There was a moment’s pause. “How did you know I was not Hawksley?” a rich, faintly accented voice demanded.
Unafraid, Clara took another step forward. She already suspected the identity of the intruder.
“You do not smell as he does.”
A startled chuckle echoed through the heavy silence. “I beg your pardon?”
“Hawksley does not wear sandalwood, nor does he smoke cheroots.”
“Ah, you are very observant, Miss Dawson,” the gentleman murmured.
“You were at the cottage.”
“Santos. At your service.”
He stepped into the slanting moonlight to perform an elegant bow. Clara was once again struck by his sheer beauty. It was not the powerful, smoldering attraction of Hawksley, but instead an aloof perfection that was more than a tad intimidating.
“The smuggler.”
A dark brow flicked upward at her unwitting words. “So some claim, although rarely to my face.”
Clara grimaced. “Forgive me, I did not intend to insult you.”
He shrugged. “It takes a great deal to insult me, anjo.”
“It is just that you do not look like a smuggler.”
“Hmm. I wonder if I should take that as a compliment?” A faint smile curved his lips. “I suppose my vanity must insist that I do.”
Clara swallowed a sigh. She should no doubt have herself muzzled.
“Are you searching for Hawksley?”
“No, I spoke with him earlier.”
She was caught off guard by his ready response. “You spoke with him? Where is he?”
“At Hellion’s Den.”
“Hellion’s Den?”
“A gambling establishment not far from here.”
“He is gambling?” She did not bother to hide her confusion. “I thought he was meeting with a scholar?”
Santos’ lips twitched. “If anyone can assist in acquiring obscure information, it is Biddles. He is rather a legend around London. Hawksley requested that I come here until he was finished.”
“I see.” Her brows drew together as she considered his smooth explanation. Then abruptly she stiffened in outrage. “Oh. Why, that . . . toad. He sent you here to ensure that I did not slip away.”
The man’s amusement only deepened at her accusation. “Actually, I believe he was more concerned with keeping you safe. This neighborhood is not the most suitable place for a young and innocent maiden.”
“Fah.” Her hands landed upon her hips. “Dillon is here, as well as two other servants who appear quite capable of dealing with a French invasion if need be, let alone any stray criminal who might be about. Why would he believe I would have need for more protection?”
He elegantly strolled forward, his hand reaching out to touch a still-damp curl that lay against her cheek.
“I would presume it was for the same reason he felt the need to threaten me with a very nasty retribution if I dared to offer you so much as a smile.”
“What?” She frowned. “But that is absurd.”
“My thought precisely. Gentlemen, however, are rarely reasonable when a beautiful woman is involved.”
Although admiration shimmered in his gaze, Clara was too accustomed to being thought an oddity to accept his interest could be genuine. No doubt he was simply playing one of those sophisticated games that always baffled her.
“I begin to believe that London gentlemen are either blind or daft,” she said dryly.
He gently twirled the curl about his finger. “I should say that we simply possess a more refined appreciation for the rare and unique.”
Oh my. Clara blinked in astonishment. The gentleman’s charm was lethal.
“Do you work for Hawksley?” she abruptly demanded.
His gaze narrowed, as if he disliked the implication he might answer to anyone.
“I work only for myself.”
“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose in an apologetic manner. “But you are assisting him in the search for his brother’s murderer?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe Lord Doulton is involved?”
She was pleased when he considered her question for a long moment. Clearly he was a man given to thought before action. His assistance would serve Hawksley well.
“I believe he has far more of a fortune than he should have. And that he would kill to keep his newfound wealth.”
She gave a slow nod, ignoring his lingering touch as her mind was consumed with the riddle of Lord Doulton.
“There are not a great many means of gaining a fortune, illegal or otherwise,” she murmured.
“True.”
She met his gaze squarely. “I suppose you would know if he were involved in criminal opportunities?”
His lips twitched, his countenance revealing he was not offended by her delicate question.
“He has no connection to any known smugglers, thieves, or counterfeiters.”
“Ah.” She absently nibbled her bottom lip as she shifted through various possibilities. “Blackmail?”
“A possibility.”
“Yes . . . It does not, however, explain murder,” she had to concede. “You would be far more likely to do whatever necessary to keep your victims alive. They can hardly pay your demands from the grave.” Abruptly Clara became aware of Santos’s soft laughter. “What is it?”
His fingers moved beneath her chin to tilt her face upward for his inspection.
“Hawksley warned me you were most unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” She rolled her eyes upward. “I would rather say he warned you I was completely mad. I have a tendency to become rather fixated when I am working upon a riddle.”
He leaned closer, his eyes smoldering in the moonlight. “A most charming tendency.”
There was the sound of a footfall near the door, and a dangerously soft male voice sliced through the room.
“A step closer, Santos, and I shall have you drawn and quartered.”
Chapter Seven
Hawksley should no doubt have been shocked by the force of his emotions when he entered the room to find Clara practically in Santos’s arms.
He was not one of those ridiculous buffoons who allowed a woman to toy with his affection or play him for a fool. Indeed, more than one mistress had bemoaned his lack of proper sentimental feelings.
Oddly, however, he was not at all startled by the dark anger that could only be jealousy tensing his muscles. Nor by the urge to march across the room and knock the handsome Santos onto his arse.
From the moment this woman had dropped into his arms he had been plagued by a host of unfamiliar emotions. Why should tonight be any different?
With an effort, Hawksley squashed his more violent urges and conjured his nearly forgotten sense of humor. For all his sins, perhaps he deserved to be undone by a tiny angel who preferred mathematical equations to seduction.
Besides which, it had been his own daft notion to send Santos to his house. Whatever the gentleman’s danger to poor Miss Dawson’s heart, he would protect her with his very life.
Strolling forward, he watched as Santos stepped away from Miss Dawson with a lazy smile.
“Ah, Hawksley. I wish I could claim it is a pleasure to see you,” Santos drawled.
Hawksley smiled, but there was no doubting the warning in his expression. “Am I intruding, old friend?”
“If I say aye will you leave?”
Hawksley came to a halt directly in front of the smuggler. “Not even with a pistol held to my head.”
Santos chuckled. “Something that could be arranged.”
“I see that I shall have to be more specific when I request that you refrain from seducing my guests, Santos.”