in a tight grip. Her warmth helped to ease the chill that had haunted him for too long.
“Yes.”
“’Tis no wonder you are so determined to find his killer.”
Hawksley gave an inelegant snort. For all his rushing about, he had achieved very little.
“Determined, perhaps. But thus far spectacularly unsuccessful.”
“You have not managed to have the servants followed?”
“Only upon mundane tasks. If they are meeting with anyone they are sly enough to conceal it from Biddles’s prying eyes.” He gave an impatient shake of his head. “Most unlikely.”
She leaned forward, her eyes glittering with a sudden excitement.
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” she informed him. “I think I have reasoned out why Lord Doulton wishes me dead.”
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.