Some Like It Sinful (Hellion's Den) (20 page)

“You cannot know.” A stain of red marred his cheeks. “A collector can work an entire lifetime and never have his hands upon such a historical relic.”

Clara swallowed heavily, sensing the building tension in the air. There was no doubt that Mr. Chesterfield was unstable. And that he might be capable of lashing out without warning.

“You hoped to sell the petition?”

“In time.” He jerkily paced from one wall of the cellar to the other, barely even noticing her presence. “Unlike art collectors, those of us who deal in rare manuscripts have no need to display our collections like puffed-up peacocks and risk unpleasant speculation. The pleasure comes from simply holding a piece of history in our hands.” He came to an abrupt halt, his breathing heavy. “Unfortunately, I have only half of the petition at the moment. That prig Fredrick refused to leave the remaining pieces.”

“Most inconsiderate of him.”

He rounded on her with a growl of anger. “It was . . . unthinkable. The petition was mine. It would have made me renowned among all collectors.” He stilled as Clara instinctively shrank away from his pulsing fury, and then with an obvious effort he sought to send her a reassuring smile. “And finally I would be in the position to ask you to be my wife. You see, I was to have it all.”

Hiding her rising terror, Clara swallowed heavily. There was something troubling her. Something beyond being held in a cellar by an obvious madman.

What was it?

Willing her reluctant brain to work, she bit her bottom lip and considered what she had learned thus far.

Mr. Chesterfield had been involved from the beginning. That much was certain. Still, he had gained little from the theft of the artwork. Nothing more than a small commission.

Except...

Except for the petition.

A petition that he coveted with a frenzied lust.

Clara felt an icy fist clutch at her heart.

“Did you tell this to Lord Doulton?” she whispered even though she knew the answer.

“That idiot. Certainly not.”

“Then . . .” She hastily swallowed her words.

Careful, Clara,
she silently warned herself.

Now was not the time to reveal that she had just figured out that Lord Doulton would have no reason to kill Fredrick.

Not when it was painfully clear that the person with the most pressing reason to wish the man dead was standing just a few feet away.

“What?” her captor demanded.

Determined not to panic, Clara stretched her lips into what she hoped was a reasonable imitation of a smile.

“I was just thinking how terribly clever you are.”

He frowned, although it was obvious he was pleased with her seeming admiration.

“Not quite clever enough. I still do not have the remaining pieces of the petition, and without them what I do possess is nothing more than worthless rubbish.”

“I do not doubt you will find them.”

With a casualness he could not quite pull off, Mr. Chesterfield plucked at the sleeve of his worn coat.

“Actually, I had hoped you might be of service.”

“Me?”

“It occurred to me that Fredrick might have given the vowels to his brother for safekeeping.”

Her heart came to a full halt before jolting back to life with a painful leap.

Dear heavens, he suspected that Hawksley had the vowels in is possession. Which unfortunately explained his sudden interest in her.

An interest that was not at all reassuring.

“Hawksley?”

“Well, he does possess the reputation of being a dangerous enemy who has killed more than one man upon the field of honor. Who better to keep watch over such a valuable prize?”

She lowered her lashes, covertly glancing about the barren room. Her heart sank at the realization that there was nothing at all to use as a weapon. And worse, the only means of escape was the narrow door across the room.

However swift she might be, she could not reach the door before Mr. Chesterfield could halt her.

“A reasonable conclusion,” she at last forced herself to rasp, knowing her only hope was to keep him talking and await an opportunity to flee. “But I fear you are mistaken. Hawksley knows nothing of the petition.”

The pale eyes narrowed as he stepped toward her. “Now, now, my dear. You must not lie to me. I know that Hawksley has been asking awkward questions about historical manuscripts. Why else would he do so if he did not possess the vowels?”

The chill within her deepened. If Mr. Chesterfield believed Hawksley to have the vowels, then he was in grave danger.

No matter what had occurred between them, she could not bear the thought of him being hurt.

Quite prepared to sacrifice everything to ensure his safety, Clara slowly rose to her feet.

“That is why you brought me here? To discover if Hawksley possesses your petition?”

“Of course not.” He appeared shocked by her accusation. “I have every intention of making you my bride. But you must see that I cannot ask you to live as a pauper with a man who is laughed at and mocked by his peers. You deserve a fine house with servants and a husband who can command the respect of all those about him. Everything I have done was for you. To please you.”

The fierce edge in his voice assured Clara that he was perfectly serious. In his twisted mind he had managed to convince himself that everything he had done was for her. No doubt even the murder of poor Fredrick.

A tidy means of avoiding any unpleasant pangs of guilt.

She gave a slow shake of her head. “I am sorry if you truly did this for me. It certainly is not what I would have wished. Obviously neither of us truly knew the other.”

His brows snapped together in an ominous manner. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “I have no taste for fancy homes or servants, and I assure you that the only respect you ever need have earned was my own.”

“No.” Whirling about, Mr. Chesterfield shoved trembling fingers through his hair. “There was no other way. I had to have the petition. I still have to have it. It is the only way.”

Clara silently edged toward the door. She could almost feel what little sanity the man possessed slipping away.

She had to get out. And swiftly.

“Why?” she demanded in soothing tones. “I have told you I do not care for riches. Why can we not simply be happy with being together?”

“It is too late.” Without warning he spun about, backing her toward the wall as his chest heaved with his tumultuous emotions. “I will not be denied what is rightfully mine. Now tell me where those vowels are or I will hunt down Hawksley and kill him as I did his brother.”

Her hands clenched at her side until her nails drew blood, but her mind remained thankfully clear.

If she could not escape, she would at least make certain that nothing happened to Hawksley. That she could not bear.

“You are right, there is no purpose in lying when you are clearly far too clever for me,” she retorted, surprised that her voice did not so much as waver. The Lord knew she had never been so terrified in her entire life. “He did have the vowels, but he had no notion of their worth. He gave them to me to study.”

“I knew it.” Stepping so close his foul breath threatened to overcome her, Mr. Chesterfield clenched her shoulders in a painful grip. “Tell me where they are.”

Swiftly searching her mind for a suitable lie, Clara was distracted as she glanced over Mr. Chesterfield’s shoulder to discover the wooden door silently sliding open.

Expecting Mr. Chesterfield’s servant, she nearly swooned in relief as a familiar male form stepped into the darkness.

Hawksley.

He had found her.

Unaware of his danger, her captor gave her a violent shake. “Tell me.”

Her eyes never strayed from the fierce blue gaze as Hawksley moved forward and raised his arm. With one smooth motion he struck Mr. Chesterfield on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol.

There was a strangled groan before the villain slid to the ground.

Then silence filled the cellar.

For a moment Hawksley could do nothing but gaze at Clara.

She was rumpled, with dirt upon her face that he did not doubt she would soon be nagging to have washed off. And even in the flickering light he could detect there was an unnatural pallor to her countenance.

But she was alive.

Alive.

A violent wave of relief swept through him, and without thought he reached out to pluck her over the unconscious man on the floor and haul her against his chest.

“Bloody hell, you frightened me, kitten,” he rasped, burying his head in her hair as he battled the tears prickling his eyes.

She was shivering as she laid her head upon his chest.

“It was Mr. Chesterfield,” she muttered into his shirt. “He was the one who killed your brother, not Lord Doulton.”

Having already concluded that the damnable Chesterfield was far more involved than either of them had suspected when he realized where the carriage had taken Clara, Hawksley gave little attention to the revelation.

Later he would have time to take revenge upon the villain. For now his only concern was for the woman in his arms.

With tender care he ran his hands down her back in a soothing manner. “Shh . . . It does not matter at the moment. We can speak later.”

“He said he did it for me.” She shuddered in horror. “He said that he had to have the petition so that he could ask me to become his wife.”

A fierce anger flared through him. God above, it was bad enough that the man had committed murder. But to try and shift his guilt to Clara?

He was surely the lowest sort of . . .

His furious thoughts were brought to a slow end as a small voice in the back of his head whispered that he had not been so terribly different. Oh, certainly his crimes were not nearly so heinous, but had he not assured himself that lying to Clara was for her own good? That he was protecting her by hiding the truth?

When all along he was simply ensuring his own happiness. Grasping his treasure by any means possible.

He had been selfish and utterly indifferent to the pain he was bound to cause this woman.

“No, Clara, what he did, he did for himself,” he told her in low tones. “He was blinded by greed. Not an uncommon tragedy, unfortunately.”

“It is so horrible.”

He pressed his lips to the top of her tumbled curls. “It is over.”

“Over.” She leaned back to meet his searching gaze. “I can go home?”

Just as he was about to reassure her that he intended to take her home with all possible speed, a faint noise behind him had Hawksley smoothly spinning about, his pistol already lifted.

His arm lowered at the sight of Biddles and Santos as they strolled into the cellar.

With a smile toward Clara, the rat-faced gentleman moved to where Mr. Chesterfield still lay upon the dirt floor.

“It seems that we are too late, Santos.”

“A pity.” The smuggler moved to join them, using his boot to turn over the limp form. With a moan Mr. Chesterfield slowly opened his eyes and instantly cringed at the sight of the forms looming above him. Santos’s lips twisted into an evil grin as he pulled a dueling pistol from beneath his coat. “I had hoped to discover if these pistols are worth the enormous sum I was forced to pay.”

Biddles reached beneath his own coat, only to produce a lacy handkerchief that he used to dab at his pointed nose.

“We could tie him to the wall and have a bit of target practice, if you wish?”

Santos gave a small snort. “And what is the skill in that? Far better to loose him in the street and shoot him as he attempts to flee.”

Mr. Chesterfield’s groans raised an octave, his eyes wild. “No . . . I beg you.” Reaching out, he grasped the hem of Clara’s gown. “Beloved Clara . . . You cannot allow them to harm me.”

Without thought, Hawksley kicked the offending hand away. “Do not dare to touch her, you worthless sod.”

“Clara . . .” the villain pleaded.

Clutching Hawksley’s arm, Clara pressed her face into his chest. “Please, Hawksley, I just wish to be away from here.”

Swiftly he placed his arms about her, cursing himself for not having swept her from the horrid cellar the moment he arrived.

“Of course, my love.” He cast a swift glance toward his companions as he led her to the door. “Santos, would you be so good as to haul this rubbish to the nearest magistrate?”

“With pleasure.” His smile widened. “And if he should not wish to go?”

“We will discover if those pistols are worth their price,” he said in clipped tones.

Santos deliberately pointed the pistol toward his captive’s heart. “Indeed we will.”

Realizing all his scheming and skulking and bloody efforts were to come to naught, Mr. Chesterfield abruptly let out a wail of despair.

“Clara . . . I love you. I did this for you. All for you.”

Hawksley refused to allow Clara to even pause as he hustled her from the cellar and through the shadowed house. Not until they were upon the street did he at last slow their steps and turn his head to regard the gentleman following in their wake.

“Biddles, did you bring a carriage?”

“Yes, it is just down the street.” Without waiting he was slipping through the darkness. “This way.”

In silence Hawksley pulled Clara after the retreating form, his arm clutched tightly about her trembling shoulders.

Thankfully the carriage was not far, and bundling her inside, he unfolded a blanket to wrap about her before he slid onto the seat beside her. Once again pulled her into his arms.

With a quick word to his groom, Biddles joined them, and shutting the door they were on their way.

Only as they moved down the narrow street did Hawksley allow himself to relax his knotted muscles.

It was over.

Both Mr. Chesterfield and Lord Doulton would be forced to pay for their crimes, and Fredrick would at last be allowed to rest in peace.

More important, Clara was no longer in danger.

They could now look to the future with nothing at all to stand in their path.

Well, nothing beyond the fact that she had just discovered he had been lying to her since the moment they met, he ruefully acknowledged.

His teeth gritted in determination. He would not allow his stupidity to ruin what lay between them. Not when they so obviously belonged together.

“All will be well, kitten,” he murmured as he laid his cheek against the top of her head.

For a moment she willingly leaned against his strength, but as the carriage picked up speed she slowly pulled away to regard him with a faint frown.

“Where are we going?”

“I am taking you home.” His hand lifted to brush her still-pale cheek. “Where you belong.”

“No.” They were all startled by the sharp vehemence in her tone, and Clara paused to suck in a steadying breath. “I mean . . . I wish to go home to Kent.”

Hawksley flinched as if he had just been struck. God, he wished that he had been. No blow could be as painful as the thought that she would ever leave him.

“You are tired and upset, kitten,” he forced himself to say in placid tones, not wishing to battle with her when she was in such a fragile state. “We will discuss this in the morning when you are feeling more yourself.”

The emerald eyes flashed with a dangerous fire. “Do not talk to me as if I am a child, Hawksley.” She deliberately paused. “Or should I say, my lord?”

Damn.

He had hoped . . . what?

That being kidnapped by a raving lunatic would make his own sins seem trivial? Or that her potential brush with death would convince her that she must seize whatever happiness might be within her grasp?

It did not matter what he had hoped, he accepted with a faint sigh.

Clearly Clara remained furious at his seeming treachery.

“My dear, it is far too late to consider traveling such a distance,” he pointed out in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

Her expression settled in those stubborn lines that were all too familiar.

“Then take me to the nearest hotel. That was where I was going anyway. I will catch the stage out in the morning.”

He battled back his flare of impatience. Clara had every right to feel betrayed. Who could blame her for wishing to put as much distance between them as possible?

Still, he could not allow her to flee. Not until he had an opportunity to plead for her forgiveness.

“I cannot allow you to go to a hotel without even a maid. ’Tis not safe.”

Her chin jutted upward. Never good.

“It is not your decision to make, my lord.”

“We must speak.” Reaching out, he grasped her cold hands in his own. “I will not allow you to leave without . . .”

She wrenched her hands free and turned to the silent gentleman in the opposite seat.

“Lord Bidwell, will you be so kind as to tell your driver that I wish to be taken to a hotel?”

The pointed nose twitched as Biddles gave a helpless lift of his hands.

“Regretfully, I must agree with Hawksley. A young lady on her own would not be entirely safe at a hotel,” he murmured in a sympathetic voice. “They are often frequented by the sort of loutish dandies and rakes who consider a lone female as mere sport.”

Hawksley was swift to pounce upon his advantage. “There, you see. Far better that you return—”

“However, you would be quite welcome as my guest,” Biddles overrode his words with a smooth determination. “Anna would be overjoyed to have another female about, and in truth, she has nearly nagged me to death for the opportunity to meet you.”

“Biddles.” Hawksley regarded his friend as if he were suddenly transformed into a coiled viper.

And with good reason, he told himself.

The dirty, rotten traitor.

At his side, however, Clara was not nearly so offended.

“Oh, I could not impose,” she murmured softly.

Biddles gave an airy wave of his hand. “Trust me, it is no imposition. You would be doing the both of us a great favor if you would come to stay. Anna has not felt quite up to her usual dizzying round of activities due to her delicate condition and is nearly mad with boredom. She would give a fortune to have someone for company besides my poor self.”

Hawksley furiously attempted to think of some means to counter Biddles’s defection. Unfortunately, he was too angry to come up with more than a few incomprehensible grunts.

Clara ignored him without effort. “If you are certain?”

“Consider it settled.”

“Thank you.”

Obviously outgunned, Hawksley was left with nothing to do but toss himself back into the leather squabs and glare at the man he had once called friend.

“Damn you, Biddles,” he muttered.

The slender gentleman smiled with dry humor. “You can rake me over the coals later, Hawk. For now I believe it best we have Miss Dawson settled in a hot tub with a nice brandy to warm her.”

Clara sucked in a deep breath. “Oh yes, a hot bath is precisely what I desire.”

The rest of the trip to the Hawk’s Nest was completed in thick silence. All the apologies and explanations that pounded through Hawksley’s mind were stuck in his throat at the sight of Clara’s drooping shoulders and air of weariness.

Now was not the time to press her. No matter how painful it might be to allow her to leave his side.

Waiting for the carriage to come to a halt before his darkened townhouse, Hawksley opened the door with more force than necessary.

Before stepping down, however, he paused to slay his companion with a hard frown.

“We will speak of this later.”

Biddles merely smiled. “I did not doubt that for a moment.”

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Hawksley was forced to leap lightly onto the street and make his way to his door. It was that or toss Clara over his shoulder and haul her off to his chambers.

Not the wisest notion, considering she had already been kidnapped once that evening.

He had barely reached the porch when the door was abruptly flung open to reveal a decidedly rumpled Dillon. His gaze traveled beyond Hawksley to the carriage already pulling away.

“Miss Dawson?” he demanded.

Sweeping past his servant, Hawksley headed straight for the library and waiting whiskey.

“She is well and in the hands of Biddles.”

“But—”

“Not now, Dillon,” Hawksley pleaded, sensing Dillon plaguing his heels as he moved down the hall. “Did you rid me of my father?”

The servant gave a loud snort. “’Twasn’t a simple matter, but I at last managed to convince him that his presence at the Hawk’s Nest was unwelcome.”

Entering the library, Hawksley smiled ruefully as he poured two glasses of the aged whiskey and handed one to Dillon.

God knew the loyal servant deserved a drink after having to endure the old earl.

“No doubt he made an unpleasant scene?”

“He attempted to do so until I assured him that I would as soon toss him out the window as to listen to his cackling.”

A weary smile touched Hawksley’s lips. “I knew there was some reason that I liked you, old friend.”

There was a moment of silence as they both sipped the whiskey, and then Dillon roughly cleared his throat.

“Miss Dawson . . . Will she be returning?”

Setting aside his empty glass, Hawksley shoved his fingers roughly through his hair. The image of Clara seated in Biddles’s carriage, so small and alone, tortured his mind.

“I cannot say,” he muttered. “I have made such a damnable muck of this.”

“Yes, you have,” Dillon retorted without mercy.

Hawksley glared at his companion. First Biddles and now Dillon.

What did a man have to do for a bit of sympathy?

“Perhaps I do not like you so much after all.”