“Very well, we can retire to the library.” In silence they left the room and moved down the short hall to the book-lined room. Clara waited while Hawksley lit the candles upon his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen. “Here you are.”
Taking a seat at the desk, she pulled the writing implements toward her and gathered her thoughts.
A lesser woman might very well have been distracted by the large pirate who leaned over the back of the chair with his hand flat upon the desk. Not only did his close presence send a rash of prickled awareness over her skin, but his scent cloaked her with potent force.
Even worse, the desire to pull his head down and kiss those talented lips suddenly seemed like a much better notion than hashing through Lord Doulton’s nefarious dealings.
Thankfully, Clara was well aware that she would have no peace until she had sorted through the unease plaguing her, and she managed to resist tossing herself at Hawksley like some common tart.
“Let us begin at the beginning,” she muttered, scratching the number one upon the paper.
“Which beginning?” he demanded, his breath tickling her ear.
“The beginning of what we know of Lord Doulton. Now, according to your brother’s journal, he played cards with the gentleman and received the vowels that you found hidden.”
“Yes.”
She wrote
card game
on the paper. “We assume that he noticed the writing on the back of the vowels and became curious.”
“Which led him to Mr. Chesterfield.”
“Precisely.” She wrote
vowels
followed by
Mr. Chesterfield.
“From there we think that Mr. Chesterfield approached Lord Doulton and demanded some sort of payment for keeping his silence.”
She could feel Hawksley stiffen behind her. If he were a dog, his hair would be bristled and his teeth bared.
“And ensured Fredrick’s death,” he growled.
Neatly scratching the number four on the paper, Clara paused. This was the source of her unease, she abruptly realized. Number four.
“It is missing,” she muttered.
“What is missing?” he demanded in confusion.
“Number four.”
“Number . . . ?” Hawksley shifted to lean against the desk, his arms folded over his broad chest. “I presume you are now speaking in the obscure ‘Clara tongue’ only you understand. You will have to translate for me, I fear.”
She wrinkled her nose at his teasing. “Number four should be the manner that Mr. Chesterfield blackmailed Lord Doulton. But how did Mr. Chesterfield know that Lord Doulton was involved in anything nefarious?”
A frown tugged at his brows. “The vowels . . .”
“Revealed a petition to the pope,” she said, warming to her subject. “On its own it is meaningless. There are no doubt thousands of such petitions. It might have been peculiar, but it would not have revealed that Lord Doulton possessed stolen artwork from the Vatican. There is still something we are missing.”
He gave a slow nod of his head, easily following her logic. “Perhaps you are right. Still, it is impossible to know unless we find the missing Mr. Chesterfield.”
“May I see your brother’s journal?” she abruptly demanded.
“Of course.” Reaching beneath his jacket, he pulled out the leather book and vowels that he still kept close to his heart. A gesture that revealed just how deeply he still mourned his brother’s death.
Giving his fingers a tender squeeze, she took the journal and flipped through the pages.
Arriving at the date of the infamous card game, she studied the tidy handwriting.
Speak to me, Fredrick
, she silently willed,
tell me your secrets
.
Coming to the bottom of the page, she pointed toward the meticulous numbers at the corner.
“What are these?”
Hawksley leaned forward. “It is the tally of what he won during the evening. Fredrick was always careful to keep careful account of such matters.”
Clara carefully smoothed out the vowels on the desk. “But the vowels do not equal this number.”
Hawksley shrugged. “That means very little. No doubt some of his winnings were from other gentlemen who possessed the funds to pay him that evening. Not all gamblers depend upon vowels.”
He had a point, of course. Still, Clara felt a tiny flare of excitement.
“Or there might have been other vowels.”
Hawksley appeared more confused than excited. “If there had been other vowels, they would have been with these.”
“Not if Mr. Chesterfield kept them to examine more closely.”
“Why would he keep only a portion of the vowels?”
A reasonable question, she had to concede. Closing her eyes, she attempted to imagine what had occurred. She could see Fredrick bent over the vowels, piecing them together as he realized there was something written on the back. As a scholar he would have been curious and of course determined to unravel the mystery. He must have managed to decipher that it was of a religious nature for his thoughts to turn to Mr. Chesterfield, a religious historian.
And then what?
The brain that she took such pride in seemed to flounder.
Why would he have taken only half the vowels to Mr. Chesterfield? It was hardly the swiftest means to uncovering the truth of the document. And as a scholar . . .
A scholar.
Of course. He was a scholar just like her father.
What would he have done in such a situation?
Briefly she recalled the quiet, studious man who always had a smile for his only daughter. A sweet-tempered man with a gentle soul.
But one who could become as rabid and secretive as any scholar when it came to his research.
“If Fredrick believed the petition to be of historic value, he would have been careful with what he was willing to share. With anyone,” she said slowly, lifting her head to meet his watchful gaze. “True scholars are notoriously fearful of having others steal their research and claim it as their own.”
He stilled at her words. “Are you implying that the petition itself is somehow valuable?”
Clara grimaced. It all made sense, but she was well aware that it was little more than a leap of faith. The logic involved would fit in a thimble.
“It is only a theory,” she warned. “And a rather far-fetched one at that.”
He did not seem to hear her words of caution as he lifted himself from the desk to pace across the worn carpet.
“Why would Lord Doulton use a valuable document as scrap paper?”
“Perhaps he did not realize the value. If it was stuffed among the paintings, it might easily have been dismissed and tossed aside.”
“Until Chesterfield approached him and blackmailed him for the return of the petition,” he said slowly.
“Lord Doulton would realize that he was in more danger than simply being blackmailed for a forgotten piece of parchment. He had brought unwanted attention upon himself, and worse, there was now a connection to him and the Vatican.”
He moved to grip the mantle above the fireplace, his knuckles turning white with strain.
“And so he took the necessary steps to rid himself of those who might stir up unwanted questions. Including my brother.”
Leaving the desk, Clara moved to lay a hand upon his tense arm. Too often she allowed herself to forget just how difficult this must be for Hawksley.
“We will find the evidence we need, Hawksley,” she promised. “Lord Doulton will pay for what he has done.”
The blue eyes flashed with frustrated pain. “That is all I have thought of for months. All I wanted . . .”
She shifted to lay her hands upon his chest, her expression troubled. “What is it?”
His eyes briefly closed. “I suppose I am at last realizing that even should Doulton be punished, it will not bring my brother back to me. He will still be dead and I . . . I will be completely alone.”
Her heart twisted. He sounded so lost. So terribly frightened of the future. It was a feeling she knew all too well.
And one she could not bear the thought of this wonderful man enduring.
Not giving herself time to consider the wisdom of her words, she laid her head upon his chest and wrapped her arms about him.
“No, Hawksley, not alone,” she whispered. “I will be with you.”
She felt him stiffen beneath her. “Clara, what are you saying?”
Tilting back her head, she was startled to discover his expression guarded, as if he feared she was playing some horrid jest upon him.
“I think you know perfectly well what I am saying,” she whispered, a blush staining her cheeks.
His fingers lifted to brush over her lips, his eyes glowing with a hectic glitter.
“Since I quite often am at a loss when you speak, kitten, I think it best if you tell me in simple words so that my poor brain can comprehend what you mean.”
Regarding the fiercely handsome countenance, Clara nearly faltered. How she possibly hope to please such a man? He could have any woman he desired. All of them more beautiful, more charming, and more wealthy than herself.
But none of them capable of loving him with more devotion,
her heart whispered.
She swallowed heavily, and for the first time in her six-and-twenty years, tossed caution to the wind. She would take a chance.
A chance that would either bring her happiness beyond her wildest imaginings or break her heart utterly.
“I will be your wife, Hawksley,” she said simply.
There was a brief, terrifying pause when Clara was suddenly certain that he must be regretting his impulsive proposal. Then, before she could guess his intention, she discovered herself lifted off the floor as Hawksley planted a burst of heated kisses over her countenance.
“You will not be sorry, kitten,” he muttered, his lips brushing her mouth. “I promise I will make you happy.”
Squeezed by his tight grip to the point she could barely breathe, Clara slowly smiled.
Her father had promised that someday she would meet a man who could appreciate her just as she was. A man who would see beyond her annoying eccentricities and peculiar habits.
Who the devil would have suspected he would be a dangerous, wicked pirate?
Chapter Fifteen
Hawksley awoke to a loud clatter of pails and pouring water as his bath was being prepared. Instinctively he reached out for Clara, only to heave a sigh as he recalled her slipping from his arms to return to her own bed before dawn.
Damn, but he needed to get her before a vicar. The sooner the better. He did not like awakening alone. Not when he might begin the day with an angel in his arms.
His dark thoughts were interrupted by another loud clatter, followed by a string of hair-raising curses.
Dillon, of course, he acknowledged even before he opened his reluctant eyes to regard the grizzled servant. And in an even fouler mood than usual, if his grim expression and rigid movements were anything to go by.
“Good God, Dillon, there have been French invasions less deafening than you pouring a simple bath,” he groaned as he pushed himself upright and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I presume you are in some sort of a twit?”
“A twit?” Dillon allowed an empty pail to clank loudly onto the floor. “Should have strangled you in your sleep when I had the opportunity.”
Hawksley lifted his brows at the muttered threat. “I do hope that I have done something to annoy you, you cantankerous old goat. I should hate to think I have harbored you beneath my roof for all these years while you plotted my demise.”
The gnarled servant kicked a stray pail, wincing as he obviously hurt his toe. “If I’d been plotting you’d already be cold in the ground.”
“Why do you not just tell me why you are so perturbed before you do injury to yourself?” Hawksley retorted.
“Very well.” His chest swelling with indignation, Dillon turned to stab Hawksley with a withering glare. “I thought you to be a gentleman.”
Hawksley lifted his brows even higher. “Hellfire, that is a stretch even for you, Dillon. Why the blazes would you ever presume a poverty-stricken rake with nothing more than a talent for gambling could claim the title of gentleman? I certainly have never done so.”
“Even a hardened rake should recognize a lady when he encounters one,” Dillon muttered.
Ah. So that was it. Hawksley heaved a deep sigh. He should have known he could hide nothing from his loyal servant. The man possessed an uncanny ability to know precisely what was upon his employer’s mind. Hawksley had often depended upon that talent over the years.
Attempting to hide his amusement, Hawksley settled himself more comfortably upon the pillows. There was no reason he could not have a bit of fun. Dillon had often enough played some prank or another upon him.
“May I hazard a wild guess and say that you are referring to Miss Dawson?” he drawled.
The battered features hardened. “I am not blind. I have seen how you look upon her.”
“And how is that?”
“Like a starving hound sniffing about a bone.”
Hawksley wrinkled his nose. Gads, it was a fortunate thing he had never been forced to rely upon his acting skills to keep a roof over his head. They would all be living in the gutter.
“Hardly the most flattering comparison, but no doubt accurate.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Dillon growled.
“Actually I am inordinately proud of myself.”
The servant took a sharp step forward. “Why, you randy—”
“’Tis not often that I realize what is good for me and what is not,” Hawksley overrode the angry words. “In truth, I have always possessed a tedious habit of preferring dross to gold. On this occasion, however, I was quite wise enough to comprehend that Miss Dawson is by far the best thing that has ever entered my life.”
Perhaps sensing he was being roasted, Dillon regarded him with suspicion. “That she is.”
“Which is why I am to make her my wife.”
A suitably shocked expression touched the lined countenance. “Wife?”
“Shocking, is it not?” Tossing aside the covers, Hawksley rose to his feet and pulled on his brocade robe. “She is clearly daft to have agreed to my proposal, but there it is. It seems even eccentric angels prefer a rogue to a gentleman.”
Without warning Dillon had crossed the room to enfold him in a tight hug. “You worthless scoundrel. Ach, you have done well for yourself.”
Hawksley struggled to free himself before several ribs were sacrificed to Dillon’s enthusiasm.
“Good Lord, Dillon, you are not about to get sentimental on me, are you?”
Coming to his senses, the elderly servant gave an embarrassed tug upon his coat as he stepped back.
“Not bloody likely.”
“Good. There will no doubt be enough tears, not to mention gnashing of teeth, once my family discovers their wastrel of a son has chosen to wed a penniless miss from the country,” he said dryly.
Dillon grimaced. Although he had only met Hawksley’s family during the funeral for Fredrick, that had been more than enough for the servant to take them into a rabid dislike. Especially after Lord Chadwick had demanded that the silver be locked away after catching sight of Dillon’s battered countenance.
“The tears are more likely to be poor Miss Dawson’s when she is forced to meet your puffed-up prig of a father,” he groused.
“If she does not toss herself from the nearest roof,” Hawksley agreed grimly. “In fact, I have decided that it is best simply to acquire a special license and be done with the business before she has an opportunity to change her mind.”
Expecting full agreement with his rather brilliant notion, Hawksley was caught off guard by Dillon’s abrupt frown.
“And deprive her of the lavish society wedding that all women dream of?”
“All women but my Clara,” Hawksley corrected with an unwittingly tender smile. “She possesses a distinct distaste for drawing attention to herself. I believe she would rather be drawn and quartered as to subject herself to the fuss of a large wedding.”
“She will have to become accustomed to being nobility eventually.”
A vague flare of panic fluttered through his heart before he was sternly squashing it.
No.
He had just managed to convince Clara to be his wife. He was not about to risk driving her away. The proper moment to reveal his title and wealth would surely present itself. Until then, he intended to use his time binding Clara so tightly to him she could never let go.
“That is a worry for another day.”
His fierce tone must have alerted his servant that there was something he was hiding.
“Hawk?”
“Yes?”
His gaze narrowed. “You have told her the truth of yourself, have you not?”
Hawksley shrugged, his expression guarded. “Perhaps not entirely.”
“Good God almighty.” The former thief muttered several colorful curses beneath his breath. “You asked a woman to wed you who does not even know your true name?”
“She knows all she needs to know for the moment.”
“Fah. She has a—”
“What she has is enough to concern herself with,” Hawksley said in tones that defied argument. “Not the least of which is a crazed nobleman who wishes her dead. Once Lord Doulton is properly dealt with, I will reveal everything to her.”
Dillon threw his hands in the air. “You are courting trouble, Hawk.”
“It is what I usually court, is it not?” he retorted in mocking tones. “Now, may I have my bath before the water ices over?”
Clearly realizing Hawksley would not be moved, Dillon moved to collect the empty pails.
“Do as you will,” he muttered.
“I always do, old friend.”
Pausing at the door, Dillon offered a sudden smile. “Oh, aye, that you do.”
After slipping from Hawksley’s bed, Clara had no thought of returning to sleep. Not when her entire body tingled with a restless energy that nearly made her hair stand on end.
So this was love.
A smile curved her lips as she attired herself in a faded blue gown and pulled her hair into a tidy braid. It was odd how the poets always portrayed love as a sweet and tender emotion.
They spoke nothing of the sharp-edged excitement that seemed to be permanently lodged in the pit of her stomach. Or the giddy urge to giggle at the most ridiculous moments. Or prance about as if she were a complete loon.
For a sensible woman it was all vastly confusing.
And vastly delightful, she conceded with a faint sigh.
Perhaps she was being a fool.
History was littered with the broken hearts of women who believed they had discovered true love, only to be betrayed. But at the moment she could not make herself care.
She was happy.
Completely and utterly happy.
And if she was blinding herself, well . . . so be it.
For once in her dull, predictable life she was going to take a risk. And damn the consequences.
Far too restive to simply remain in her chambers, Clara at last went in search of the housekeeper. She needed something to keep her occupied until Hawksley arose and they could make their plans for the day.
Nearly two hours later she had commanded the boxes in the attic to be neatly stacked to one side and began busily mopping years of grime from the wooden floor. Already she had dusted the rafters clean and scrubbed the walls, and there was a freshness to the air that would please the most fastidious soul.
Humming beneath her breath, she attacked the cobwebs hiding in a corner with her mop, her distraction great enough that she missed the sound of approaching footsteps. No distraction, however, was great enough, not even death itself, to prevent her from noticing the sudden prickle of awareness that feathered over her skin.
“I thought I should find you here,” a warm male voice murmured from behind.
Dropping the mop, Clara turned to discover Hawksley a few feet away, his shoulder propped negligently against the wall and a mysterious smile playing about his lips.
Her heart did its familiar leap and her mouth went dry.
Oh . . .
my. Would she ever become accustomed to such potent male beauty?
She had to hope she would. People would begin to suspect she was touched in the noodle if she were always fluttering and swooning whenever her husband entered a room.
Husband . . .
Her heart took another leap.
“Hawksley,” she at last managed to squeak.
He slowly glanced about the attic that was glowing in the slanting sunlight. “You really do enjoy this scrubbing business, do you not?”
Retrieving a dampened handkerchief from the pocket of her apron, Clara wiped her hands clean.
“Well, it is to be my house as well now, and you know I can not abide a mess.” She smiled rather shyly. “Besides, I would not wish anyone to think that I was not being a proper wife to you.”
His eyes oddly darkened, almost as if her soft words troubled him. Slowly pushing away from the wall, he moved to stand before her, taking her hands in a tight grip.
“Clara . . . I would not request you to live in such an establishment once we are wed.”
She bit her lip at his hesitant tone. Blast. She had forgotten just how fragile his male pride could be. Obviously he was concerned that his home was not worthy of her.
Well, she would put a swift halt to such nonsense. She would not have him plunging into debt in an effort to keep her in a style that he believed suitable for a lady. Nor would she have him returning to those horrid gambling hells to provide for them.
She was a simple woman with simple taste. Somehow she had to convince him that all she needed to be happy was him.
“It does not bother me, Hawksley, truly it does not,” she earnestly assured him. “It is very cozy.”
“No.” He gave a sharp shake of his head. “It is a crumbling pile of rubbish in a neighborhood not fit for the rats.”
She could not halt her chuckle at his dramatic words. “It is not so bad.”
“My wife deserves better.” His hand cupped her cheek. “She will have better.”
She swallowed a sigh at his adamant expression. She might not know much about men, but even she could sense a battle when it was brewing.
“If you prefer we could always live at my cottage,” she hastily offered. “It is not much, but it is sturdy, and with my yearly allowance we should be quite comfortable.”
Just for a moment she feared she had managed to say precisely the wrong thing.
Again.
But even as she wracked her mind for some means of undoing the damage, Hawksley was wrapping his arms firmly about her and resting his cheek atop her head.
“My God . . . You truly are a most remarkable woman, Clara Dawson.”
Warm relief flooded through her as she snuggled against his firm chest. She had no notion why this man found her remarkable while all others considered her merely annoying, but she was not about to question her good fortune.
Especially not when his warm, male scent was making her knees weak and the feel of his arms about her was reminding her just how wondrous it was to have him so close.
Pulling back, she deliberately smoothed her hands over his broad chest and up to his shoulders, an alluring smile curving her lips.
“Mayhap I am a bit remarkable.”
Beneath her hands she felt his heart jolt against his chest, his eyes darkening with a familiar smoldering heat.
“Clara, are you actually jesting with me?” he teased softly. “I am all astonishment.”
She wet her lips, delighting as she could feel his stirring erection. She had never thought of herself as desirable before. She found it a rather heady sensation.
“I am not so very dreary, Hawksley,” she murmured.
“No, you are beautiful, and intelligent, and incredibly tempting,” he growled, cupping her hips to press them sharply against him. “Too tempting by half.”
She chuckled softly, her hands slipping down the hard planes of his stomach with a daring she never knew she possessed.