A shiver raced up Clara’s spine that had nothing to do with the weather. “I’m not prepared to accuse anyone,” she admitted with a rawness that made her throat ache, “but to suspect is another thing entirely.”
“The difference between a feeling and evidence, that,” Brick said with a sigh. He patted Clara’s arm lightly. “Your instincts may prove right, you know.”
Instincts. Such a strange word, something that made her feel as though she ought to have been far more experienced to possess. She had no experience or expertise to fall back on for impulses to be called instincts. She only had a feeling that something was suspicious, and had she not gone through the few days of training she had, she doubted she would have even felt that.
What if this was not the beginning of an instinct at all but the perfect example of naïvely running headlong into disaster with a foolish idea?
Only Brick would know her shame and embarrassment, and Phoebe would buoy up her spirits when it happened, but Clara knew she would never forgive herself.
She shook her head, scolding herself silently as she trudged down the path towards the sand below them. If she would snap at Brick for being so doubting and critical of her decision to be out here tonight, she ought to give herself the same credit. She was not harming anyone by being out here tonight, and it would allow her to look into the suspicious claim she had heard.
She’d have asked a Barcliffe tenant if the beaches were truly offered to them every second and fourth Tuesday if she knew one. But watching for ships to arrive or any activity to transpire on the beach would do just as well.
“Right,” Brick whispered as they reached the sand and turned to walk towards Barcliffe. “Move slowly, stay silent, and tread lightly, aye? Walk in my footsteps, to hide our numbers.”
Clara nodded and allowed him to go first, carefully placing her feet where his had pressed into the damp sand. It could have been far more awkward if he had been striding with his usual gait, but given the attempt to move slowly and with stealth, the steps were closer together than they might have been otherwise.
Almost silently, they continued on, the sound of waves hitting the shore doing a great deal to cover any audible aspects of their motions. The moon was hidden behind a cloud at present, but would soon reappear and cast light on them, and anyone else out and about.
Brick came to a stop without much warning, and Clara barely avoided slamming into his back in her concentration. She frowned up at the expanse of him, though he would not know, and waited. He pointed at an outcropping of the cliffside just ahead, and Clara followed the direction of his finger, nodding when she saw it.
It would be a perfect place for the pair of them to tuck in against the cliff and watch for approaching ships without being observed. Or, indeed, to see any ships that might have gone out.
She must allow for that, as well.
There was no telling what all could be happening here, truth be told.
A twinge of excitement began to curl her stomach, and she followed Brick over to the outcropping. He gestured for her to take the position nearest the rock and for them both to crouch down to hide themselves.
“And now, we wait,” he breathed, his voice barely loud enough for her to hear.
Wait.
Clara frowned at the thought, considering her crouched position and the potential length of time she could be doing so. Without asking or checking for Brick’s thoughts, Clara adjusted herself to sit directly upon the sand, arranging her skirts to accommodate the change and tucking her knees to her chest.
She could feel Brick looking at her, and, in the periphery of her vision, see him doing so. “We might be here a while,” she hissed when a wave rolled in, “and I do not have your stamina.”
He began to shake a little beside her, and she looked away, fearing his laughter might ignite some of her own.
It was a strange thing, having laughter during something that could be dangerous. She supposed people like Brick were used to such things, and life continued on in spite of missions and their danger. There was still amusement and irritation and boredom, even among their diverse activities. They still felt hunger while waiting for an arrival, still had to sneeze when there was too much dust, and longed for a rest when the day became too much.
They were much more likely to have more in their day than Clara did, but the impulse was the same.
She was not tired now, that was certain.
After the card party at the Fleets’ home a few days before, Clara had set about setting this evening into motion. She’d spoken with Phoebe and with Brick, and worked out the best time of night to go out. She’d studied her drawing intently, trying in vain to map out where a ship might go and what it might do. She had spent hours earlier in the day drawing the coastline as far as she could see while sitting as close to the edge of the cliff as she dared on Kirkleigh lands.
It was a fortunate thing indeed that she did not possess a fear of heights.
She had an invitation to go to Barcliffe for tea with the Brownings in a few days, and the idea of having a magistrate at her side to arrest them for treason floated into her mind.
What a horrid thing to take pleasure in! She ought to hope that her neighbors would be completely innocent of anything treasonous, that if there were any nefarious deeds taking place in their cove and on their beach, they were unaware of them.
That was what she ought to take pleasure in. Not finding satisfaction in seeing Mrs. Browning’s angular face wreathed in shock and indignation as guilt was pronounced.
What had poor Mrs. Browning done to deserve Clara’s suspicion and resentment?
Other than suspect her of having feelings for Hawk.
Despite the cold, Clara’s heart warmed within her, beating a few fervent beats before relaxing into its usual pattern and tempo once more.
What would Hawk say if he saw her out here? Would he have joined her? Would he have laughed at her?
Laughed with her?
She could not have told him about the true task, but she could enjoy the stars and the moon above them in spite of that.
She glanced up at the sky, resting her chin on her knees with a soft sigh. There were a few clouds, as evidenced by the one obscuring the moon at present, but not enough to hide the brilliance of the stars. They twinkled and winked with their usual magnificence, though somehow brighter now that the moon was hidden.
It had been an age since she had looked at the stars for the simple pleasure of it, and she had never done so with any particular aims. No whimsy or wishing, no scientific aims, no romantic notions or ideas. It had always been simple appreciation and fascination of them, the light each possessed and what each did for the night sky.
There was something simply magical and beautiful about a star-filled sky.
A pang of longing lanced through Clara, and she laid her cheek against her knee, squeezing her eyes shut against it. She wanted Hawk to be beside her, not for an assignment or mission, but simply to look up at the sky and appreciate the stars with her. She wished for the stars to wring conversation from them both, stripping them both of vanity and pride, of pretense and propriety, leaving their souls bare to each other and comfortable to be so. Such nights could draw out secrets and heartaches, philosophies and musings, revealing more and more of a person until only the heart of them remained.
And she desperately wanted his heart.
She wanted him to want hers.
What a simpleton she was!
How could she have let herself get so caught up in something so fanciful? A few notes sent across counties, and she was a trembling mess of feminine nonsense? He was a duke, for pity’s sake, and she had thrust herself into his life, not been invited into it. There was nothing here for her, not in the slightest. She was lying to him, of all things, and there would be no forgiveness for that whenever it happened to come out.
If it came out.
Not that it would matter, as the Duke of Kirklin would have no cause to think on Clara Har
low, or Clara Moore, once she finished her assignment. She would hide herself at the school for the entirety of the term after the holidays, would be absent from the annual fête, and rid herself of any and all opportunities to see Hawk ever again.
It was simple and straightforward, and after that, she would be returned to her equally simple life as Clara Harlow.
Why did that thought leave her not so much homesick as heartsick?
Her thoughts became less clear and more a swirl of images and art, rather like the sky at sunrise and sunset, filled with light and clouds, color and motion, taking her feelings along with it as though each sat on the sea itself. It was a marvelously relaxing sensation, and much welcomed after such pained self-reflection.
Clara felt her arm being shaken, and stirred in her place, turning her head to look at Brick, blinking when she realized there was a different light shining on him, and that his features seemed a little drawn. He said nothing, but the resignation in his face made her heart drop deep into the pit that had formed in her stomach.
She turned her attention to the sea and the beach, only to see that there was nothing there. Nothing but a faintly brightening horizon.
No ships, no people, no action.
Nothing at all.
“No,” she breathed. She turned back to Brick, her eyes wide and aching even as the pit in her stomach swallowed her heart whole. “Nothing?”
Brick rose and brushed off his trousers, holding a hand out to her. “Come on, Sparrow. Best get you home and into bed before the day truly begins.”
Sick with shame, eyes swimming in tears, Clara took his hand and let him pull her up, then silently followed him from the beach and back to Kirkleigh.
Chapter Sixteen
There was something markedly impressive about Miss Masters’ Finishing School for Fine Young Ladies. He’d always thought so, but arriving through its grand gates and seeing its pristine grounds always brought the thought back.
Not even the finest houses he had seen of other dukes in the realm could match this place in appearance.
And his sister was learning how to be a lady within.
Apparently, wishing to assist poor girls who would only hope to ever even work in a house so grand as an upstairs maid.
The irony was not lost on him.
At least, he presumed that was what the girls from the rudimentary academy would go on to become. He’d never actually thought about it or considered such things. If Adrianna truly wished to participate in its programs, perhaps he would need to educate himself there. Not to protest or judge, but to properly appreciate.
It was a thought, certainly.
As the carriage rattled along towards the school, Hawk felt a slight twinge of guilt that he forced away with an almost believable grunt of disapproval. He had opted to go directly to the school rather than to Kirkleigh, more to see his task done than to be prompt in his attention to his sister.
That and he was not sure he was prepared to see Clara so soon. Nor to part from her once he was reunited with her.
He would rather face Adrianna and be done with his pretense for coming rather than try to fulfill both his aims at once.
It felt more complicated than it needed to be, but he could not help that now.
If Adrianna had the slightest idea that she was not his priority at the moment, he would never hear the end of it.
All the more reason to go to her first and ensure she knew she was the first stop he made upon his arrival.
She’d love that.
He did not wait for the carriage to come to a full stop before he opened the door and stepped out, setting his hat upon his head and tapping it to center. He had dressed smartly this morning, which would delight White when he arrived at Kirkleigh this evening, more to maintain an esteemed impression of his position than anything else. The fact that he might look well in it when he arrived at Kirkleigh and saw Clara again was simply an added benefit.
The giant of a butler appeared in the doorway, seeming to loom protectively there while waiting for Hawk to reach him. How in the world anyone had managed to dress the man in the proper attire befitting a butler was unfathomable, yet while he was the most intimidating specimen of man Hawk had ever seen, he was also one of the most congenial. Even now, he was smiling in greeting, the reddish glint of his slicked back hair almost off-putting in its discrepancy from his stature.
He’d never quite gotten used to Mr. Adkins in the years Adrianna had been a student here, and it seemed unlikely that would change this late in her education.
“Welcome to Miss Masters’ School, Your Grace,” Adkins greeted, bowing in welcome. “Always a pleasure to welcome you here.”
Hawk nodded once. “Thank you, Adkins. All in order?”
Adkins maintained his usual smile, but something twinkled in his eye. “Oh, aye, Your Grace. Miss Ginny Gerrard did run away again, but she had only gone to the stables, so all was well.”
Having heard all about the conniving girl called Ginny Gerrard from his sister, Hawk was well aware that containing her had become quite a feat. Surprising that Adkins would tell him about it, but he suspected that anybody known to the school would also know about the Gerrard girl.
“Good, good,” Hawk murmured, entering the grand foyer of the house-turned-school and removing his hat. A plain-faced maid stepped forward to take it from him, and he tossed his gloves in there as well, smiling his thanks at her. He turned back to Adkins, presently shutting the door behind them. “I’m paying an unexpected call on my sister, Adkins. I don’t need to have her fetched from her studies, but when she is free, I would very much like to see her.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler replied amiably. He glanced at a grand clock standing near them and nodded fervently. “It will be just a few minutes until the present class is dismissed. Would you take a cup of tea in the drawing room while you wait?”
“Thank you.” He followed as Adkins led him there, then found himself wandering the large room once the butler had left to see that Adrianna was fetched.
It was quite possibly the largest drawing room he had ever seen in his life, but Beddingsford House, as it had once been, was one of the largest houses in England, as well. The walls were papered in a faint yellow print, which added a brightness to an otherwise imposing room, and the furniture was neat and comfortable, but what drew his attention most was the art that hung within the room. Landscapes of the perfect English picnic, of a countryside so fine it was enviable, of a festival taking place in a rather familiar looking village all garnered his attention, though the finer portraits of flora and fruits were equally skilled.
He did not recognize the settings, nor the particular style of the artist. That was not so uncommon, he had never claimed to be a great purveyor of the arts, but it did seem a rather intriguing collection to have displayed in the drawing room of a school, a room in which dozens of parents and families had undoubtedly gathered over the years.
The selection of art would have been significant.
“A note has been delivered to Lady Adrianna, Your Grace,” Adkins announced as he entered the drawing room. “She will be here presently.”
Hawk nodded slowly, then gestured to the painting of the festival. “Tell me, Adkins, is this piece of something in particular?”
“Aye, Your Grace,” Adkins replied, coming closer. “That is the end-of-year fête from a few years ago. Have you ever been?”
“No, sadly.” Hawk narrowed his eyes at it, willing the scene to come to life in his mind, as it seemed capable of doing. “It seems a rather lively affair.”
“Oh, it is, Your Grace,” Adkins said with real fondness. “The whole village comes out for it, and several of the local families. I trust you’ll come next spring, Your Grace, with Lady Adrianna completing her education.”
Hawk considered that, nodding more to himself than in answer. “I suppose I will. I look forward to it.” He cocked his head at the painting, a certain point occurring to him. “If this was done
of the local fête, the artist must also be local. Was it one of the students?”
“No, Your Grace, it was one of our teachers.” Adkins straightened beside him, his chest puffing up with pride. “Miss Harlow. She teaches art and French and is masterfully accomplished in both areas. All of the art in this room is by her hand, in fact.” He gestured around with all the delight of a fond father.
In spite of his reserve, Hawk found himself more than a little impressed. He knew the quality of teachers in this school were impressive, but he had no idea that it also extended to their art. He would never have cared before he’d met Clara, but after seeing what her hands could create, he seemed more able to appreciate such works now.
She’d have had a great deal to say about the work of Miss Harlow, he had no doubt.
“May I speak to her, as well?” Hawk asked as he continue to stare at the picture, its quality impressing him further still. “I wish to compliment her work, and perhaps inquire if she might do a portrait of my sister.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Your Grace, but Miss Harlow is away just now. Has a sadly ailing relative she is tending to, and we have no idea of her return as yet.”
That was a pity, but hardly a tragedy. Her family situation undoubtedly was, and he was sympathetic there, but he already knew a marvelously skilled artist. One he would shortly see, and one whose hands he would much rather receive art from.
“What in the world are you doing here, George?”
Adrianna’s biting tone lit the room and Hawk turned towards the doorway, raising an eyebrow. She only called him George when she was cross or when she was teasing. Today, she was most certainly cross.
“Good morning to you as well, sister.”
Her dark eyes flashed, and her hands settled on her hips, the school pinafore pinned to her gray morning dress and slightly streaked with dirt of some sort. She shook her head, sending her nearly black ringlets bouncing and swaying in a way that reminded him of the little girl she had once been. “George, I do not have time for this; answer me, please.”
Fortune Favors the Sparrow Page 19
