“This is odd,” she murmured.
Hawksley leaned forward. “What is odd?”
“The paper.”
Turning his attention to the vowels in her hand, Hawksley frowned in puzzlement. “No doubt it is just a scrap that Lord Doulton had lying about. There is no need for a formal contract between gentlemen.”
“This is not a scrap.” Without warning she rose to her feet and moved toward a nearby window. With a flick of her hand she pulled the curtain aside and held the vowels against the windowpane. “It is old. Very old.”
Undeniably curious Hawksley rose to join her at the window.
“What is it?”
“There is writing on the back.”
Ignoring the tingling awareness of her slender form, he leaned close to study the faded ink.
“Some sort of scribbling?”
“No, it is script,” she corrected. “Some sort of formal document, I believe.”
He shrugged, not quite so entranced by the long-forgotten letter as his companion seemed to be.
“It is not that unusual to use old bits of paper or even manuscripts for such purposes, Miss Dawson. Not all of us possess a fascination with the past.”
She turned to regard him with a searching gaze. “What of your brother?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Was he a scholar?”
Hawksley blinked. God, she was uncanny. “Yes. A very devoted scholar.”
“Then he would have taken notice of such writing.”
He caught his breath. Bloody hell. He had been so occupied with the vowels and Lord Doulton’s signature that he never even taken note of the paper.
But then, who would?
No one but the peculiar Miss Dawson . . . and very possibly his brother.
“You think this important?”
She wrinkled her slender nose. “I think that anything out of the ordinary should be explained before dismissing it.”
He gave a slow nod of his head, reaching to take the vowels and tucking them back into his pocket. He might not possess Miss Dawson’s obvious brilliance, but he did have something she lacked. The dark, seedy connections to discover the sort of information he needed.
“You are right, of course.”
She tilted her head to one side. “What are you going to do?”
“I am going to meet with someone who can assist me in translating these scribblings.”
“You have to meet with someone?” She gave a lift of her brows. “Surely you must have studied Latin while attending school?”
His lips twitched at her goading. Minx. With a swift motion he had her pinned next to the wall. He did not want her to think he was somehow lacking.
At least not in matters of importance.
Besides which, he had forced himself to behave as a gentleman throughout lunch. Surely he deserved some reward for all that tediously proper conduct?
Twirling a curl about his finger, he smiled into her widened eyes.
“I was far too busy with more practical lessons to be troubled with such nonsense.”
She attempted to appear disapproving, but she could not disguise the leap of her pulse at the base of her throat.
“I can imagine.”
He chuckled, his lips softly brushing her forehead. “There is no need to imagine when I would be happy to demonstrate.”
Her hands abruptly clutched at his arms. “Hawksley.”
“I like the sound of my name upon your lips.”
“I . . . I thought you were leaving?”
“I could be convinced to stay,” he murmured huskily.
“Sir . . . ?” she breathed.
His lips trailed over her temple before he was sucking in a deep breath. Damn. He pulled back to regard her with a brooding intensity. My God, what was it about this woman? She seduced and disturbed him in a manner he was not entirely certain he cared for.
Well, there were some parts he cared for, he acknowledged as his body quickened.
Too much.
“You are right, I must go.” He forced himself to step back, his gaze lingering on the faint flush on her cheeks before sending her a stern frown. “One thing before I go.”
“What?”
“If I discover you have spent the afternoon doing dishes I shall be very displeased,” he warned. “You are not a servant here.”
She met his gaze squarely. “What am I?”
His smile twisted ruefully.
“Perhaps my salvation.” He ran a finger along the line of her jaw. “I shall return as soon as I am able.”
Despite the stern warning that she was not to be a servant, Clara could not thwart her instinctive need to set the small house to rights.
And why should she, she reassured herself, bustling through the rooms to polish the furniture and demand that Dillon have the carpets thoroughly beaten.
If she was expected to remain at the Hawk’s Nest, then she would have it suitable for a woman of fastidious taste.
Her burst of cleaning, however, did halt outside Hawksley’s private chambers. She might not know much of the devilishly handsome pirate, but she was certain he was not a man to take such an intrusion lightly.
Whatever his ready charm, Clara was perceptive enough to sense the nearly indiscernible distance he kept about himself. It was as if he harbored a secret deep within him that he refused to share with anyone.
Perhaps even with himself.
Dusk was falling when she was at last satisfied that the rooms had been properly scrubbed, polished, aired, and arranged in precise order.
Taking a tray of tea and sandwiches to her chambers, she requested that a bath be brought up and devoted herself to washing the lingering traces of the road from her body. It was only when she was in her sensible robe and brushing her hair by the fire in her room that she turned her thoughts to the troubles at hand.
She had not missed Hawksley’s deep, biting grief at the death of his brother, nor his fierce determination to lay blame for the murder at the feet of Lord Doulton. Such strong emotions rarely allowed for logical thought, she had discovered, but she could not wholly dismiss the notion that he might very well have something to his vague suspicions.
After all, the journal did suggest his brother had broken habits of a lifetime after meeting with Lord Doulton. And then there was the unexplainable fact that his lordship had commanded her own death.
Seemingly unconnected events, but enough to earn Lord Doulton a closer inspection.
If nothing else, she had a personal need to discover more of the wretched man. Until she learned why he would send a murderous fiend to ambush her, she would be forced to keep herself hidden away.
Not an entirely unpleasant task at the moment, she had to wryly concede, but one that could not continue for long.
Soon enough she would be expected back in her cottage. She could not risk having questions raised at her absence. Not when it might jeopardize her reputation.
Setting aside her brush, Clara restlessly raised herself to her feet. Although she was weary, she knew it would be some time before she would fall asleep.
She might as well find herself something to read, she decided. It would keep her occupied until Hawksley’s return.
Not bothering with a candle, she carried her tray back to the kitchen and tidied the dishes before heading to the small library she had discovered earlier in the day. Moving down the hall, she passed the small parlor, pausing as a faint tingle of awareness feathered over her skin.
Someone was in the darkened room. Of that she was certain.
Stepping over the threshold, she scanned the darkness until she noted the darker shadow near the bay window.
“Hawksley?” she questioned softly, only to stiffen in wariness as the shadow turned in her direction. “Who are you?”