That was all Hawk cared about.
It was stupid and foolish, he knew that, but it was all he could think to do to get a note to Clara without being so blatant about it.
He was well aware that it was an obvious tactic, but at least it would have the appearance of legitimacy.
Whatever that was worth.
However ridiculous the note he had sent to Clara was, the note he received back from her was perfect and encouraging.
Your Grace,
Unfortunately, I have yet to find your mislaid gloves. I cannot think that they would be left behind, perhaps you are mistaken and ought to search your present lodgings again.
As an addition to this reply, I would add that Stafford wishes to know if you wish to keep the china stored here from the late duke. I have seen this china, of course, and find nothing in it to admire, if you need my opinion.
She had signed it with her name, a creative flourish taking place on the tail of the A ending her name, and he stared at that flourish longer than any pair of eyes had a need to.
How was even her penmanship full of artistry?
“Something’s wrong with you.”
Hawk looked over at his friend, belatedly recalling that he had been reluctantly engaged in conversation moments ago. “Is it?” he mused aloud. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“That’s because you aren’t seeing clearly,” Nat informed him. “I thought you might be distressed today with the rain being what it is, and your inability to be a laborer, but instead, you have reduced yourself to reading ridiculous notes from Kirkleigh.”
“This note isn’t ridiculous,” Hawk shot back, likely growing too defensive over the thing, though there wasn’t much to do for that. “Mine was ridiculous.”
“Your what?” Nat paused, then shook his head. “Never mind. I find I don’t care enough to know.”
That suited Hawk well enough, and he shrugged, looking at the fire in the grate before him rather than return to his simple note from Clara.
It did not matter what he was looking at, his thoughts would be the same.
“Have you heard from Griffin lately?” Nat asked without any sort of preamble, his attention returned to his book, interrupting Hawk before his thoughts could properly formulate.
But he certainly hadn’t wanted to think about Griffin, and discussion of his brother in far distant fields was not entertaining.
“No,” he said simply. “Nor do I expect to. We will see him at Christmas, and that is enough.”
Nat only grunted, apparently absorbed in his book again.
Hawk hesitated a moment, then glanced back at his note from Clara, beginning the process of formulating his response to her. He would need to be as playful as she had been, even coy, though the word had a distasteful sentiment attached to it where he was concerned. Sly, perhaps. Innocuous in its content, but legitimate as well.
Something that would keep this conversation going and renew the connection between them.
Something to say without saying what he could not say.
Because he did not know what to say.
“Did your father grow up at Kirkleigh?” Nat inquired with mild interest, turning the page of his book. “Or was it one of the other estates?”
Rolling his eyes, Hawk looked at his friend with a sigh. “He did. Unless the family were at one of the other estates, much the same as I live now.”
Nat hummed once, nodding to himself. “I’d have chosen Elmsley myself.”
“Pity they didn’t ask you, then.”
“Indeed.”
Hawk waited for another question to come forth, something about Adrianna or the art at Kirkleigh or the state of the roads or what was planned for supper, but shockingly enough, nothing came.
Nat simply continued to read his book as though it was his sole occupation.
Utterly ridiculous and simply pointless.
But that was Nat, he supposed.
Not much had changed from when they had been at Eton together. Serious when he needed to be, loyal to the end, and possessing an easy temperament that meant he was rarely ruffled. And he was the most irritating, witty, mischievous man Hawk had ever met.
What a choice for a friend.
Perhaps Hawk should tell him what he was beginning to feel for Clara.
“Do you think you could bear my absence for a time?”
Hawk closed his eyes, shaking his head in wry amusement. “I think I could summon the fortitude necessary to survive adequately,” he replied, opening his eyes again to look in his friend’s direction. “Why?”
Nat shrugged, closing his book on a finger to hold his place. “I thought I might do as you’re doing on my own estate.”
“Sit in it and answer useless questions?” Hawk quipped with a quick grin.
“Of course not, I can do that anywhere.” Nat tapped the side of his head with the book, eyes narrowing. “I’ve been considering the work you’re doing at every estate you own. I have but one, and I would scarcely recognize a single tenant.”
Sobering quickly, Hawk straightened in his seat and gave Nat a hard look. “Don’t minimize your efforts. Daveney is a great estate, and you take excellent care of it.”
Nat shook his head firmly. “I have a great estate manager, and he takes excellent care of it. I only sign my name to the paperwork. I may not wish to work a spade as you do, but I could certainly stand to plant my feet firmly on its soil and face my own workers. Perhaps drive a team when it might help.”
Hawk chuckled at the image, knowing how Nat had enjoyed that particular task. It would not surprise him in the least if Nat did end up working the land himself, no matter what he said. He was just the sort of active man that would become bored and uneasy watching others in action while he sat by.
“I won’t argue that direct attention to the estates is a satisfying change for my life,” Hawk allowed, “and it certainly could prove to be so for you, but you are not me.”
“A truth I am grateful for daily,” Nat said with a satisfied sigh.
Ignoring him, Hawk went on. “It might not hold the same appeal. I applaud your desire to try, though. If you are determined.”
“I am.”
Hawk inclined his head. “Then I wish you luck. When will you leave?”
Nat shrugged his shoulders and slouched back down into the seat, opening his book once more. “Tomorrow? The next day? Perhaps even the next, we’ll see what the weather does and how my inclination fares. I just thought I would take advantage of the situation at hand and inform you now rather than at supper or in the morning.”
A scowl flashed across Hawk’s face, and any sympathy or warmth he had felt for his friend in the last few minutes faded in an instant. He’d done it again, and Hawk had fallen right into his stupid clutches without a moment’s hesitation.
More questions, inconveniently asked, purely to keep Hawk from doing whatever he was doing.
It was not fair, and it was annoying as well.
It was as though Nat knew exactly what…
The thought remained unfinished as Hawk looked back over at his friend with speculation.
Of course, Nat knew what Hawk held in his hand. Of course, he knew what it meant to Hawk to receive it. Of course, he knew that Hawk was behaving outside of his usual mannerisms and way.
And he knew why.
Perhaps Hawk should ask Nat if he could define these strange and flourishing feelings that were causing such havoc in Hawk’s mind and daily life. If he had such clarity and introspection, he might be able to be of some use despite the irritation he produced.
Then again, why give the man more credit than he deserved?
“If you look at me much longer,” Nat said calmly, “you won’t have much time to compose a suitable response to your Miss Moore before the night is out. And I’d wager you’re rather keen to get that message on its way to Kirkleigh. How else would you flirt with her so obscurely from this distance?”
Hawk shook his head in resigned wonde
r as what he suspected became confirmed by his friend’s own admission.
His first instinct was to protest the suggestion, to insist that his friend was wrong, to deny any such inclinations or actions, and to reply that he had no need to send a response to any message, from Clara or anyone else. But Nat would know it was all a ploy to save his pride, and it would simply be a waste of words.
After all, Hawk wanted to do exactly what Nat had said, and it would be nothing to forego a little bit of pride in order to do exactly what he wanted.
“Very true,” Hawk mused aloud, nodding as he looked back at the fire in the grate. “You have a point.” He pushed himself out of his chair and moved to the small desk in the drawing room, retrieving paper and pen. “I don’t mind if I do jot this down now, thank you.”
“Very good, Your Grace,” came the bemused reply from behind him. “Shall I help you compose it?”
“No, thank you. I believe I have the task quite in hand.”
Clara shook her head, swallowing hard and staring out of the window as the carriage approached the Fleets’ stately home. “Oh, I shouldn’t have come. I’m dreadfully out of practice in social situations, and I wasn’t particularly accomplished at it when I was in practice. I’ll make a hash of everything, I know it.”
“Well, then we had best turn the carriage around, return to Kirkleigh, pack our bags, and return to the Convent before you bring down the entire fight atop our heads,” Phoebe replied without any concern, her lips barely moving as she did so. “Clearly, they should have asked a more sociable girl to do your task. How silly of them.”
The sound of the words, as much as the words themselves, made Clara sigh and rub out her brow. “I know, it’s useless to say such things.”
“It’s useless to doubt yourself at all, Clara,” Phoebe insisted, her voice now losing some of her prim formality. “You do not have to be more sociable, more accomplished, or more of anything to do this. You are not playing a part, aside from your name and very slight details about her life. I promise you, if you can be Miss Moore to His Grace, the Duke of Kirklin, you can be Miss Moore to whomever we will meet at this event tonight. You were so comfortable with him.”
Clara swallowed and nodded, but her heart had given a terrible lurch to the left at the mention of Hawk. It was all she could do not to press her fingers against the now tender skin of her ribs from the internal collision that had taken place.
What Phoebe had said was true, but what she did not, and could not, comprehend was how painful it had been for Clara to be Miss Moore to Hawk, by the end of their time together. The tenderness in each small moment had been tinged by the lie woven between them, and it was beyond Clara’s power to remove or mend it.
There was no denying the joy that each note from Hawk had brought her in the last week, though they numbered only two thus far. She had giggled, she had smiled, and she had spent far too long laying on her bed and staring up into the canopy above her bed as she constructed responses of varying wit. It was all a bunch of silliness, nothing in them holding any weight, and yet there was something in them that tickled the soles of her feet and made her flush in delight.
What in the world had come over her?
Hawk’s last note had been delightfully droll, and she was still reading it repeatedly in an attempt to memorize its contents. He thanked her for searching in vain for his gloves, gave her full authority to dispense with the china if she wished, and asked if she would mind terribly directing the rehanging of artwork in the gallery, as he was presently away and unable to do so.
Then came the line that had made her sigh aloud in the most embarrassing manner.
I trust the vision in your eyes far more than I would ever trust my own.
It had taken her a full day to find a way to repay the compliment, and hours further to know how to word it as he had done.
The game they were playing was a unique one, and she loved it all the more for that. Oh, the delight in still feeling connected to him despite the distance, and without the inconvenience of fluttering hearts and tingling toes while trying to compose coherent conversation.
She still had a fluttering heart and tingling toes, but it was far more comfortable for them to be brought on by reading rather than his person.
Comfortable? There was nothing comfortable about having Hawk near her, pretending to be Miss Moore or not.
And yet…
She found herself craving his presence in spite of the anxiety it aroused. She wanted him back at Kirkleigh to make the place more exhilarating. She wanted to walk the shoreline with him, looking for clues to help her assignment while enjoying every moment of his company.
Except he could never know she was looking for clues.
He could never help her with the things she was searching for, or the questions she would need answered. He would not be able to give her insight into the things that puzzled her or protect her if she went too far.
For as long as she would remain on this assignment, this lie would hover between them, and many actions of hers would hold secondary motives.
He would be a distraction, if he had been here, and she would struggle to accomplish anything at all.
Well, one could not have everything, she supposed.
And Clara certainly could not.
Exhaling slowly, she nodded, her fair ringlets dancing with the motion. “We need to make connections to determine if any are involved in the smuggling, should it be happening here. I cannot think anyone will express particular sympathies that would be suspect, so I must listen for other clues.”
“That is an excellent insight,” Phoebe praised, the compliment seeming more genuine than patronizing. “There are a great deal of unknowns in this. Which, in a way, gives us some freedom.”
“How so?” Clara asked with a tilt to her head as the carriage pulled to a stop.
Phoebe scooted to the edge of her seat in anticipation of disembarking, grinning at Clara. “If we do not know what we are looking for, we cannot make a certain plan for how to get it. So we may act freely and see what we stir up.”
Clara pursed her lips, her eyes narrowing. “Why do I have the feeling you have some experience with acting freely and stirring things up?”
Her friend winked slyly. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” She stepped out of the carriage, the hood of her cloak staying perfectly in place against her exquisitely styled hair as she did so.
There was a masterful art of grace in Phoebe’s every movement that Clara would never be able to imbue into her little finger, and she paused for a moment to appreciate the fact.
“Miss?”
Clara blinked, turning her attention to the footman extending a hand towards her. She managed a smile and placed her hand in his. “Thank you.”
He ignored her, as all proper servants would.
Once down, Clara looked down at the glimpse of pale green silks peeking through her elegant cloak and took a moment to compose herself. She was beautifully arrayed—Nancy, Phoebe, and Tilda had seen to that—and, as far as she knew, nobody here would have known Miss Moore when she was truly living at Kirkleigh.
Which meant this night held nothing she should fear.
Typical social anxieties aside.
Lifting her chin, sharing a smile with Phoebe, Clara strode forward towards the house. Their cloaks were taken by waiting servants, the height of the ceilings in the entry alone something of a marvel, and the way to the party was evident as all other doors were shut.
“Almost as though they have something to hide,” Phoebe murmured beside her. “Not opening all of the rooms for guests to admire? Hmm.” She eyed the corridor around them, rather neat in appearance, though hardly what she would call fine. “I’d say the Fleets are in financial difficulties at the present.”
“Aunt Fern,” Clara scolded through her teeth, keeping her smile fixed as they approached the rooms set aside for the evening. “What is the point in considering that tonight?”
Phoebe
glanced at her, full lips quirking just a touch. “People will do a great many things for money. You would be shocked to hear some of the things I have seen occur for financial gain.” Her lips pulled into a formal smile, her chin dipping in a prim nod as they reached their hosts. “Good evening.”
“Mrs. Daniels,” the petite Mrs. Fleet gushed eagerly, reaching her hands out to them at once, her slight frame belying the amount of enthusiasm she contained. “Miss Moore! What a delight to have you here, I am so pleased you have come!” She looked at Clara with a beaming smile, her mouselike hair curling limply on either side of her ears. “What a beautiful dress, Miss Moore! I declare, I have never seen such a lovely shade of green, and it does your complexion such credit. You look like a portrait in a gallery, I dare say. Pity we do not have many eligible beaux for you. The county is sadly lacking, just sadly.”
The rapidly uttered bombardment of words made Clara’s head spin and her cheeks warm. How was she to respond to any of it? Or was she meant to? She opted to maintain her smile and nod as though she completely agreed.
“Thank you for the invitation,” Phoebe replied, every word careful and pronounced, and, to Clara’s ears, a little slow.
Perhaps that was intentional.
Mr. Fleet stood by and wore a frozen smile, no doubt meant to be welcoming, but now only appearing awkwardly overwhelmed. In his silence, that was only more pronounced, and with his wife rambling so often, it too might have been intentional.
“Come, come, come in,” Mrs. Fleet insisted, not so much stammering as reiterating the command. “So many people for you to meet, so very many. We shall be along shortly.” She gestured a waving hand to the rest of the rooms, and Clara, for one, could not have hurried more gracefully away.
“If the entire evening is to be like that,” Phoebe hissed as she took Clara’s arm in her own, “I will find myself unwell in exactly one hour, you have my word.”
Biting back a laugh, Clara nodded and steered them both to a punchbowl as she took stock of any possible familiar faces in the room.
She hardly knew anyone in the county, and she was looking for familiar faces?
Fortune Favors the Sparrow Page 17
