“Be that as it may, I will not have you playing maid beneath my roof. Here you are to be waited upon, as is only fitting for a lady.”
This time there was no mistaking the faint twinkle of amusement in the emerald eyes.
“I suppose you will insist upon having your own way?”
“I fear I must.” Reaching out, he touched her cheek. “I have great need of that astonishing mind of yours. I cannot have you distracted by stray battles against dust and lumpy crust. Agreed?”
She eyed him squarely, as if easily sensing she was being manipulated, but much to his relief she at last gave a decisive nod.
“Very well.”
“Good. Now will you join me while I eat?”
Together they settled at the small table, and Hawksley hid a smile as she reached out to straighten the plate of toast and perfectly center the sugar and cream upon the tray.
He was quite certain she did not even realize her instinctive need to keep all in tidy order.
Placing the napkin in his lap, Hawksley allowed himself to thoroughly enjoy the plates of smoked ham and warm toast with marmalade.
Since leaving his family estate he had lived the life of a bachelor. What did it matter if his home was tidy or his food cooked to perfection? All he needed was a roof over his head and a place to store his meager belongings.
Now he realized that he had unwittingly missed all the small comforts that made a house a home. The touches only a woman could provide.
With a soothing calm Clara waited for him to polish off the last of his tea before at last leaning forward.
“Did you manage to have the paper translated?”
Hawksley pushed aside the tray before reaching beneath his jacket to pull out the vowels and arrange them in the center of the table. Carefully he placed them together as if they were pieces of a puzzle.
“What there was to translate. Even together they only complete a portion of the page.”
“Did you learn anything at all from them?”
Hawksley’s lips twitched as he recalled his meeting with Biddles. As always, the little ferret had been a font of information.
“A bit. The writing is old Latin, as you suspected. And more fascinating, it appears to be some sort of petition.”
“A petition?” She regarded him with a curious expression. “A royal petition?”
“Papal.”
“Papal,” Clara murmured, mulling over his revelation before her eyes abruptly widened and she was on her feet. “Dear God . . .”
Hawksley regarded her with a lift of his brows. He had expected a measure of surprise at his revelation, but not this blatant amazement.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Chesterfield,” she breathed.
A flare of possessive annoyance hardened Hawksley’s expression. He found that he deeply disliked the man’s name upon Clara’s lips.
“Now is hardly an appropriate moment to be worrying over your mathematical genius.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “Mathematics was only a hobby for him, as they are for me. His profession was that of a church historian, specifically translating ancient manuscripts,” she said, leaning her hands on the table as she stabbed him with a glittering gaze. “If your brother managed to suspect that this paper was religious in nature, he most certainly would have sought out Mr. Chesterfield if he desired more information.” She allowed herself a dramatic pause. “And just as importantly, it would explain the mysterious appointment with MC he noted in his journal.”
Hellfire. Hawksley rose to his feet, belatedly realizing what had captured her interest.
“MC. Mr. Chesterfield.”
“Precisely.”
“Yes.” He gave a slow nod. “It certainly fits. Like you, my brother could not possibly allow a mystery to go unsolved. Especially not if it included some musty bit of history.”
“And perhaps he would have begun to question how Lord Doulton could possibly have come to possess a petition to the pope,” she muttered. “Such a document is not something that is commonly lying about a gentleman’s home.”
A slow smile curved his lips. God, it had been so long since he had managed to uncover the faintest trail that might lead to his brother’s murderer. He had begun to fear that he was beating his head against an impregnable wall.
Now he wanted to shout in happiness. Or better yet, grab Clara in his arms and soundly kiss her for her assistance.
Very, very soundly.
Instead he contented himself with grasping her fingers and squeezing them in silent appreciation.
“I think it time I pay a visit to this Mr. Chesterfield.”
The green eyes sparkled with excitement. “Allow me to change my gown. I will not be a moment.”
She would have slipped away if he had not tightened his grasp to keep her standing before him.
“Hold a moment, kitten.”
She frowned at his stern tone. “What?”
Hawksley was wise enough to consider his words carefully. Miss Clara Dawson was not a woman who meekly accepted a gentleman’s commands. No matter who that gentleman might be.
If he wished to keep her safe he would have to use logic, not male intimidation.
“You cannot simply go dashing about London,” he pointed out in smooth tones. “For now we can hope that Doulton believes you to be dead. I have no intention of disabusing him of that notion.”
“How would he possibly recognize me?”
Hawksley shrugged. “We cannot be certain he does not somehow know you and what you look like.”
The delicate features tightened. “You intend to hold me prisoner in this house?”
His lips twitched at the mere thought of attempting to hold her captive. So far she had chosen to remain with him of her own will. Should she change her mind he did not doubt for a moment that she would be away before he could blink.
Still, he could not resist a bit of teasing.
“Well, there is that lingering fantasy of tying you to my bed.”
An enchanting blush touched her cheeks, but it did nothing to ease her annoyance.
“Hawksley.”
“Be at ease, kitten,” he murmured, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead. “I have no intention of holding you prisoner. As delightful the thought, not even I am that brave. I do think, however, that we must see about some sort of disguise before you go about town.”
“Oh.” She mulled over his words before giving a nod of her head. “I suppose that is reasonable.”
“I do have my moments.”
She offered a grudging smile. “A few.”
“Mmm.” He gently dusted the flour from her cheek, his fingers lingering before he sternly pulled them away. “Allow me to go speak with Dillon and we will make our plans.”
On this occasion it was her turn to reach out and halt his retreat.
“You do not intend to sneak out behind my back?”
He gave a lift of his brows. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“Out of some misguided need to protect me.”
His features softened as he met her searching gaze. “I have every intention of protecting you, but I am honest enough to admit that I have need of your assistance. Whatever my varied talents, they do not include your unique ability to notice those niggling details the rest of us overlook. I promise I shall return in a moment.”
Her expression of gratitude warmed his heart far more than was reasonable, but distracted with his thoughts, Hawksley missed the dangerous sensation.
With swift steps he returned to the kitchen, discovering his manservant muttering beneath his breath as he carefully chopped a mound of vegetables.
“Dillon, I have need of you,” he commanded.
“Thank God,” Dillon breathed, yanking off the offending apron with obvious relief. “Do I get to hit someone?”
Hawksley gave a chuckle. “I fear not. I desire you to discover a housekeeper who can not only be discreet but possesses the skills to keep th
is house in the sort of order that Miss Dawson prefers.”
A rare smile touched the battered face. “Ach, t’will not be easy. Miss Dawson is right particular.”
“So I have discovered,” Hawksley retorted dryly.
“Mayhap I can convince my sister to come and lend a hand for a few weeks. Before she was pensioned off she was the housekeeper for Lord Tierney, and you know how fussy he was.”
Hawksley gave a swift nod. He was familiar with Lord Tierney and his notable obsessions.
“Perfect. Tell her that we shall have need of her as soon as possible.”
“I’ll go fetch her now.”
“While you are out I shall also need you to procure two gowns for Miss Dawson.”
Surprisingly, Dillon’s features abruptly hardened with a grim expression.
“She ain’t the sort of woman to be accepting gowns from gentlemen,” he growled.
Hawksley grimaced wryly at the unmistakable warning. How the devil could Clara claim she possessed no ability to charm the opposite sex? Since he had taken her from the carriage, she had managed to bewitch every man foolish enough to cross her path.
“I am well aware that Miss Dawson is a lady,” he assured his servant. “But if she is to leave this house, she will need to be suitably disguised. I would suggest a few of those black crepe gowns that widows always feel the need to drape themselves in and a heavy veil.”
“Oh . . . aye. I shall see what I can discover.”
With a rueful shake of his head, Hawksley turned to retrace his steps back to the woman who had already managed to storm her way into his life.
Gads, first he was playing the cavalier and now he was hiring servants to please her finicky nature.
If he did not watch himself, he would end up with a leash about his neck.
His steps briefly faltered as the disturbing thought flared through his mind. Then just as swiftly he was dismissing it as ridiculous.
Fah. He was in absolute control of the entire situation.
Absolute control.
Clara squirmed uncomfortably on the leather seat of the carriage.
She had never considered what those poor Egyptian mummies must suffer through. Of course, they at least were dead before they were put through such torture.
She, on the other hand, was very much alive and swathed from head to foot in enough black crepe to encircle a woman three times her size, not to mention a wide bonnet with a thick veil that made breathing far from a certain thing.
At least she would not be traveling far enough to test her stomach in the closed carriage. And better yet, Hawksley had not broken his promise, she acknowledged, stealing a pleased glance at the man seated at her side.
Most gentlemen in his position would no doubt have insisted that a lady had no business being part of a murder investigation. They would claim that they were only attempting to protect her when in the back of their minds they would be certain she would only be a nuisance.
But not Hawksley.
He believed in her strange talents.
He believed in her.
The knowledge sent a warm flutter through her stomach.
Regarding the fiercely beautiful profile, Clara barely noted when the carriage rolled to a halt. It was only when Hawksley turned to consider her with a tight smile that she realized they had arrived.
“This is the address. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, you are my cousin from Devonshire who has recently suffered the loss of your husband and are in town to settle his affairs.”
Her lips curled into a smile. He had drilled her on her part for the past hour.
“I shall not forget.”
“And you are not to lift your veil for any reason.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How many times must I promise you I will not?”
Clearly realizing he was being a tad ridiculous, he offered a rueful grimace. “Very well.”
Pushing open the door to the carriage, he stepped onto the road and lowered the stairs. Eager to at last discover something of Mr. Chesterfield, Clara twitched aside her heavy skirts and hurried down the stairs.
Unfortunately, she had neglected to take into account the thick veil and predictably missed the first step. With a cry she discovered herself plunging into Hawksley’s waiting arms.
For a moment she simply leaned into his chest, breathing deeply of his intoxicating scent as he held her close. Despite the urgency of their task, it seemed a very nice place to linger. Hawksley seemed to agree as his arms briefly tightened, then with obvious reluctance he steadied her and dropped his arms.
“Careful, kitten.”
She gave an impatient tug on the veil. “Blast. I can barely see through this ridiculous thing.”
“Which means that no one else can see through it either.”
“That will certainly ease my mind when I break my neck,” she said dryly.
He gave a soft chuckle as he firmly pulled her arm through his. “Just hold on to me, I won’t let you fall.”
Together they stepped through the narrow gate and approached the townhouse.
Although respectably situated in Cheapside, the residence possessed little to recommend it. The gardens were shabby, the shutters peeling, and the front knob unpolished. Not at all what she had expected from her intelligent, methodical Mr. Chesterfield.
Perhaps sensing her surprise, Hawksley cast her a sideways glance as they stepped onto the stoop and he used the knocker. Clara shrugged, forcing herself to concentrate upon matters at hand as the door was pulled open to reveal a wiry, nearly bald butler with a sour expression.
“Yes?”
“We are here to see Mr. Chesterfield,” Hawksley announced.
The butler narrowed his beady eyes. “Mr. Chesterfield ain’t at home.”
“We do not mind waiting.” Hawksley took a smooth step forward. “If you will show us to—”
With a surprisingly swift motion the servant shifted to block the doorway. “I fear you misunderstand, sir. Mr. Chesterfield has left London.”
Beneath her fingers Clara could feel Hawksley’s muscles tense. “Left London, you say? Where has he gone?”
“He had family business to attend in the north. If you would like to leave a card, I will see that—”
Realizing that the butler was on the point of shutting the door in their face, Clara rapidly searched her mind for a means of entering the house. Not only was her concern for poor Mr. Chesterfield increasing by the moment, but she knew that Hawksley was desperate to discover some connection to his brother within.
If she did not take matters in hand, the dangerous pirate was quite capable of forcing his way in.
“No, that will not do at all,” she stated in tones that would have done a duchess proud. “I traveled a great distance to meet with your master. He was transcribing a rare manuscript for my lately departed husband. His mother and I are anxious to have it returned.”
The sour expression soured further. “Manuscript? I ain’t knowing of any manuscript.”
“It must be within.” Clara allowed herself a strategic pause before clutching at Hawksley’s arm. “Unless . . . dear Lord, what if he has taken off with it? We must go to Bow Street at once. That is my only inheritance.”
Something that might have been amusement flashed in the blue eyes, but with a readiness that Clara admired, he swiftly followed her lead.
“Of course, dear cousin. We shall inform the authorities immediately.”
“Here now, there’s no call to do anything rash,” the servant blustered. “Mayhap I can search the master’s study and find the manuscript.”
Clara met his offer with a disdainful sniff. “Fah. You are merely providing your master with more time to escape with his ill-gotten treasure.”
“Quite right.” Hawksley leaned forward in a threatening fashion. “I must insist that we be allowed to search the study for ourselves.”
There was a tense moment as the servant
grimly attempted to choose between the lesser of two evils.
It was no doubt the air of violence that shrouded the looming Hawksley that at last swayed the balance. He was an intimidating beast under the best of circumstances. When he chose to use the full force of his will he was downright unnerving.
“Come in, then.” Turning on his heel, the man led them through a small foyer and up a flight of stairs. Stopping at the first door on the left, he threw it open and regarded them with a petulant impatience. “This be it.”
Both Hawksley and Clara paused in distaste upon the threshold. The narrow chamber was quite simply a mess.
Books, papers, magazines, and a healthy dose of pure rubbish managed to clutter every shelf and table. Clara might have thought that someone had broken in and created the destruction if not for the thick layer of dust that coated the clutter.
Her stomach clenched at the mere thought of entering the room, let alone touching anything. There could be anything under the grime.
Bugs, mold, creepy ancient creatures.
Glancing down at her horrified expression, Hawksley gave her fingers a sympathetic squeeze before pulling her across the threshold.
“I will begin with the desk, my dear, if you wish to sort through the piles near the window.”
With grudging steps she crossed toward the stacks of books on the window seat. Once there, however, she could not force herself to touch the crumbling manuscripts.
She would as soon put her hand in a viper pit.
Holding her skirts off the floor, she gave a loud cough in the butler’s direction. “Mr. Chesterfield is not a very tidy gentleman, is he?”
The servant stiffened in offense. “True genius rarely concerns itself with such mundane matters.”
Hawksley gave a bark of laughter as he rummaged among the papers. “Clearly you have never been in the companionship of true genius. I assure you that tidiness is a matter of utter necessity.”
“Sir—” the butler began to protest, only to be interrupted by Clara.
“Good heavens, I shall be a mess,” she muttered, stiffening her spine. If she could not assist Hawksley in one manner she would find another. “I must have an apron if I am to work among such filth. Kindly collect me one from the kitchen.”
Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) Page 10
