Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (19 page)

His blood ran cold as he easily recognized Dillon’s hand, and without thought he reached out to grasp Biddles’s arm in a biting grip.

With a startled blink, the thin-faced gentleman turned to regard him with concern.

“What is it?”

It took a moment to force his stiff lips to work. For all his daring deeds and habit of flaunting death, he had never known true terror before this moment.

“Clara,” he managed to rasp.

There was no hesitation as Biddles slipped a small pistol from his pocket and placed it in Hawksley’s hand. “I will finish this business and collect Santos.”

The crisp authority in his friend’s tone was as effective as a slap to the face. With a sense of relief, Hawksley battled down the smothering panic so that he could once again think clearly. He would be no good to Clara if he was a raving lunatic.

“Thank you.”

With a silent grace Hawksley slipped from the room; then picking up his pace to a full-out run, he burst out of the building, leaping into Biddles’s waiting carriage with a curt command to return him to the Hawk’s Nest.

It was a testament to Biddles’s unconventional training that the driver did not hesitate for a moment as he set the horses into a brisk pace that did not waver until they reached the cramped townhouse.

Hawksley did not wait for the carriage to pull to a halt before he was leaping onto the pavement and charging up the path. Throwing open the door, he discovered Dillon awaiting his arrival with a pale countenance and his hair standing on end.

A piercing pain shot through him as he reached out to grasp the man by his shoulders.

Hellfire, it had to be bad. He had seen the stoic man face bullets without batting an eye.

“Dillon . . . what is it? Where is Clara?”

Anguish darkened the older man’s eyes. “She is gone.”

“Gone?” Hawksley gave a shake of his head. The man was babbling. Clara could not possibly be gone. She had promised. “What do you mean gone?”

The grizzled countenance abruptly hardened as the servant stabbed him with a glare that could have killed at a hundred paces.

“She packed her bags and left near an hour ago. I tried to stop her but she was too angry to listen to me.” Dillon lifted a fist to shake it in his direction. “I warned you, Hawk. I told you to tell her the truth.”

Very well, there could no longer be any doubt. His faithful servant had most certainly tumbled into lunacy.

“What the bloody hell are you babbling about? Why would Clara leave?”

“No doubt because she at last had the pleasure of meeting your offensive toad of a father.”

Of all the dangers Clara might face, this was one he had not envisioned. How could he? The Earl of Chadwick had never bothered to call upon him before.

Now a sense of sick dread clutched at his stomach.

“Father . . . here?”

“Yes.”

Hawksley muttered a string of vile curses beneath his breath. He did not doubt for a moment that his father had managed to be gloriously rude to poor Clara. He had always possessed a remarkable talent to offend and insult others.

And worse, he obviously must have revealed Hawksley’s identity.

Why else would she have packed her bags and left?

However ghastly his father might be, Clara would stand up to him without fear. That much he knew for certain.

Clenching his jaw until he thought that his teeth might shatter, Hawksley reached out to grasp the front of Dillon’s coat.

“Do not give me that look, Dillon. Just tell me what has happened to Clara.”

Clearly sensing this was no time to test Hawksley’s temper the servant grimaced.

“I was concerned when she left so I sent Billy and John to follow her.”

“And?”

“And a bloke snuck up behind her on the street and forced her into a carriage.”

“What do you mean forced?” he rasped.

“He knocked her over the head and bundled her into the carriage before Billy or John could reach her.”

Hawksley stood for a moment in numb shock before he turned and rammed his hand into the wall.

“Lord Doulton,” he growled in self-disgust. “He must have discovered our suspicions and is hoping to trade Clara for our silence. Dear God, what have I done?”

Fighting back the bile that rose to his throat, Hawksley struggled to consider what must come next. He would have ample time later to flog himself for his selfish stupidity. For now nothing mattered but finding Clara.

Absolutely nothing.

“We must begin a search immediately,” he commanded. “I will start with Lord Doulton—”

“Actually, I have hopes such a search will not be necessary,” Dillon interrupted. “Billy returned to warn me of Clara’s abduction, but he left John behind to follow the coach. He will return when he knows where she is being held.”

A measure of the tightness eased in his chest as he cast a rueful glance toward his loyal servant.

“Thank God my staff possesses a few wits even if their employer is a fool.”

Dillon’s expression eased to one of sympathy; perhaps the former thief sensed the raw, aching pain that throbbed deep in Hawksley’s heart.

“We will find her, Hawk.”

“Yes, we will. And then I will deal with Lord Doulton once and for all.” He clapped Dillon upon the shoulder. “You have done well. Fetch me the moment John returns.”

With a swirl of his greatcoat Hawksley turned to head down the narrow hall. He needed to collect his dueling pistols. They would ensure a far more lethal wound than Biddles’s small gun.

And a shot of whiskey would not come amiss.

And perhaps a heavy object to whack against his head for being such an unmitigated ass.

If anything happened to Clara . . .

His steps briefly faltered as that blinding pain once again wrenched through him.

If anything happened to Clara he could not bear to go on living.

Of that he was absolutely certain.

And he would have no one to blame but himself.

He turned to lean his shoulders against the paneled wall as his knees threatened to give way.

Stop this, Hawksley,
he grimly commanded himself.
Nothing is going to happen to Clara. Not if you have to walk through the very fires of hell to rescue her.

“So at last you return,” a too-familiar male voice groused from the door to the library. “And cast to the wind as usual.”

The prickle of antagonism that always signaled when his father was near raced over Hawksley’s skin as he slowly straightened to confront the unwelcome intruder.

“Father.” His own tone was cold. The very last person he wished to deal with at this moment was the Earl of Chadwick. “I would say this is a pleasant surprise, but we would both know that it was a lie, so why do we not just forgo the niceties and you can be on your way.”

The heavy brows lowered in an expression that the earl held in reserve for his younger son.

“I most certainly will not be on my way. Not at least until I have had my say.”

Curling his hands at his side, Hawksley forced himself to brush past his father and into the library. He could not afford to be distracted. Not now.

“Whatever you have to say will have to wait until a later date. I have no time for your tedious lectures this evening.”

Huffing with indignation, the older man followed closely behind.

“I have not traveled all this way to be put off.”

“No one requested you to travel here.” Reaching the desk, Hawksley pulled out his matching pistols and began to load them with practiced ease. “Indeed, I have never once invited you to do so.”

“Hawksley. What the devil are you doing?” the earl growled. “Do not tell me that you have embroiled yourself in some uncivilized duel?”

“I am going to retrieve my bride.”

“Bride?” Large hands abruptly landed on the desk and his father leaned forward to slay him with a murderous glare. “You cannot mean that shabby tart who—”

Hawksley was around the desk in the blink of an eye, grasping his father’s lapels to haul him forward.

“Never . . . never speak of Clara in such a manner again,” he gritted between clenched teeth.

The earl’s countenance reddened with fury, but there was the faintest hint of unease in his pale eyes. As if he were caught off guard at the realization that Hawksley would at last make a stand against him.

“Who is she?” he attempted to bluster. “Some penniless stray you picked out of the gutter?”

Hawksley narrowed his gaze as he gave his father a shake. “She is a lady in the finest sense of the word and far too good for me. But if by some miracle I can persuade her to have me as her husband, I will devote the rest of my life to ensuring she never has a moment of regret.”

“I forbid it, do you hear me, Hawksley?”

“You can forbid all you like, Father.”

“She will never be welcome at Stonecrest.”

Hawksley smiled with icy satisfaction as he dropped his hands. For years he had allowed himself to carry the wounds his father had inflicted. Nothing he had ever done had been good enough. Nothing could convince the aloof earl that his son could be anything but a disappointment.

Now he realized that it no longer mattered.

He did not need his father’s approval. He did not even need his love. Not when he had Clara.

She completed him in a manner he could never have dreamed possible.

“Nothing would please Clara more than to know she need never darken your door,” he informed the older man, his expression softening as he thought of his logical, practical, utterly delightful angel. “She possesses a fine distaste for your sort of pompous superiority. Did I mention she is quite the most intelligent woman I have ever encountered?”

The earl frowned, but Hawksley did not miss the faint tremor in his hands as he tugged his immaculate coat back into place.

Perhaps you are not quite so certain of yourself as you wish others to believe,
he abruptly acknowledged.

“You do not fool me, Hawksley,” the earl at last managed to mutter. “This is nothing more than an attempt to punish me. You think that by embarrassing your family with such an obviously ill-bred chit, you will have had your revenge.”

Shoving the pistols in the waistband of his breeches, Hawksley gave a growl of disgust.

“God, listen to you, you starched prig. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing.” He stabbed a finger in his father’s flushed countenance. “I love Clara. I love her so much that I ache when she is not at my side. And you can make any damnable threat you want, but nothing will change that. She will be my wife. You can accept it or not. I do not give a damn either way. Now out of my way.”

Stalking toward the door Hawksley did not even pause as his father chased behind him.

“Where the blazes are you going?”

“I am going to fetch the only person in this world who has ever truly cared about me.”

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.”