Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  Once inside, she took a moment, closing her eyes, panting and swallowing as her throat ached and burned.

  She needed her artist’s eyes now, not simple observant ones.

  Moments later, she opened her eyes and looked up.

  The same ships were there, in their random positions, and she searched the whole of it for any semblance of order.

  She moved to the center of the room, laid down on the floor, and focused her attention on the ships, the illustration of the sky, the sunset, the waves… The number of boats varied, and the numbers did not seem to be increasing or decreasing, though the sizes of ships in each panel varied. One held two large ships and three small boats, the next showed large clippers, another had nothing but a handful of small boats. The meaning and the direction seemed to be chaos from the looks of it, yet Clara knew better than to assume that.

  There was always some semblance of a plan in the mind of an artist, no matter what the result was.

  She began looking at the other parts of the art, rather than the ships themselves. One panel held the sunset, another only water, one had the illustration of fish in its waters, one had a lighthouse…

  She studied that lighthouse a moment more, frowning at it.

  There were no lighthouses in the vicinity, yet this structure in the art stood tall and proud, its tip pointing directly at the largest window in the room, and out at the sea.

  She did not have time for this. She did not have time for a full analysis, she needed…

  Time.

  Clara’s heart began to pound as her eyes darted here and there across the ceiling, wondering if it were possible. The more she looked the more she believed it, and the urge to laugh bubbled up within her.

  Time. It was a clock, not in the classic sense, and certainly not in an obvious way, but it was a depiction of time passing. Each panel held a slightly different color to the sky as well as a different number of ships. The lighthouse was a perfect top of the hour, and moving in the direction of a clock, she could draw very simple conclusions.

  She reached into her pockets again, this time drawing out the small pencil and diary she had been given in her training. She held it up before her, her eyes flicking from ceiling to page with a rapidity that would have made her dizzy under other circumstances.

  Not now.

  Not here.

  The sketch was rough and crude, and she created symbols she hadn’t considered before to speed things along. Her hand flew across the page, and then paused when she reached the panel of the sunset.

  Where did that fall in the scheme? She could easily see these panels discussing the smuggling of goods and agents, though the interpretation would take some time to understand, but the sunset… She had waited on the beach after sunset for something to happen, if it happened on the days she expected, and it had not.

  What then?

  She looked at the ships again, particularly in their order along the clock and their positions, and then looked at what followed sunset.

  There were no large boats after the panel at sunset.

  Her eyes widened as they darted back and forth once more. It wasn’t sunset. It was sunrise.

  The drop had already occurred when she and Brick were on the beach. The village fishing helped to hide any tracks left from the drop the night before, a perfect cover for the entire venture.

  “Bénissez-nous, doux cieux…” Clara breathed, grinning up at the art. She finished her rough sketch, making sure her notations on the number of ships were exact, then took one last look about for any additional details.

  When she saw none, she sat up, looking at the window with the perfect sea view. To one side of the center, rather unremarkable in its appearance, was a three-pronged candelabra.

  The lighthouse.

  She took a brief moment to sketch that on a separate page, then got to her feet, forcing her euphoria into the back of her mind.

  Now, she needed to return to Kirkleigh undiscovered.

  No small matter.

  She crept from the library, more on edge now than she had been at any other part in the venture. None of this would do her any good if she could not get away, after all. She ducked into the corridor towards the servants’ corridor just as she began to hear footsteps again. The hinges to the servants’ corridors were clearly well cared for, as the door opened without a breath of sound. She entered the darkened, pokey area without a breath, pressing her back to the door as it closed.

  There was no telling how often the servants moved through this part of the house, following the similar pattern or not.

  Hearing nothing, she hurried down the long space and to the outer door, pushing it open only as far as she dared, squeezing herself out and back behind the bush that had held her before. She breathed there only a moment, waiting for any sign of servants or disturbance, then darted out at a sprint towards the hedgerow, her carefully worked opening still in place and now less carefully entered. Trees hid her next part, and she ran headlong in the direction of Kirkleigh.

  She did not stop as she crossed the stream marking the boundary, and she did not stop on the hill leading up towards the house. She could barely feel her legs, but she ran still, images of pursuing servants forcing her on.

  Strong arms caught her then, making her gasp, and she whirled in their hold, relief stealing her strength when Brick’s concerned face floated before her.

  “I did it,” she wheezed in near delirium, clutching at his shirt. “I did it.”

  He grinned and scooped her up easily in his arms. “Of course you did, Sparrow. Come on, let’s make you appear unwell.”

  Clara nodded blearily, grinning as she clung to her friend and ally. At last, she would be able to prove herself in this new role she had taken on, would have given something to her King and country, would have righted a wrong that could have disastrous consequences.

  She could hold her head high, could make up for the blunder at the beach, and feel her assignment well spent.

  She had done it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Hawk would have run the rest of the way to Kirkleigh had he thought it would get him there any faster. He was well aware that a team of horses would do the job far more efficiently but sitting here in comfort when he wanted to be racing was maddening.

  He’d spent as little time in London as he could, but it had still been two full days there. Considering the day of travel prior, he’d been away three days, and had now been in the carriage for five hours.

  They were due to reach Kirkleigh shortly, but it would feel much longer.

  He desperately needed to see Clara. Needed to hold her. Needed to kiss her, finally. And then he would tell her he loved her, propose matrimony, and show her the special license he had been so fortunate as to procure during his time in London. It might have been presumptuous, but he would rather be presumptuous than regretting.

  And then there was the ring.

  He allowed himself a smug smile as he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket to pull the delicate band out for observation. The bright, pristine gold glinted in the light of the day, and the embroidery-like cannetille, design dotted with small diamonds around a larger, perfect amethyst gemstone, gave the ring a singularity he quite liked. It might have been overdone, but the moment he saw it, he had thought of Clara. Of her delicate hands, elegant fingers, and of feeling the hand bearing this ring weave its fingers through his own.

  It had to be Clara’s, and he prayed it would be.

  Of course, he had also procured the drawing pencils she had relented in requesting, as well as a fine cameo brooch for her aunt. Adrianna had sent him with a list of items from a dressmaker he had never heard of, but he had been assured that the items would be delivered to her at school soon.

  He had promptly ceased to care about her order after it had been submitted, and now he had only Clara on his mind.

  Only Clara.

  He tucked the ring back into his safest pocket, grinning out of the window as the
road turned to more familiar sights. They’d actually be on the estate in a minute or two, and then he could get on with his plans.

  He’d had enough of waiting, and unless he was grossly mistaken, all would go rather well.

  What would his siblings and Nat have to say to that?

  As though the horses knew of his haste to be home, their pace increased, sending the carriage bumping and jolting along like the mail coach. He grinned, not caring a jot for his comfort at the moment. He’d much rather arrive sooner in some slight disarray than later and pristine.

  Clara wouldn’t care, after all.

  How would she respond if he simply swept her into his arms when he got there? He was suddenly rather keen to find out. For a man so in love, he did not have much contact to show for it.

  He had not even kissed the woman, by heaven, unless one could count kisses upon hands. He had not embraced her, had not felt her arms around him, or anything of the sort. He could testify to the exact shape and size of her fingers, though, and how they felt clasped in his own. He knew the feel of her cheeks in the palms of his hands. He could tell anyone how her face appeared by moonlight, and which lock of hair would dislodge in a breeze off the sea. He could recount perfectly how the shade of her eyes changed from morning to afternoon, and from afternoon to evening.

  But he did not know the feel of her lips on his, nor the taste of her.

  And that was something he could not wait much longer for.

  Did that make him so very savage?

  He continued to watch from his window, more eager than a child, waiting for the sight of Kirkleigh itself to appear. Had he ever watched for anything so earnestly?

  Then, at long last, it was there, gleaming in the sunlight, more beautiful than the house had ever been to his eyes, and more the appearance of home than anything he had ever seen.

  His chest could have burst for all the warmth and delight swelling within him. What in the world was coming over him? The sedate Duke of Kirklin was fit to bursting over his own home because of the woman who was waiting there?

  Yes, he admitted without shame. Yes, he was.

  He frowned ever so slightly at the sight of a dark coach in front of the house, no crest or seal upon it to identify its owner. He was not in the mood for visitors when he had been planning a grand, almost histrionic reunion for himself. He’d have to see whoever it was away posthaste and find another way to accomplish his means.

  Without waiting for the carriage to stop, he opened the door and stepped out, striding for the entrance in long paces, removing his hat in advance.

  Stafford greeted him with wide eyes, his face drawn.

  Stafford was never drawn.

  Something was afoot.

  Hawk handed the man his hat and shrugged out of his greatcoat. “What is it, Stafford?”

  His butler swallowed. “The magistrate is in the Blue Room, Your Grace. With Mrs. Daniels and…”

  He did not wait for Stafford to finish and marched for the Blue Room, his expression set with all the thunder he felt roaring through his veins. “What is the meaning of this?” he bellowed as he entered the room, looking around almost wildly in his fury.

  Mrs. Clayton stood to one side, arms folded tightly, expression dark. Sir Henry Norris, the local magistrate, stood across the room from her, cool as the morning. He had a few lads with him, no doubt deputized to do something or other, though none of them seemed to be doing anything at the moment.

  Then, there was Mrs. Daniels, fists balled at her sides, glowering with the murderous look of a far darker figure at the magistrate and his men. And beside her was Clara.

  In shackles.

  Hawk suddenly saw red. “What in the hell is all this?” he barked again, flinging his hand towards Clara. “I demand an explanation!”

  Sir Henry turned to face him without emotion, bowing his bald head with apparent deference. “Your Grace. Your timing is excellent, I must say. We are in the process of making an arrest.”

  “In the process…” Hawk repeated, sputtering in disgust. “Have you a warrant? What are the bloody charges?”

  “Yes, I have a warrant,” Sir Henry replied, his tone infuriatingly passive. “See here. And as for the charges…”

  Hawk held up a hand, looking over the warrant quickly. It did not say much, but what it did say confused him.

  Clara Harlow was under arrest.

  Who was Clara Harlow?

  A faint familiarity rang in his mind, though he couldn’t place it, and he looked at Clara in confusion.

  Her eyes remained on the floor, her hair coiled into a crown upon her head. Or a halo. Yes, that’s what it was. She could have been an angel standing there in chains.

  And she was not looking at him.

  A gaping hole opened up in the pit of his stomach, and it tugged at everything within him to sink. “Who,” he ground out harshly, “is Clara Harlow?”

  “For the benefit of His Grace,” Sir Henry intoned gravely, “I shall begin again.” He cleared his throat, the noise too lengthy for comfort. “I, Sir Henry Norris, do hereby arrest Miss Clara Harlow, known hereabouts as Clara Moore, on suspicion of burglary, forcible entry, conspiracy, robbery, and assumption of false identity of a living person. How do you answer these accusations?”

  Hawk stared at Clara, waiting for her answer.

  She gave none, never raising her eyes from the ground.

  He couldn’t even manage to blink, wondering why she wouldn’t deny the accusations emphatically, preserve her reputation and her name, insist this was all wrong. Why was she just standing there doing nothing?

  Except…

  “Do you deny that you are Clara Harlow?” Sir Henry inquired, seeming almost bored now.

  Clara did not move, nor did she speak.

  “Do you deny taking part in any of these crimes by which you are accused?”

  Hawk watched in horror as Clara only blinked, her face otherwise impassive.

  “Do you deny entering the house of Barcliffe forcibly and without permission of its owners?”

  What? The Brownings? Hawk looked at Sir Henry in shock, then at Mrs. Daniels, who had an arm around Clara now, but only glared at the older man calmly destroying her niece.

  Even she was saying nothing.

  Why wasn’t anybody denying this? Why was it continuing?

  Unless…

  He slowly looked at Clara, tendrils of fury and betrayal unravelling.

  As though she knew, Clara flinched.

  That alone told him the truth.

  His chest squeezed tightly, as though the walls of the room were closing in just on his heart. The weight of the ring in his inner pocket would have nailed him to the floor had he considered it too much. Had his indignation not been roused.

  Had he been less sound of mind.

  Another man entered the room then, moving past Hawk to hand a familiar, leather-bound diary to Sir Henry. “It’s there, sir.”

  Sir Henry flipped open the book and eyed a page for a moment. “You’ve a canny hand, Miss Harlow. Pity, that.” He turned several more pages, then murmured, “Ah, yes. Proof enough.” He turned to show Hawk the page.

  It was a roughly sketched layout of a house, more accurate than most, which followed, as Clara’s hand had drawn it, but not enough to be actual designs. And it was undoubtedly Barcliffe, even Hawk could recognize that.

  He returned his attention to Clara then. “What did you take?” he growled.

  As he expected, Clara said nothing.

  Then the pieces slid together in his mind, and he exhaled slowly. “Miss Harlow,” he said slowly, nodding to himself. “Artist. Would you be the Miss Harlow employed at the Miss Masters’ Finishing School?”

  Clara clamped down on her lips hard, her eyes still on the floor.

  The last of Hawk’s hopes dashed to pieces then and there.

  “We are sure of that, Your Grace,” the bland magistrate told him. “We’ve already sent word to the school; we anticipate her immediate term
ination. Never had any trouble with them before, and we’ll do our best to keep their good name untarnished by this misfortune.”

  Hawk smirked at the word choice. “Misfortune,” he repeated to himself. “Yes, isn’t it just? Sir Henry, might I have a moment alone with the accused?”

  “Certainly, Your Grace.” Sir Henry came over to him, leaning close. “I’ll keep your name out of this entirely. The real Miss Moore will be contacted, and there will not be so much as a smudge on the family or Kirkleigh.”

  Hawk nodded his thanks, beyond words of politeness now. One by one, the magistrate and his men left the room, followed by Mrs. Clayton. Mrs. Daniels, however, had not moved from her place beside Clara.

  He had to admire that, he supposed, but he did not know what to make of her at this moment. “You, too, Mrs. Daniels,” he insisted roughly. “Please.”

  She looked at him finally, her jaw tight. Then she brushed back a bit of Clara’s hair and kissed her head, whispering something he did not catch. Ever graceful, she glided towards him, her pale eyes never wavering on him.

  “If you wound her further,” she murmured when she reached him, “I will cut your heart out.”

  “You’d have to find it first,” he snapped, jerking his head towards the door, turning to watch her fully leave, shutting the door behind her.

  He set his hands on his hips, lowering his head as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled the same. “I don’t even know what to say to you,” he told Clara, his back still to her. “I don’t… I don’t know how to look at you now. I don’t know what to believe, not when the proof is…”

  A faint sniffle, choked with tears, came from behind him, and he grimaced at hearing it, the sound somehow still ripping at the fibers of his being.

  “I ought to be ranting,” he went on, turning his head to almost glance behind him, but not quite. “I should be roaring in almighty fury and raining curses down upon your head. I should be enraged at you for dragging my name and the estate through the mud. I should be on my way to bloody high dudgeon over this. I have no doubt I will get there eventually. But I simply can’t fathom why…? Why you would…? I just… I am actually at a loss for words here. Would you care to explain anything? Anything at all?”