Dillon shrugged. “Calling a weed a rose does not make it a rose.”
Not at all in the mood for a lecture, no matter how well deserved, Hawksley gave an impatient shrug.
“I must find Santos. I wish to ensure he had no difficulties hauling Mr. Chesterfield to the authorities and that Lord Doulton was detained before he could flee.”
“Mr. Chesterfield.” The name sounded more a curse on Dillon’s tongue. “He was the man who kidnapped Miss Dawson?”
“And also the one responsible for Fredrick’s death.”
The servant frowned. “Not Lord Doulton?”
“Yet another mistake I have made.” Hawksley heaved a sigh as he gave a shake of his head. “Do not wait up for me. I will be late in returning.”
Before he could make his escape, the servant reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.
“You ain’t intending to pester Miss Dawson tonight, are you?”
“No. She is tired and need of rest. I will go to her in the morning.” His lips twisted. “If she will even agree to see me.”
Dillon gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “She will see you, and perhaps this time you will be wise enough to tell her the truth.”
A raven brow arched. “She already knows the truth. My father saw to that.”
“I do not mean the truth of your name. I mean the truth of your heart,” Dillon corrected. “Tell her you love her before you lose her completely.”
Hawksley struggled a moment, still not at all comfortable with revealing such an intimate emotion. But as it became obvious that Dillon was not about to release him until he had his assurance, he gave a reluctant nod of his head.
“I will tell her all that is in my heart.”
“Then all will be well.”
Hawksley wished he could be so certain.
In truth, he felt as if he were standing upon the edge of a cliff awaiting someone to rescue him or push him over the edge.
A sensation that was certain to keep him pacing most of the night.
A long night that he might as well put to good use, he told himself sternly, pausing only long enough to collect his greatcoat before heading back out of the house.
Although he did not doubt for a moment that Santos could be fully trusted to deal with the villains, he wished the satisfaction of witnessing their downfall. God only knew that he had waited long enough for this moment.
With impeccable timing, John was returning with the mount Hawksley had left behind at Mr. Chesterfield’s as he stepped from the house. Tossing the young man a coin, he hauled himself into the saddle and set off into the darkness.
Three hours later found Hawksley standing in the shadowed garden behind Biddles’s townhouse.
He had easily managed to locate Santos and assured himself that both Mr. Chesterfield and Lord Doulton had been properly handed over to the authorities. He had even had the pleasure of hearing both gentlemen confess their sins before they had fallen to their knees to sob for mercy.
Giving Santos thanks for his assistance, Hawksley had turned his mount for home. It had been a long day, with enough turmoil to make the most unflappable gentleman feel as if he had been run over by a team of oxen.
But even as he fully intended to seek the welcome warmth of his bed, he found his path straying far from the shabby neighborhood he called home and instead trailing through the elegant streets of Mayfair.
Oh, he could not pretend that he did not know precisely where he was going. Not when he had entered the darkened mews and climbed over the high wall to land lightly in the private gardens.
Once there he stepped beneath the cover of an ancient oak tree and simply gazed at the lighted windows.
Somewhere within the house Clara was preparing for bed.
His entire body ached with the need to go to her.
He just wished to see her face. To know that she was well and not suffering from her ghastly experience.
But while it would be a simple enough matter to slip his way into the house, he knew it would be a futile gesture.
The walls that kept him from Clara were not made of stone and glass.
It was the faintest rustle of leaves that warned Hawksley that he was no longer alone. With smooth ease he had pulled out his pistol and pointed it toward the darkness at his side. At the same moment Biddles gave a soft laugh and stepped into a slanting ray of moonlight.
“I thought you would make an appearance before the night was through,” he murmured softly.
Caught off guard at being so easily discovered, Hawksley returned the pistol to his pocket. “I am not here to bother Clara.”
Oddly, Biddles did not so much as smile at his ridiculous behavior. A rather astonishing miracle. Instead he gave a slow nod of his head, his expression somber.
“You just needed to be near her?”
Hawksley was thankful for the shadows that hid his sudden flush. “Pathetic, is it not?”
“Not at all,” Biddles retorted. “’Tis the usual behavior of a man in love.”
Love.
Gads, but the damnable emotion had a great deal to answer for.
Turning his head, he glanced toward the townhouse. “Is she . . . well?”
“Remarkably well considering all that she has endured. Anna was tucking her in when I came here to await your arrival.”
“Will she ever forgive me?”
“That, I fear, is beyond even my abilities to foresee,” Biddles murmured. “However, I will assure you that Miss Dawson is far too logical to allow her wounded emotions to overcome her better sense.”
With a frown Hawksley turned his attention back to the gentleman at his side.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that while some women might be willing to sulk and indulge in their desire to play the wronged woman, Miss Dawson has no talent for such theatrics. She would never hold a grudge simply for the sake of holding a grudge.”
Hawksley gave a slow nod. He was well aware that Clara did not delight in those tedious games that some women played so well. It was indeed one of the reasons he found her so delightful. He was never in doubt as to what was precisely upon her mind.
Both a blessing and a curse, he wryly acknowledged.
“True enough, but not quite the reassurance that I had hoped for.”
“It is more than what most women would offer you.”
He briefly closed his eyes against the tide of painful longing.
“Yes. Let us hope it is enough.”
It was a rather bemused Clara who sat upon the window seat of the bedchamber as she pulled a brush through her damp hair.
Anna had proved to be every bit as welcoming as Biddles had promised. More so, in fact. A short, curvaceous woman with a smile that could warm an artic winter, she had swiftly taken Clara under her wing.
Before Clara was quite aware of what was occurring, she had been whisked into a hot bath and changed into a clean robe. Even then Anna did not stop hovering until she had ensured that Clara had eaten every bite of the delicious stew that had arrived in her chambers upon a tray.
Thankfully, her motherly clucking had not included any attempts to force Clara into unwelcome confessions, or even to discover why she had been landed with an unknown woman at such an hour.
Although Clara was never one to hide from her troubles or attempt to pretend that they did not exist, for the moment she was content to allow herself to be cosseted and fussed over. It was a novel and not unpleasant experience.
With a faint sigh Clara set aside her brush and reached to crack open the window. Anna had demanded that the servants light a large fire before her bath, and the heat pouring into the room was nearly overwhelming.
Leaning forward, she sucked in a deep breath of the fresh air, only to freeze at the familiar scent of male cologne.
Hawksley.
There could be no mistake.
Brooding upon his most peculiar behavior, Clara paid scant heed to the sound of her door softly being pushed open. Only when a hand gently touched her shoulder did she turn to meet Anna’s quizzical smile.
“Clara, I thought you would be fast asleep by now. Is anything troubling you?”
Troubling her? Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes heavenward. She wished it were so simple.
“Hawksley is down there,” she said in clipped tones.
Anna shot a startled glance toward the darkened window. “You can see him?”
“No, I can smell him.”
“Smell . . . ?” Anna gave a sudden chuckle. “Ah . . . cologne. French, is it not?”
“Yes.”
And utterly fatal to women,
she silently added.
It should be outlawed.
Twitching her skirts out of the way, Anna seated herself next to Clara at the window seat, her expression one of sympathy.
“Horatio did not reveal all, but I suspect that Hawksley has managed to break your heart.”
It took a moment for Clara to realize that Horatio must refer to Lord Bidwell, then she gave a deep sigh.
“To wound it, anyway,” she reluctantly confessed.
“Men.” Anna gave a disdainful sniff. “What has he done?”
Clara bit her lip at the burning pain that clutched at her heart.
“He pretended to be something he is not.”
Anna’s brows drew together. “And what did he pretend to be?”
Clara clutched her hands into fists upon her lap. “A simple gentleman of strained means.”
There was a moment of startled silence.
“And you are angered to discover he is instead a man of wealth and position?” Anna demanded in confusion.
“Of course.”
“No doubt you have your reasons.”
“I should think it obvious.”
Anna carefully cleared her throat. “Perhaps you will humor me?”
Clara abruptly rose to her feet, twisting her hands together as she aimlessly paced the floor.
“For goodness’ sakes, what do I have to offer such a man? I have no fortune, no proper breeding, and worse, I do not have the talent to play the role of a viscountess, let alone some day a countess,” she burst out in annoyance.
“Obviously Hawksley believes you possess such a talent.”
Clara choked back a sob. “No, he is absolutely certain I do not, and that is precisely the point.”
Anna pressed a hand to her temple. “I think there must be something wrong with my brain, it does not seem to be functioning properly.”
“Do you not see?” Clara turned back to her new friend, her expression fierce. “I am the very worst possible maiden to become Countess of Chadwick. I cannot even move among village society without having everyone laughing behind my back or, worse, seeking to avoid me altogether. Hawksley could not conceive of a better means of punishing his family than by having me as his wife.” She gave a slow shake of her head. “The insult could not be more obvious.”
Despite her evident logic, Anna frowned in bewilderment. “My dear, you cannot truly believe Hawksley’s only desire to wed you is with the intent to embarrass his family.”
Clara did not understand why Anna would appear so shocked. It was all perfectly plain as far as she was concerned. Hawksley had never made any secret of his bitterness toward his father. Or the fact that he wished nothing more than to forget his family even existed.
But the death of Fredrick had brought an end to his desires. He was now no longer the younger son who was allowed to go his own way. Instead he was the heir, and as such bound tightly to duty.
He could not escape his destiny.
But he could have his final revenge upon his father.
“What other reason could there be?” she demanded.
Anna gave a lift of her brows. “It could be that he truly cares for you.”
Clara flinched. If this woman knew how much she longed for Hawksley’s heart, she would not tease about such a thing.
“A gentleman who cared for me would not have lied.”
Without warning Anna gave a tinkling laugh. “Clearly you know very little of gentlemen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gentlemen rarely behave as rational creatures, and only a woman who desires to end up in Bedlam would ever attempt to understand their feeble attempts at logic,” she retorted dryly. “And a gentleman in love is the very worst of all. The more ridiculously they behave, the more certain you can be that they are floundering in the throes of their own emotions.”
“Love?” Clara gave a sad shake of her head. “Ridiculous.”
“Why?”
Clara spread her hands in frustration. Anna seemed such an intelligent woman. Why did she pretend that it was even thinkable that a handsome, wealthy, and titled gentleman would find her genuinely desirable?
“Gentlemen do not fall in love with women such as me,” she gritted.
Anna slowly rose to her feet, her arms crossing over her waist.
“Oh no, what would any man want with a beautiful, intelligent lady who has managed to bring justice to the villain who killed his brother? Most unsuitable.”
Clara gave a shake of her head. “You could not possibly understand.”
“Actually, I understand perfectly. There was a time when I thought I should never find someone to appreciate me for who I am. My first season in London was nothing short of torture, and I assure you that I was most firmly condemned to the shadows as a wallflower.”
Clara frowned in bewilderment. This pretty, vivacious woman a wallflower? It seemed unthinkable.
“You?”
“Yes, me,” she assured the disbelieving Clara. “So you see, I know what it is to be considered an outsider. Still, as much as it made me wretched to be considered an outcast, it still would have been far easier to remain safely hidden in the shadows than to take the risk that someone could truly love me.” A whimsical smile touched her lips. “I have never regretted a moment putting my faith in Horatio. There are times when you must simply follow your heart.”