Some Like It Wicked (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  Hawksley sipped his whiskey, his lips twitching. “Perhaps you have not been stern enough in teaching her who is master.”

  “Master?” Biddles tilted back his head to laugh with rich amusement. “I would suggest you not say such a thing in Anna’s presence.”

  “You believe it would be my head upon the proverbial platter?”

  “Without a shred of doubt.”

  “That is the trouble with wedding a spirited woman.”

  “Ah no, that is the pleasure,” Biddles corrected with a wicked glint in his eyes.

  Hawksley briefly thought of the actress again. She was spirited in all the right ways, and without the bother of a wedding ring; unfortunately he wasn’t entirely certain she was worth the effort or the money. A thought that entered his mind far too often of late.

  Bloody hell. Obviously the sooner he ended this frustrating search for the truth the better. Another few months and he’d be a damn eunuch.

  “I should be on my way. Pendleton is no doubt drinking himself into a rage in some corner and I have no desire to have to shoot him.”

  Biddles glanced about the crowded room. “If you are not in a desperate hurry I think you should join me in my office.”

  “Office?” Hawksley grimaced. The word was enough to conjure up his father’s large study where he had regularly endured endless lectures, sermons, and an occasional beating, none of which had done the least good. “That sounds tediously dull.”

  “Actually I think you will find it of great interest.”

  Interest? Hawksley narrowed his gaze. “I suppose I could spare a few moments.”

  Together they left the table and climbed the narrow stairs to the upper floor. Out of habit Hawksley glanced about to ensure he was not being watched. He had taken care to hide the fact he was searching for his brother’s murderer, but he was never foolish enough to lower his guard. Satisfied that the crowd below was suitably entranced by the turn of cards and rattle of dice, he allowed himself to be escorted into a barren room that was notable only for its lack of space.

  Giving a lift of his brows he glanced over the desk and lone chair that managed to consume the small chamber. “Not quite what I expected from the notorious Hellion,” he murmured, referring to Biddles’ partner who had once been the most successful rake in all of England.

  Daintily dusting off the edge of the desk, Biddles perched himself upon the worn wood. “His wife has ensured that he is not nearly so notorious these days.”

  Hawksley leaned against the paneling, crossing his arms over his chest. “Poor blighter.”

  “He wouldn’t agree, I assure you.”

  He offered a dramatic shudder. “Lord save me from happily married gentlemen.”

  Biddles chuckled. “We are a dull lot, are we not?” Reaching behind him, the slender gentleman produced a bottle to pour Hawksley a measure of the amber spirit. “I think you will find this to your taste.”

  Accepting the offering, Hawksley took an experimental sip. Ahh. A smoky fire slid down his throat. Whiskey, of course; Hawksley always drank whiskey. “Excellent. Your private stock?”

  “Of course.”

  Beyond his skill in spying, Biddles always managed to procure the finest spirits—another reason to like the man.

  “I would ask where you purchased it, but I have a feeling you have no desire to share your source.”

  Biddles held up his hands in a helpless motion. “I must have something to maintain my intriguing air of mystery.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “You become any more mysterious and Parliament will have you locked in the Tower. Prinny already complains you need to have a bell tied about your neck to keep you from lurking about and sticking your nose into places it has no business being.”

  “My poor nose”—Biddles fondly stroked the pointed end—“it is sadly abused.”

  “It is a lethal weapon.”

  The pale eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You will not be near so condemning when you discover what this nose has managed to sniff out.”

  “You have information for me?”

  “Not precisely the sort you requested, but I think you might find it interesting.”

  Hawksley did not move but every muscle in his body tightened in anticipation. Biddles would not have approached him if he didn’t think the information was something he could use.

  “Tell me.”

  “There is a rumor floating about the stews that a certain Lord Doulton approached Jimmy Blade with an offer to pay him one-hundred quid.”

  Hawksley abruptly set aside his whiskey. He could not deny a measure of surprise at the information. Although he suspected that the elegant Lord Doulton dabbled in all sorts of nasty business, the man had always been careful to keep his reputation spotless. He preferred to hire others to wallow in the muck.

  “He has need of a thief?”

  “A highwayman.”

  Well, this just got more interesting by the moment. “Why?”

  “It seems there is a carriage on its way to London from Kent that Lord Doulton does not wish to arrive.”

  Hawksley narrowed his gaze even further. “There is something in the carriage he desires?”

  Biddles grimaced. “Actually there is something in the carriage he wants dead.”

  An icy fury flared through his heart. Damn the ruthless bastard. One day he would overplay his hand and put himself in Hawksley’s clutches—and that day would be his last.

  “Who?”

  “A Miss Clara Dawson.”

  Shock made him catch his breath. “A woman?”

  “Yes, is she familiar to you?”

  “I have never heard her name before. Bloody hell, why would Doulton want this woman dead?”

  Biddles shrugged. “Well the prig is too much a cold fish to have it be for the usual reasons a gentleman might wish to do away with a woman—love, hate, jealousy—so it must be that he either owes her money or that she has information he does not care to have spread about.”

  Hawksley shoved away from the wall. Unfortunately there wasn’t the necessary room for a good pacing. He took two steps to the chair and then back to the wall; still by the time he turned, he had made his conclusion.

  He had already discovered that Doulton possessed an astonishing fortune, too much fortune for a man who had inherited a crumbling estate and a pile of bills. The nobleman could easily afford to pay off any trifling debt.

  “Information,” he said firmly.

  “That would be my guess,” Biddles offered.

  “You said the carriage was coming from Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  A silence descended as Hawksley debated how best to use his unexpected windfall.

  He could lay a trap for Jimmy and force whatever information he might possess out of him. Not a bad plan except for the realization that the likelihood of Doulton sharing his reasons for wanting the woman dead was about as likely as a pig sprouting wings.

  No, Jimmy would know nothing. But the woman . . . ah yes. She knew something—something Doulton was willing to kill to keep secret. “Where is Jimmy to attack?” he abruptly demanded.

  “Westerham, just past the King’s Arms.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  Hawksley gave a slow nod, then with a lethal smile he reached out to lay his hand upon Biddles’ shoulder. “I owe you yet again, old friend.”

  Biddles grasped his arm before he could move away, his expression somber. “What do you intend to do?”

  A grim determination hardened his already hard features. “Get to the information before Jimmy Blade can make it disappear.”

  Biddles took a moment before he slowly released his arm. “Take care.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was not until she had hired the carriage and was well on her way to London that Miss Clara Dawson discovered she was not at all suited to long journeys.

  The swaying carriage made her queasy and the relentless jolting made her head a
che. Even worse, her unsettled stomach made it impossible for her to read, or work upon her needlework, or even count the blasted cows as they passed. She was a prisoner in the cramped confines with nothing to occupy her restless mind.

  Who could have known?

  Having lived in a small village for all her six-and-twenty years she had always used her God-given feet to take her about. And the few times she had resorted to accepting a ride by a kindly neighbor, the distance had been short enough to avoid any hint of her weakness.

  Besides which it was not as if she were one of those timid, easily distressed creatures who was overset by every situation that might come her way. While she might barely stand five foot and weigh little more than a feather, she was a sturdy, sensible woman.

  Most would say far too sensible. Or even annoyingly sensible, despite the fact she’d had no choice in the matter. When a woman was left on her own at the tender age of seventeen with a mere pittance and no family to speak of, she either learned to confront life squarely or she found herself begging in the streets.

  Still it was perhaps best that she had not realized just how great her discomfort would be, she acknowledged as another pain shot through her head. As much as she wished to ease the curiosity that had plagued her for the past fortnight, she sensed she would have been far less likely to leap into this carriage and head off so willy-nilly if she had known the nasty surprise awaiting her.

  At least she had the comfort of knowing they were less than two hours from London, she told herself. And the small sherry she had enjoyed at the posting inn had helped to ease her heaving stomach. She was bound and determined to survive.

  It was, after all, what she did best.

  Chancing a brief glance out the window, she noted the sun was slanted toward dusk. It would be dark by the time she arrived at the hotel, but at least the weather was cooperating. After a week of endless rain, the sun had struggled through the clouds to chase away the gloom—she would not be forced to make her first appearance in London wet and bedraggled. Queasy and weary was bad enough.

  Leaning against the worn leather squabs, she resisted the urge to close her eyes. The swaying was horrid enough with her eyes open—with her eyes closed it was unbearable; she barely dared to blink.

  They slowed as the plodding team approached a curve, then oddly she felt them being pulled to an abrupt halt.

  Clara frowned. There was no toll gate along this road that she was aware of, and certainly there was no traffic to impede their progress. Had something gone wrong with the carriage? They had hit enough bumps to rattle any number of vital things loose.

  Not one to sit about and await problems to be smoothed away, Clara reached up to push open the hatch in the top of the carriage.

  “Driver, why have we stopped?” she demanded.

  There was a muffled curse from above. “Hold, miss.”

  Clara’s frown deepened. “What is happening?”

  “Trouble.”

  Not at all satisfied with the vague response, Clara reached out to push open the door. If the driver had halted to have another drink from his flask, she would have his hide. Her hand, however, found nothing but empty air as the door was wrenched open without warning.

  Nearly tumbling off her seat Clara was forced to steady herself before she could glance up to regard the large form standing in the opening.

  When she did her heart momentarily halted.

  Even with his tall form cloaked in a caped driving coat and a hat covering his hair, there was no doubting the stranger was very large—and very, very male. Precisely the sort of ruffian a woman did not desire to encounter on a lonely stretch of road.

  Her mouth went dry and her blood rushed, but she refused to give into panic, that would surely accomplish nothing. Instead she sternly forced herself to view the man with the logic she had learned from her father.

  Breathing deeply, she first studied the coat that was frayed but clearly of good quality. Good enough quality to boast gold buttons and an exquisite tailoring that fit the muscular form to perfection; not the sort of thing one would expect a highwayman to possess.

  Her gaze lifted higher, taking note of the dashing diamond earring and then the hard edged features of his countenance. He was handsome, she easily decided. By far the most handsome man she had ever encountered. But there was a grimness in his expression that halted him just short of beautiful. At last she forced herself to meet his glittering gaze.

  Her heart once again halted, only on this occasion she could not blame it on fear. Sweet heavens, she had never seen such astonishing eyes: the blue was as rich as the finest velvet and rimmed in black, while the startling long lashes framed them with artistic perfection. They were the sort of eyes that women would kill for, but there was nothing effeminate about them; instead they shimmered with a cold intelligence that sent a small chill down her spine.

  Clara gave a vague shake of her head at her ridiculous reaction.

  If her inspection had told her nothing else, she did know for a certainty that this man was no mere highwayman. From the top of his beaver hat, to the tips of his polished Hessians, he spoke of noble breeding. No doubt a bored aristocrat out on a lark, she told herself with a disgusted sigh. She had heard that many gentlemen who considered themselves Tulips enjoyed daring one another to the most outrageous antics, including holding up carriages and demanding some sort of token for proof of their foolish courage.

  Waiting for him to finish his own survey of her slender form, Clara folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Sir, may I inquire what this is about?”

  “Get out of the carriage.”

  Clara blinked. Not so much at the soft purr of his voice, although it was deliciously compelling, but more at his astonishing demand. It was one thing to pinch a fan or even a kiss, it was quite another to haul her off to prove his daring.

  “Get out of the carriage? Why should I?”

  A raven brow flicked upward. “For the simple reason that I told you to do so.”

  Clara decided his voice was not so nice after all. “I did hear you, despite my advanced years I am not deaf.”

  He paused, as if caught off guard by her response. Not surprising. Clara had learned long ago that she tended to catch others off guard. Not in a good way, but in an aggravating, longing to gag her, sort of way.

  “If you heard me, then why are you still sitting there?” he growled.

  “I am not about to be ordered about by a perfect stranger.”

  His eyes narrowed and he slowly reached into the pocket of his coat to withdraw a pistol. With an ease that was not at all reassuring, he pointed it at her heart. “Perhaps this will convince you?”

  No doubt it should have, but Clara was busy noticing that the pistol was much like the rest of him. Sleek, lethal, and very expensive. Just the sort of thing a dandy on a childish lark would carry.

  “That is a very fine dueling pistol.” She leaned forward to inspect the detailed workmanship. “I notice it even possesses ivory inlay. No doubt you had it crafted at Manton’s?”

  The faux highwayman gave a muffled cough. “Bloody hell, have you been drinking?”

  “Of course not . . . oh, that is not entirely true.” She gave an unconscious grimace. “I did have a small sherry at the posting inn. I possess a very sturdy constitution, but I have discovered that it does not care for long journeys. My stomach becomes very queasy.”

  “I . . . see.” The eyes held a growing hint of bemusement, as if the man was not quite certain what to make of her. “You are not about to sick up, are you?”

  Clara gave the matter serious contemplation before offering a shake of her head. “No, I do not believe so. Not at the moment in any event.”

  “I cannot express the depth of my relief.” He took a step back. “Now, I am in something of a hurry so I must insist that you step out of the carriage.”

  “You still have not explained who you are or why you wish me to leave this carriage.”

  “And I have no intenti
on of doing so.” An edge had entered that honey voice as he gave a wave of the gun. “Get out or I will be forced to use this.”

  Clara leaned further back in her seat. She was not opposed to this man having a bit of fun, but she was tired of this dismal journey and not at all in the mood to play—especially not if he wished to display her to his cronies like some sort of trophy.

  “I do not believe you will pull the trigger.”

  The slender fingers tightened on the pistol. “What?”

  “Well, if you truly wanted me dead, you would have shot the moment you opened the door. I cannot imagine a cold-blooded murderer seeking to indulge in conversation, which leads me to presume that you desire to keep me alive.”

  “A desire that is waning with every passing moment,” he muttered.

  A wry smile touched Clara’s lips. “Not surprising. I tend to have that effect on most people.”

  Again there was that startled pause. “You are a most . . . unusual young woman.”

  She flicked a pointed glance over his elegant attire. “And you are a most unusual highwayman.”

  “One who does not possess time to wrangle with you. Forgive me, but you leave me no choice.”

  “What do . . .” Clara’s words ended in a startled shriek as the stranger reached into the carriage and wrapped an arm about her waist. With surprising ease she discovered herself being hauled from the carriage and slung over the man’s shoulder. “Sir.”

  He paid no heed to her protest, not even when she beat her fists upon the broad width of his back. Instead he calmly moved to a massive black stallion and smoothly vaulted into the saddle.

  Real panic flared through Clara. Not so much at being kidnapped since she still did not believe this man intended to harm her, but at the thought of riding over the man’s shoulder. Sweet heavens, she was guaranteed to be violently ill.

  As if sensing her distress, the stranger tugged her downward, settling her across the hardness of his thighs and clamping a firm arm about her waist.

  Clara discovered her new position somewhat of an improvement: at least her head was not dangling downward and her stomach threatening a revolt. But she had to admit she was not entirely pleased with her awareness of the hard muscles that pressed into her legs. It did not seem entirely respectable to be so conscious of the warm sensations that flushed through her body.