Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  “Then what is it, Clara?” he demanded, his voice revealing a hint of impatience. “Do you fear I will not make a suitable husband? I may not possess the charm of Santos or the intellect of Mr. Chesterfield, but—”

  “Hawksley, I cannot be your bride simply because I could not bear to have you loathe me,” she abruptly announced.

  Silence descended as he regarded her in disbelief.

  Was she mad? Had her mother managed to drop her upon her head when she was just a babe? Or perhaps the strain of the past few days had made her plunge into insanity.

  There had to be some reason she could believe a gentleman who had not only made desperate love to her for hours, but had turned his household upside down to please her, could ever possibly loathe her.

  With a determined motion he reached out to take her hands in a firm grasp. He was startled to discover they were actually shaking.

  “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” he said, holding her gaze as he steadily pulled her toward him. “Why would you even think such a thing?”

  She bit her bottom lip at his soft question. “Because I always manage to annoy and irritate those about me. I do not mean to do so. Indeed, I rarely even realize that I am doing so until they are angry.”

  He gave a slow shake of his head, silently cursing those who had so wounded this poor woman.

  “Clara, there are none of us who do not annoy and irritate others upon occasion.”

  Her lashes lowered to hide the beauty of her eyes. “Not as I do, Hawksley. You claim to find me fascinating, but soon enough my eccentricities will have you wishing me in Hades. It is inevitable, and I do not intend to remain here long enough for that to occur.”

  His lips thinned. “For God’s sake, my father found me so annoying he demanded I leave his home. Not even you can make that claim, kitten. Obviously we are perfectly suited.”

  He heard her catch her breath at his brutal confession, her expression abruptly softening. “Oh, Hawksley.”

  Always swift to take advantage of the slightest weakness in his opponent, Hawksley had her in his arms and pressed to the rapid beat of his heart.

  “Marry me, Clara. Be my wife.”

  He watched the play of emotion over her sweet countenance. Longing, uncertainty . . . and fear.

  “I think it would be best if we discuss this after we have discovered the truth of your brother’s murder,” she at last muttered.

  Hawksley squashed his fierce surge of impatience. He wanted her agreement to his proposal. Hell, he wanted to haul her to the nearest church and be done with the business.

  Unfortunately, he knew enough of Clara to realize that she could not be coerced or bullied. Until she accepted that she was all he desired in a bride, she would balk.

  Obviously, it was his duty to prove to her that they were meant to be together.

  A notion that, now he considered it, held a certain amount of appeal, he accepted with a slow smile. There were many means of convincing a passionate young lady just how desperately he was in need of her.

  Cupping her chin in his hand, he tugged her face upward to meet his smoldering gaze. “You will not leave? You promise to stay here with me?”

  There was a tense pause before she gave a slow nod of her head. “I promise.”

  Hawksley released the breath that he did not even realize he was holding. She would stay. She would never break such a promise.

  And in the end she would be his wife.

  With an effort he lowered his arms and stepped back.

  “Very well, tell me what it is you have discovered.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clara moved to the desk to retrieve the letter she had been studying for the past three hours. Outwardly she managed to appear her usual efficient self, while silently she recited the multiplication table, forward and then backward, in an effort to calm her rattled nerves.

  Wife.

  Hawksley’s wife.

  Cripes. What the devil was he thinking? She had not yet accustomed herself to the earth-shattering notion that she was his mistress. And now he flummoxed her with a marriage proposal.

  A warm, aching pleasure flared through her before she was sternly squashing the sensation.

  No.

  Hawksley was simply not thinking clearly. He saw her as a lonely spinster with no family and no one to care for her. And there was the added guilt of having taken her innocence.

  It was his nature to rescue her.

  She would never allow him to make such a sacrifice. Not when it would in the end make him miserable.

  All too soon he would come to his senses. And then he would thank her for having refused his proposal.

  In the meantime, it was vital that she hide her own foolish emotions. Emotions that she refused to contemplate. Not when they were perilously close to love.

  Swallowing back the most ridiculous urge to cry, Clara firmly squared her shoulders and returned to Hawksley’s side. She was relieved to discover her hands were steady as she held up the sheets of paper.

  “As you see, I have made the calculations,” she said, pointing toward the tidy line of formulas and sums.

  Hawksley grimaced. “Bloody hell, it makes my brain ache to even look upon them.”

  She wrinkled her nose at his obvious horror. It was a common enough reaction. There were few who shared her love for complicated equations.

  “Actually they are quite simple. You see, the formula for the first is—”

  “Please, I beg of you, kitten, no mathematics or calculations before breakfast. Or for that matter, before luncheon or dinner,” he pleaded.

  “Very well,” she conceded with a low chuckle. Shuffling the papers, she revealed the poem she had discovered hidden within the numbers. “This is the translation:

  ‘A man must take risk and even harm

  When seeking a bride of wit and charm,

  If you will have me, my precious love,

  I shall bring you riches from heaven above.’”

  Hawksley made a strangled sound deep in his throat. “Hellfire, what drivel. You cannot mean to tell me you had your head turned by such rubbish?”

  A blush touched Clara’s cheeks. She had to admit she was rather shocked by the strange poem. Mr. Chesterfield had on occasion complimented her intelligence or offered suggestions that they someday meet.

  This, however, was something quite different.

  “He never before sent such a thing,” she confessed. “I cannot imagine what he was thinking.”

  His expression hardened as he glared at the paper. “I can tell you precisely what he was thinking. I should know, after all. He was asking you to marry him.”

  Her blush deepened. “Ridiculous.”

  The blue gaze lifted to stab her with a sardonic glitter. “I will allow you to be the expert when it comes to equations. I, however, must insist on being the expert when it comes to a man who is desperate to take a wife,” he retorted dryly. “You are clearly the bride of wit and charm.”

  She grimly ignored the pain that stabbed through her heart. Not long ago she might have dared to hope that Mr. Chesterfield would make her a suitable husband. Now she very much feared she would never be satisfied with less than a wicked pirate.

  “Even if that is true, what of the rest of the poem? It makes no sense.”

  He gave a lift of his shoulder. “Does any poetry?”

  “Mr. Chesterfield was a very . . . literal sort of gentleman,” she pointed out, giving a shake of her head as her gaze skimmed over the strange words. “‘A man must take risk and harm.’ It must have some meaning.”

  She sensed his tension, as if he longed to snatch the papers from her and toss them into the nearest fire. Then, with an obvious effort, he plucked the poem from her fingers and forced himself to study the peculiar lines.

  “Perhaps it does,” he grudgingly conceded, his brow furrowing in concentration. Clara remained silent, covertly allowing her gaze to wander over the chiseled profile. A fa
int shiver raced through her as she recalled the feel of his slender fingers smoothing over her skin, and the tender demand of his lips . . . “Damn.”

  Jerked out of her pleasant daydreams, Clara met the startled blue gaze.

  “Hawksley?”

  “By God, I think you were right when you suggested that my brother went to Mr. Chesterfield with his vowels. I also think that Mr. Chesterfield must have recognized the scraps of paper as something important.”

  Unaccountably pleased, but still confused, she glanced toward the paper clenched in his fingers. “Why do you say that?”

  “‘Risk and harm,’” he quoted the poem. “Mr. Chesterfield was clearly a gentleman of strained means. One who suddenly possessed a desire to wed the woman who had caught his fancy. No doubt he would be eager to grasp at any opportunity to improve his dubious resources.”

  She stiffened. Really, for such an intelligent, handsome, sophisticated gentleman, he could be remarkably foolish, not to mention stubborn.

  “You cannot think that Mr. Chesterfield would harm your brother?”

  “No, but I do believe that he might attempt to blackmail Lord Doulton,” he said slowly. “What easier means of acquiring a tidy fortune?”

  Clara opened her mouth to argue. Mr. Chesterfield would never do anything so nefarious. He was a scholar and a gentleman, was he not? Then she abruptly paused.

  She had already acknowledged that she knew precious little of Mr. Chesterfield. Certainly she could not attest to his character from a handful of letters.

  And logic did indeed suggest that he had involved himself in something beyond his control.

  “Goodness,” she breathed.

  He regarded her with a somber expression. “It would explain how Lord Doulton learned of Fredrick’s suspicions.”

  “And it might very well account for Mr. Chesterfield’s disappearance.”

  “Yes. Either he has been wise enough to hide his presence until receiving the funds he demanded, or else . . .”

  “Lord Doulton has already ended his threat,” she completed his thought in tight tones.

  “Rather costly riches from heaven.”

  She blinked at his words. “What did you say?”

  He shrugged. “I was merely quoting from the poem.”

  “Heaven above,” she muttered, that niggling she had experienced the night before returning with a vengeance.

  “Hardly original; still, he no doubt considered the thought of sudden wealth as a gift from God.”

  “There is something . . .” Barely aware of moving, Clara began to pace about the room, absently straightening the books upon the shelves and arranging the handful of snuffboxes into a precise line.

  Hawksley gently cleared his throat. “Clara?”

  “There is a pattern.” She continued her pacing, her skirts twitching in agitation. “One strand leading to another.”

  “Are we discussing Mr. Chesterfield or weaving?” he demanded in wry amusement.

  “Heaven.”

  “Heaven?”

  Consumed with her broodings, Clara circled the room, not even noting when her very large companion was forced to leap out of the way or be run over.

  “More precisely, religion. The papal petition, Mr. Chesterfield, the poem, the paintings . . .” She caught her breath as she at last realized the source of that niggling. “Of course. The paintings.”

  Abruptly stepping before her, Hawksley grasped her shoulders in a firm grip, his expression bemused.

  “Please hold still, kitten. You are making me dizzy. What is this about the paintings?”

  “Last eve when I saw the paintings, I sensed there was something I should recall about them, but I could not put my finger upon it.”

  “And now?”

  She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “And now I wonder how I could be so stupid. My father would have been very disappointed in me.”

  His gaze narrowed as his fingers tightened upon her shoulders. “No, kitten, that I refuse to believe. Your father could never have been anything but extraordinarily proud of you.”

  A warmth flared through her as her lips curved in a small smile. Gads, but he always seemed to know exactly what to say.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, what is it about the paintings? You said they were priceless?”

  “Priceless, and many would claim, the property of God.”

  “What?”

  “The Vatican.”

  Feeling the tender bewilderment that was becoming all too familiar when in the presence of Clara, Hawksley watched as she resumed her pacing.

  He wanted to demand that she explain her cryptic comments. Or at least give him some indication of what the devil was going through her mind. But he was becoming wise enough not to intrude when she was in the midst of her deep thoughts.

  He might as well bang his head against the nearest wall.

  A rather ironic situation for a man who had always taken for granted his irresistible appeal to women.

  There was a slight rustle at his side and he jerked about to discover that Biddles had slipped silently into the room and was currently watching Clara with a faint smile.

  “Really, Hawk, if the poor lady is in need of a morning stroll, the least you could do is take her to the park,” the little rat drawled, smoothing his hand over the buttercup coat that was jarringly paired with a scarlet waistcoat.

  Hawksley smiled as he leaned his shoulders against the paneled wall.

  “And risk having her trample the helpless natives?” He gave a shake of his head. “Take my advice, old friend, protect your toes and any vital organ when she nears. She can be an unstoppable force when she is in the throes of pondering.”

  “And what, may I inquire, is she pondering?”

  Hawksley shrugged. “Something of paintings and the Vatican.”

  Much to his surprise, his companion gave a choked cough of shock.

  “How did she . . . ? Egads.”

  Hawksley narrowed his gaze. Dammit all, enough was enough. Was he the only one in England who had not yet managed to deduce what the hell was going on?

  “What is it?”

  “I made a few discreet inquiries this morning concerning the paintings we discovered.”

  Hawksley froze. The last thing he desired was Lord Doulton suspecting that Biddles was involved in the hunt for his brother’s murderer.

  “How discreet?”

  Biddles held up a hand. “Do not fret, I merely mentioned in passing that a wealthy patron of Hellion’s had a desire to collect some of the more unattainable masterpieces, especially Titian’s Pope Alexander. A collector who did not particularly care to await the usual auctions.”

  “And?”

  Biddles smiled grimly. “And I was assured by one and all that my friend was wasting his time. The painting is in the hands of God.”

  Hawksley froze, his gaze turning toward the silver-haired angel who had just realized they were no longer alone.

  “The Vatican,” he muttered.

  “Precisely.”

  Reaching their side, Clara gave an awkward curtsy. “Lord Bidwell.”

  “Please, Biddles.” The slender man gave a delicate shiver. “Gads, Lord Bidwell reminds me that I am supposed to be a proper gentleman.”

  “Biddles,” Clara readily agreed, obviously relieved to dispense with formality. “Did you say something of the Vatican?”

  “Yes. I discovered that the paintings we took from the safe belong to the pope.”

  Clara grimaced as she heaved a sigh. “I should have recalled it last evening.”

  Biddles tilted back his head to laugh at her self-disgust. “Being in the midst of a burglary is not always the best occasion for coherent thought, my dear.”

  “Still . . .”

  “You have done astonishingly well, Miss Dawson,” Biddles assured her. “And now the question is how did Lord Doulton end up with the paintings?”

  “Surely he could not have stolen them from the Vatican
?” Clara demanded. “The place is a fortress.”

  Hawksley sucked in a sharp breath as realization hit. “He did not.”

  They both turned to stare at him in puzzlement.

  “What?” Clara demanded.

  “Napoleon stole them from the Vatican,” he said softly.

  “Of course.” Biddles slapped his forehead, although Clara continued to frown in puzzlement.

  “Napoleon?”

  “It is well known that he hauled off wagon loads of priceless objects to take to Paris,” he explained. “These paintings could easily be a part of his booty.”

  “But I thought the treasures were returned?”

  Hawksley gave a slow shake of his head. Although he possessed little interest in moldy paintings and ancient frescos, he had heard Fredrick condemn their theft often enough. In great detail and tedious length.

  “A portion only. There are countless objects still missing.”

  Clara accepted his assurance with a nod of her head. “That still does not explain how Lord Doulton managed to acquire them.”

  “No, but it gives us a place to begin searching,” Biddles murmured, a sudden smile curving his lips. “I believe I shall call upon a few acquaintances in the War Office. There are always one or two in my debt.”

  Hawksley flicked a brow upward. Having known several gentlemen in the War Office, he was well aware that they would as soon have their privates chopped off as to place themselves at the mercy of Biddles.

  “Gads, they must have been desperate indeed to have allowed themselves to be in your debt.”

  The pointed nose twitched. “Just one of the many pleasures of owning a gambling den.”

  Hawksley gave a low chuckle. “You are a dangerous little man, Biddles.”

  “I do try. Until later, my friends.” With a flamboyant bow toward Clara, the nobleman turned on his heel and disappeared through the door.

  Hawksley sensed when Clara moved to stand close to him. It was in the manner his skin suddenly prickled and his heart picked up speed. Just for a moment he closed his eyes and allowed her presence to soak into him. There was something quite satisfying in simply having her near, he discovered with a jolt of surprise. As if she completed him.