Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den)

by Ivy, Alexandra

  Clara instinctively found her muscles tightening. She was all too familiar with such noblemen and their unbearable conceit. They had certainly managed to insult and mock her often enough over the years.

  And it did not make matters better to have him regarding her with a curl of his lips that indicated quite clearly he considered her as something that should have been tossed out with the morning rubbish.

  “Gads, I might have known Hawksley would have some bit of muslin tucked away,” he drawled in disdainful tones. “He has never possessed the slightest measure of decency.”

  “Bit of muslin?” Clara stiffened her spine as her chin tilted to a fighting angle. She did not know who this gentleman might be, but she would be damned if she would meekly allow him to insult her in such a fashion. “Sir, you are offensive.”

  He offered a humorless laugh as he stepped further into the room. “You will find that I can be a good sight more offensive if you do not pack your bags and leave immediately.”

  She blinked at the abrupt command. Arrogance, indeed, she acknowledged in disbelief. How dare he enter Hawksley’s home and begin tossing about orders?

  “That is hardly your decision to make. I assure you that I am here at Hawksley’s invitation.”

  “Oh, I am sure you are.” The blue eyes held open scorn as the stranger deliberately made note of her threadbare gown and boots that were several years old. “Hawksley is never satisfied unless he has managed to surround himself with cutthroats, whores, and every other sort of ruffian he can collect from the gutter.”

  Clara clenched her hands at her side. It was that or toss a very large, very heavy book at the older man’s skull. Goodness knew she could not possibly miss his inflated head.

  “That is enough. I think it would be best if you left this house until Hawksley has returned.”

  The arrogant wretch appeared taken back by her cold retort. As if she were a beaten hound that refused to heel when he snapped his fingers.

  Then a decidedly unpleasant smile twisted his lips.

  “Ah, I begin to understand your reluctance.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “No doubt Hawksley has promised you some sort of payment,” he said as he reached beneath his coat to pull out a small purse. “Very well, I am a man of business. How much will it cost to have you pack yourself off? Five pounds? That is more than generous.”

  Clara caught her breath. Never in her six-and-twenty years had she ever been so insulted. Which was saying something considering the innumerable slights, snubs, and cut directs she had endured.

  “I do not know who you are or what your connection to Hawksley might be, but I can assure you that you have made a most grievous error,” she gritted in icy tones.

  Opening his purse, the gentleman counted out a handful of notes and tossed them to the carpet.

  “Ten pounds, and that is my final offer. I suggest you take it before I have you tossed out without so much as a shilling.”

  At the moment Clara thought if anyone was about to be tossed out, it was the smug brute standing before her. She might be half his weight and several inches shorter, but she was certainly angry enough to dump him through the nearest window.

  “There is no amount of money you can offer me,” she assured him with icy disdain. “I will have you know that I am Hawksley’s fiancée.”

  “His . . . fiancée?” Just for a moment stark silence filled the room, and then he suddenly tilted back his head to laugh with insulting humor. “Oh, that is rich.”

  “I do not know what you find so amusing.”

  “Not even my son would dare to make a penniless tart with no breeding the next Countess of Chadwick.”

  It was Clara’s turn to fall silent as she reeled in disbelief.

  No.

  It could not be.

  It simply could not.

  “Countess . . .”

  His nose flared. “Please do not pretend innocence, it does not become a woman of your ilk. You are obviously a well-educated courtesan who would never be in the company of a common gamester. Your sort always holds out for a titled nobleman. In this instance you managed to snare a viscount. I must compliment you upon your obvious . . . skills.”

  Clara barely heard his insults.

  Instead she grappled with the horrid, near-mind-numbing possibility.

  Hawksley . . . the son of this hideous nobleman. A man who was already a viscount and destined to become the Earl of Chadwick.

  “This is impossible.”

  “If you mean it is impossible that you would be engaged to my son, I must heartily agree. Even if he were foolish enough to make some rash pledge in the heat of passion, I can assure you that I will see you in hell before I allow him to humiliate his family with the likes of you.”

  Clara reached out to grasp the edge of the nearest shelf. Only pride and the refusal to reveal the least hint of weakness before the coldhearted bastard kept her from swooning.

  “Dear Lord . . .”

  Oblivious to her distress, the Earl of Chadwick pointed toward the discarded notes upon the floor.

  “Take the money and consider yourself fortunate you were not tossed out with nothing to show for your efforts.”

  Without warning, a fierce fury raced through her blood.

  She did not know who was responsible for her raging anger, the evil beast standing before her or the fiancé who had lied to her from the beginning. Or herself for being such a naïve sap.

  In truth it did not matter.

  She only knew that she was hurting and in need of striking out at someone.

  “I would sell myself in the streets before I touched a grout of your wealth,” she assured him with biting contempt. “Do you know, I wondered how Hawksley could bear to turn his back on his own family, no matter what the difficulties that may be between you. Now I comprehend utterly.”

  An ugly stain marred the once-handsome countenance. “How dare you?”

  “Quite easily.” She moved until she was standing directly before him, determined to reveal that for all his power and social stature, she would not be intimidated. “You are a cold, horrid man who has lost one son and driven away another. You are destined to die alone and unloved. I would pity you if you did not so fully deserve your pathetic fate.”

  For a moment the cold fury in his eyes made Clara wonder if he might actually strike her. Then with an obvious effort he took a step back and gathered his well-honed disdain.

  “You will never wed my son.”

  A bitter smile curved her lips. “At last we come to an agreement. Now, if you will excuse me.”

  She swept past him toward the door.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Clara did not even bother to turn about. “I am about to correct a near-tragic mistake.”

  A blessed numbness shrouded Clara’s mind as she calmly returned to her narrow chambers and packed her bags. Logic warned her that soon enough the shock would fade and she would be forced to confront the pain of betrayal and disappointment.

  For now, however, she intended to use her momentary reprieve to flee as far as possible from Hawksley. She would not allow him to know just how deeply he had managed to hurt her.

  Taking only a small satchel of her most necessary items, Clara put on her bonnet and wrapped her cape about her shivering form. She could only hope that Hawksley would possess the decency to send the rest of her belongings. She certainly could not afford to replace them.

  Once ready, she forced herself to walk down the stairs without looking back. What was the point? The memory of every nook and cranny of the house would be forever branded upon her mind.

  No matter how much she might wish to pretend she had never entered the Hawk’s Nest.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the foyer without encountering the dreadful Earl of Chadwick. As furious as she might be with Hawksley and his father, she was certain she would later regret blackening the eye of a peer of the realm.

&n
bsp; Opening the door, she had nearly reached freedom when there was the sound of hurried footsteps behind her.

  “Miss Dawson . . .”

  Clara heaved a heavy sigh as she forced herself to turn and regard Dillon’s anxious expression.

  “Please, not now, Dillon,” she pleaded.

  Something that might very well have been remorse rippled over his battered countenance. As damn well it should, she told herself, refusing to feel the least amount of guilt at his obvious distress.

  He had pretended to be her friend when all along he was allowing her to be played a fool by Hawksley.

  “Where are you going?”

  Her chin jutted to a stubborn angle. “I am going home, where I belong.”

  “But it is far too dangerous for you to return,” he insisted.

  “No longer. Hawksley will ensure that Lord Doulton is dealt with this evening. I no longer have a reason to remain.”

  Dillon chewed his lip at her stiff words, easily sensing the strain beneath her calm façade.

  “It is far too late to be catching the stage, miss. At least wait until morning.”

  She stiffened at the mere thought. Remain here? Where she would be forced to confront Hawksley and listen to his empty assurances he had never intended to rip her heart out?

  Oh no. That would never do.

  “I do not care if I am forced to walk, Dillon,” she said fiercely. “I will not stay another moment beneath this roof.”

  A hint of desperation settled about Dillon as he twisted his hands together.

  “If you will just wait a moment, I will call for the carriage . . .”

  “No.” Stepping forward, Clara gave the man a brief hug. She could not be angry with him. This entire fiasco could be laid entirely at the feet of Hawksley. “I will always remember your kindness to me, Dillon. Good-bye.”

  Feeling tears beginning to prick in the back of her eyes, Clara hastily turned and hurried for the door before she managed to become a babbling idiot.

  At least she could leave with a bit of dignity.

  Dignity that lasted until she reached the darkened corner of the street.

  Coming to a halt, she glanced about the shadowed buildings that lined the street.

  Well . . . now what, she brooded.

  She did not doubt that Dillon had been correct when he insisted there would be no stages to be had at such a late hour. And she had no friends or acquaintances to call upon.

  Obviously she would have to seek out the nearest hotel.

  It was what she had intended to do before ever arriving in London.

  Now, if she just knew where the devil one might be found.

  Squaring her shoulders, she set off at a brisk pace, keeping her eyes upon the narrow street for a passing hackney.

  She would survive this, she told herself grimly. She always survived.

  With her head turned, Clara had no warning of the large form that suddenly stepped from behind a large hedge. Nothing but an unexpected whiff of peppermint and cloves.

  On the point of turning, she did not even manage a scream when a blinding pain flared through the back of her head. Instead she slid silently to the damp ground, a wave of darkness smothering the panic that stabbed at her heart.

  Hawksley was seated within the sacred inner offices of the War Office when a servant discreetly pressed a note into his hand.

  Just for a moment he debated slipping it into his pocket unread. After all, what could be more important than the grim-faced gentlemen seated around the oval table?

  Biddles had made good on his promise to assemble the sort of powerful aristocrats, military commanders, and even royal officials they would need to have Lord Doulton facing the noose. More importantly, they had listened to the rather far-fetched accusations without yet having them tossed into Bedlam.

  Now was not the time to be distracted.

  But even as his fingers closed about the folded paper, an odd premonition seemed to inch down his spine.

  It was nothing more than a vague sense that all was not right. But it was enough to have him smoothing out the folds of the paper to read the hastily scrawled message.

  Clara is in great danger. You must return at once.

  His blood ran cold as he easily recognized Dillon’s hand, and without thought he reached out to grasp Biddles’s arm in a biting grip.

  With a startled blink, the thin-faced gentleman turned to regard him with concern.

  “What is it?”

  It took a moment to force his stiff lips to work. For all his daring deeds and habit of flaunting death, he had never known true terror before this moment.

  “Clara,” he managed to rasp.

  There was no hesitation as Biddles slipped a small pistol from his pocket and placed it in Hawksley’s hand. “I will finish this business and collect Santos.”

  The crisp authority in his friend’s tone was as effective as a slap to the face. With a sense of relief, Hawksley battled down the smothering panic so that he could once again think clearly. He would be no good to Clara if he was a raving lunatic.

  “Thank you.”

  With a silent grace Hawksley slipped from the room; then picking up his pace to a full-out run, he burst out of the building, leaping into Biddles’s waiting carriage with a curt command to return him to the Hawk’s Nest.

  It was a testament to Biddles’s unconventional training that the driver did not hesitate for a moment as he set the horses into a brisk pace that did not waver until they reached the cramped townhouse.

  Hawksley did not wait for the carriage to pull to a halt before he was leaping onto the pavement and charging up the path. Throwing open the door, he discovered Dillon awaiting his arrival with a pale countenance and his hair standing on end.

  A piercing pain shot through him as he reached out to grasp the man by his shoulders.

  Hellfire, it had to be bad. He had seen the stoic man face bullets without batting an eye.

  “Dillon . . . what is it? Where is Clara?”

  Anguish darkened the older man’s eyes. “She is gone.”

  “Gone?” Hawksley gave a shake of his head. The man was babbling. Clara could not possibly be gone. She had promised. “What do you mean gone?”

  The grizzled countenance abruptly hardened as the servant stabbed him with a glare that could have killed at a hundred paces.

  “She packed her bags and left near an hour ago. I tried to stop her but she was too angry to listen to me.” Dillon lifted a fist to shake it in his direction. “I warned you, Hawk. I told you to tell her the truth.”

  Very well, there could no longer be any doubt. His faithful servant had most certainly tumbled into lunacy.

  “What the bloody hell are you babbling about? Why would Clara leave?”

  “No doubt because she at last had the pleasure of meeting your offensive toad of a father.”

  Of all the dangers Clara might face, this was one he had not envisioned. How could he? The Earl of Chadwick had never bothered to call upon him before.

  Now a sense of sick dread clutched at his stomach.

  “Father . . . here?”

  “Yes.”

  Hawksley muttered a string of vile curses beneath his breath. He did not doubt for a moment that his father had managed to be gloriously rude to poor Clara. He had always possessed a remarkable talent to offend and insult others.

  And worse, he obviously must have revealed Hawksley’s identity.

  Why else would she have packed her bags and left?

  However ghastly his father might be, Clara would stand up to him without fear. That much he knew for certain.

  Clenching his jaw until he thought that his teeth might shatter, Hawksley reached out to grasp the front of Dillon’s coat.

  “Do not give me that look, Dillon. Just tell me what has happened to Clara.”

  Clearly sensing this was no time to test Hawksley’s temper the servant grimaced.

  “I was concerned when she left so I sent Billy and John
to follow her.”

  “And?”

  “And a bloke snuck up behind her on the street and forced her into a carriage.”

  “What do you mean forced?” he rasped.

  “He knocked her over the head and bundled her into the carriage before Billy or John could reach her.”

  Hawksley stood for a moment in numb shock before he turned and rammed his hand into the wall.

  “Lord Doulton,” he growled in self-disgust. “He must have discovered our suspicions and is hoping to trade Clara for our silence. Dear God, what have I done?”

  Fighting back the bile that rose to his throat, Hawksley struggled to consider what must come next. He would have ample time later to flog himself for his selfish stupidity. For now nothing mattered but finding Clara.

  Absolutely nothing.

  “We must begin a search immediately,” he commanded. “I will start with Lord Doulton—”

  “Actually, I have hopes such a search will not be necessary,” Dillon interrupted. “Billy returned to warn me of Clara’s abduction, but he left John behind to follow the coach. He will return when he knows where she is being held.”

  A measure of the tightness eased in his chest as he cast a rueful glance toward his loyal servant.

  “Thank God my staff possesses a few wits even if their employer is a fool.”

  Dillon’s expression eased to one of sympathy; perhaps the former thief sensed the raw, aching pain that throbbed deep in Hawksley’s heart.

  “We will find her, Hawk.”

  “Yes, we will. And then I will deal with Lord Doulton once and for all.” He clapped Dillon upon the shoulder. “You have done well. Fetch me the moment John returns.”

  With a swirl of his greatcoat Hawksley turned to head down the narrow hall. He needed to collect his dueling pistols. They would ensure a far more lethal wound than Biddles’s small gun.

  And a shot of whiskey would not come amiss.

  And perhaps a heavy object to whack against his head for being such an unmitigated ass.

  If anything happened to Clara . . .

  His steps briefly faltered as that blinding pain once again wrenched through him.