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.
“You sound like a ghastly poet.”
“No, merely like a happily married man.”
“Not all men can claim such satisfaction,” he swiftly pointed out. “Indeed, the clubs are littered with husbands seeking solitude from their nagging wives.”
Biddles gave a superior lift of his brow. “That is because they sought a wife they believed would suit their needs. One who was beautiful, or wealthy, or from the proper family.”
“And you think I should seek a bride who does not suit my needs? Rather absurd logic, even for you, Biddles.”
“I do not think you should seek one at all,” he corrected smoothly. “I believe that fate will ensure you stumble across the true woman for you. Or sometimes fate just tosses her straight at your head.”
Just for a heartbeat Hawksley recalled the moment he had opened the door to the carriage. There had been a jolt of recognition. As if he had been waiting for the lovely angel. Perhaps all his life.
No. God, no.
He shoved his hands through the long strands of his hair. “Enough. I have no interest in acquiring a wife.”
Biddles’s expression became suddenly somber. “’Tis unfortunate, but there is no escaping the fact that you now possess responsibilities that cannot be ignored forever, Hawk. One of which is to marry and produce children.”
Hawksley froze, his countenance grim.
“Responsibilities that I will not consider until after I have caught Fredrick’s murderer.” He squared his shoulders. “Now can we please turn our attention to the reason I sought you out this evening?”
Chapter Eleven
It was nearly a week later when the plan was at last put into place. Throughout the long days Clara had remained patient, although she had chafed at the knowledge that she was unable to offer assistance in the actual details of the scheme.
In truth it had been Hawksley’s friend Lord Bidwell who had taken charge of arranging the high-stakes hazard game that was perfectly suited to lure Lord Doulton to Hellion’s Den for the evening, and Santos who had devoted several evenings to covertly watching the servants’ routines so there would be no unpleasant surprises.
As for Hawksley, he had disappeared each afternoon only to return when the dawn was breaking.
At first Clara had feared he was avoiding her.
He certainly would not be the first man to go to extraordinary lengths to flee her presence. Some even went so far as to leap behind bushes when they spotted her walking down a lane.
Why should he be any different?
Fortunately, the horrid notion barely had time to slice through her heart before she discovered the truth.
Returning her breakfast tray to the kitchen, she had heard Dillon speaking to his sister, who had recently arrived to take over the housekeeping duties. He had confessed that Hawksley had been forced to return to the gambling hells to earn enough money to pay for the wages of the increased staff.
Her fear had shifted to guilt.
Oh . . . blast.
She knew perfectly well that Hawksley had only hired the housekeeper and maids to please her.
Servants he could ill afford.
Still, there seemed no simple means of confronting him with her knowledge. Even she knew better than to offer him the funds she had brought with her, as meager as they might be, or to suggest that he allow her to care for the house without assistance.
Gentlemen were astonishingly sensitive when it came to such matters. And the less money they possessed, the more sensitive they became.
It was all a mystery to Clara. But then, most things that had to do with the opposite sex were a mystery to her. Such strange creatures.
It seemed best to hold her tongue until she could consider a means of easing his burden without harming his pride.
At last the days passed and the plans were in place and Clara discovered herself rattling through London in the closed carriage with a clearly tense Hawksley.
She allowed his ceaseless lectures to wash over her as she smoothed her hands over the pants and shabby coat Dillon had procured for her. It felt odd to be dressed as a man, but she had to admit Hawksley had been right. Such attire gave her much more freedom than that blasted crepe dress from the netherworld. And best of all, her hair had been shoved beneath a hat rather than concealed behind a heavy veil.
She was fully prepared for her life
of crime.
Shrouded in the darkness of the mews, the carriage came to a silent halt and Hawksley assisted her into the narrow alley. Still without speaking, she discovered herself being hoisted over the high wall. She stifled a squeak as she was swung over the top to land awkwardly on the other side.
She was quick, however, to have herself upright and dusted off before Hawksley landed softly beside her. He would use any excuse, no matter how trifling, to force her to remain in the carriage.
As if to prove her point, he regarded her with a searching gaze before reluctantly pulling her toward the looming stone structure.
“Here we are,” he whispered.
Clara’s eyes widened as she counted the arched windows that glinted in the moonlight. She did not doubt her cottage could fit in the kitchens alone.
“Good heavens. It is quite . . . lavish, is it not?”
Hawksley gave an inelegant snort. “Lord Doulton possesses a taste, or many would say a lack of taste, for the large and gaudy. The question is how he has managed to acquire the fortune to pander to his expensive habits.”
Clara nodded. To purchase such a home and staff would require an enormous fortune.
“Hopefully we shall soon discover.”
“Clara.”
His hand landed upon her arm, and Clara heaved a sigh. “Yes, Hawksley, I know. I am to remain at your side at all times, keep my mouth shut, and leap through the nearest window at the first hint of danger.”
The blue eyes flashed in the darkness, his other hand reaching up to gently cup her face. “If something were to happen to you . . .”
A tiny thrill of pleasure shot down her spine. It had been far too long since he had touched her, she inanely realized. She had missed the feel of his warmth.
“It will not. I am not a courageous sort. If something occurs, I assure you that I will scamper away in the most cowardly fashion.”
His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “I would feel much better if I truly believed that.” There was a faint whistle in the distance and Hawksley sucked in a deep breath. “That will be Santos. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us be done with this,” he muttered, grasping her fingers in a tight grip as he led her toward the back of the house. They had reached a pair of French doors when a tall form suddenly detached from the shadows and Santos joined them. Dressed in black, as were Clara and Hawksley, he was tall and beautiful, and when he flashed her a seductive smile she could not help but smile back. He was not Hawksley, but there was not a woman alive who would not go a bit weak in the knees when near the man. A frown abruptly marred Hawksley’s brow, and the glance he shot toward his friend seemed unnecessarily fierce. “You have searched the house?”
Santos chuckled with a strange hint of satisfaction.
“Yes. The staff have all retired to the servant quarters except for a footman and Lord Doulton’s valet.”
“You will keep watch upon them?”
“Of course. Biddles is already within the library awaiting you.” Stepping forward, he grasped Clara’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “Be careful, meu anjo.”
He disappeared through the French doors as Hawksley muttered beneath his breath. They waited a long moment before following him within, both moving with a slow caution that had Clara’s nerves on edge. She discovered it was one thing to logically plot stealing into a house, and quite another to actually do the deed.
Thankfully, she managed to make it to the library without stumbling, sneezing, fainting, or even breaking her neck. Slipping into the vast room, they shut the door behind them and there was a rustle of movement. In moments a small gentleman with a pointed nose and shrewd eyes had lit a candle.
“So glad you could make it, Hawk,” the gentleman drawled, walking forward to regard Clara with a disturbingly perceptive gaze. “Ah, and the intriguing Miss Dawson. My very great pleasure.” Lifting the candle, he studied her flushed countenance. “Egads. Santos did not exaggerate.”
Hawksley gave a low growl at her side. “Not now, Biddles. Have you discovered anything of interest?”
Lord Bidwell turned that unnerving gaze upon Hawksley for a long moment before waving his hand about the room.
“The usual collection of the vulgar. Really, it is astonishing how many who seek to claim the position of gentlemen retain the soul of the bourgeoisie.” They all took a moment to grimace. Although there were a handful of obligatory books upon shelves, it was the artwork that held and captured the attention. Paintings, sculptures, and figurines were hung, crammed, and stuffed into every available space. All of them of dubious quality, and all of them of naked women. “There is one thing of interest, however.”
“What is it?” Hawksley demanded.
Leading them to a distant alcove, Lord Bidwell halted before a life-sized statue of a woman with a bosom that made Clara wonder how it could possibly remain upright.
“If I do not miss my guess, I believe it to be a safe,” Biddles murmured.
Hawksley gave a raise of his brows. “Vulgar, indeed.”
The thin gentleman was busily running his fingers over the statue, giving a faint sniff as he reached the tip of one breast.
“How depressingly predictable,” he drawled, pressing a hidden lever so that the front torso swung open.
Taking the candle from his friend, Hawksley leaned forward to peer into the murky darkness that ran down both legs.
“There is something within. Ah.”
He pulled out a neatly folded paper, and Clara reached out to pluck it from his grasp. “Good heavens, it is my letter.”
“Indeed.” Hawksley narrowed his gaze before returning his attention to the safe. “There is something else.”
“More letters?” Biddles demanded.
“No.” He pulled out what appeared to be several squares of canvas tidily rolled together. “What the devil?”
Clara gave a sudden gasp. Her father had taught her well.
“Hawksley, be careful,” she warned.
He regarded her in surprise. “Do you know what it is?”
“Paintings.” Taking the bundle from him, she moved to a nearby table where she smoothed the canvases flat with exquisite care. “Dear heavens, not just paintings. Titian, Valentino Baroccio . . . and what I suspect might be a Raphael.” Something niggled in the back of Clara’s mind, but at the moment she was too stunned at actually having her hands upon such masterpieces to give it much note. “These are priceless.”
The two gentlemen crowded behind her, peering over her shoulder.
“She is quite right, Hawk,” Biddles said. “These are masterpieces. They cannot be left here and allowed to disappear.”
“Damn.” Hawksley blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was not yet prepared to tip my hand, but it appears we shall have no choice.”
Clara breathed a sigh of relief as she carefully rolled the canvases and handed them to Lord Bidwell. As an art scholar, her father had firmly believed that such works should be offered for all the world to enjoy, from kings to the lowliest servant. He would have thought it no less than sacrilege to leave the paintings in the hands of a scoundrel.
Taking the paintings with obvious reverence, the thin gentleman glanced toward Hawksley. “Shall we continue with our search?”
Hawksley moved to shut the now-empty safe. “Not this eve. I prefer not to press our luck.”
“My thought as well,” Biddles swiftly agreed.
Together they moved across the room, Hawksley cautiously peering out the door before waving them through. Santos appeared next to them as they slipped through the silent house and out the French windows.
It was a distinct relief to Clara when they at last approached the wall and no disaster had befallen them. Logic might assure her that they had taken the necessary precautions to ensure a successful campaign, but she was discovering that adventures were not always about logic and strategy. There was far too much luck involved for her peace of mind.
On thi
s occasion she was prepared for the feel of Hawksley’s strong hands encircling her waist and hoisting her upward. She scrambled over the wall and managed to land upon her feet.
Turning, she awaited Hawksley to join her. Oddly, only silence greeted her and she frowned. What the devil were they doing?
No doubt some stupid male battle over who would go over the fence last, she told herself with a roll of her eyes.
It was then that she heard the sound of footsteps stomping through the garden and the call of a rough male voice.
“I heard ye sneaking about, ye rotten thieves. Show yerself or I’ll blast a hole in yer head.”
Clara’s perfect brain froze in horror. Blessed Saints, they had been caught. And worse, the angry servant sounded more than a little eager to begin firing lead balls about the garden.
Think, Clara, think, she grimly commanded herself. If she did not do something swiftly, then Hawksley would take matters into his own hands. A thought that was enough to make her eye twitch.
She had to do something. But what?
A distraction, the voice of reason whispered in the back of her mind. That was what was needed.
Swiftly, she bent down and searched until she found two stones that fitted comfortably in her hands and darted down the alley. Along the way she managed to drop one of the stones painfully upon her toe but she never faltered. Reaching the corner of the property, she drew her arm back and tossed the remaining stone over the wall.
Luck for once was on her side and the stone landed with a loud splash in a nearby fountain.
“Hah, yer mine now, ye bloody sod,” the servant growled as he barreled toward the fountain.
Clara silently moved back down the alley, not at all surprised to discover the three gentlemen vaulting over the wall by the time she returned.
None of them spoke as they skirted the stables and headed down the block to where Hawksley’s carriage awaited them. They clambered within and Hawksley gave a rap on the ceiling to set the vehicle into motion.
Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) Page 13