He was quite certain she did not even realize her instinctive need to keep all in tidy order.
Placing the napkin in his lap, Hawksley allowed himself to thoroughly enjoy the plates of smoked ham and warm toast with marmalade.
Since leaving his family estate he had lived the life of a bachelor. What did it matter if his home was tidy or his food cooked to perfection? All he needed was a roof over his head and a place to store his meager belongings.
Now he realized that he had unwittingly missed all the small comforts that made a house a home. The touches only a woman could provide.
With a soothing calm Clara waited for him to polish off the last of his tea before at last leaning forward.
“Did you manage to have the paper translated?”
Hawksley pushed aside the tray before reaching beneath his jacket to pull out the vowels and arrange them in the center of the table. Carefully he placed them together as if they were pieces of a puzzle.
“What there was to translate. Even together they only complete a portion of the page.”
“Did you learn anything at all from them?”
Hawksley’s lips twitched as he recalled his meeting with Biddles. As always, the little ferret had been a font of information.
“A bit. The writing is old Latin, as you suspected. And more fascinating, it appears to be some sort of petition.”
“A petition?” She regarded him with a curious expression. “A royal petition?”
“Papal.”
“Papal,” Clara murmured, mulling over his revelation before her eyes abruptly widened and she was on her feet. “Dear God . . .”
Hawksley regarded her with a lift of his brows. He had expected a measure of surprise at his revelation, but not this blatant amazement.
“What is it?”
“Mr. Chesterfield,” she breathed.
A flare of possessive annoyance hardened Hawksley’s expression. He found that he deeply disliked the man’s name upon Clara’s lips.
“Now is hardly an appropriate moment to be worrying over your mathematical genius.”
She gave an impatient shake of her head. “Mathematics was only a hobby for him, as they are for me. His profession was that of a church historian, specifically translating ancient manuscripts,” she said, leaning her hands on the table as she stabbed him with a glittering gaze. “If your brother managed to suspect that this paper was religious in nature, he most certainly would have sought out Mr. Chesterfield if he desired more information.” She allowed herself a dramatic pause. “And just as importantly, it would explain the mysterious appointment with MC he noted in his journal.”
Hellfire. Hawksley rose to his feet, belatedly realizing what had captured her interest.
“MC. Mr. Chesterfield.”
“Precisely.”
“Yes.” He gave a slow nod. “It certainly fits. Like you, my brother could not possibly allow a mystery to go unsolved. Especially not if it included some musty bit of history.”
“And perhaps he would have begun to question how Lord Doulton could possibly have come to possess a petition to the pope,” she muttered. “Such a document is not something that is commonly lying about a gentleman’s home.”
A slow smile curved his lips. God, it had been so long since he had managed to uncover the faintest trail that might lead to his brother’s murderer. He had begun to fear that he was beating his head against an impregnable wall.
Now he wanted to shout in happiness. Or better yet, grab Clara in his arms and soundly kiss her for her assistance.
Very, very soundly.
Instead he contented himself with grasping her fingers and squeezing them in silent appreciation.
“I think it time I pay a visit to this Mr. Chesterfield.”
The green eyes sparkled with excitement. “Allow me to change my gown. I will not be a moment.”
She would have slipped away if he had not tightened his grasp to keep her standing before him.
“Hold a moment, kitten.”
She frowned at his stern tone. “What?”
Hawksley was wise enough to consider his words carefully. Miss Clara Dawson was not a woman who meekly accepted a gentleman’s commands. No matter who that gentleman might be.
If he wished to keep her safe he would have to use logic, not male intimidation.
“You cannot simply go dashing about London,” he pointed out in smooth tones. “For now we can hope that Doulton believes you to be dead. I have no intention of disabusing him of that notion.”
“How would he possibly recognize me?”
Hawksley shrugged. “We cannot be certain he does not somehow know you and what you look like.”
The delicate features tightened. “You intend to hold me prisoner in this house?”
His lips twitched at the mere thought of attempting to hold her captive. So far she had chosen to remain with him of her own will. Should she change her mind he did not doubt for a moment that she would be away before he could blink.
Still, he could not resist a bit of teasing.
“Well, there is that lingering fantasy of tying you to my bed.”
An enchanting blush touched her cheeks, but it did nothing to ease her annoyance.
“Hawksley.”
“Be at ease, kitten,” he murmured, pressing a swift kiss to her forehead. “I have no intention of holding you prisoner. As delightful the thought, not even I am that brave. I do think, however, that we must see about some sort of disguise before you go about town.”
“Oh.” She mulled over his words before giving a nod of her head. “I suppose that is reasonable.”
“I do have my moments.”
She offered a grudging smile. “A few.”
“Mmm.” He gently dusted the flour from her cheek, his fingers lingering before he sternly pulled them away. “Allow me to go speak with Dillon and we will make our plans.”
On this occasion it was her turn to reach out and halt his retreat.
“You do not intend to sneak out behind my back?”
He gave a lift of his brows. “Why would I do such a thing?”
“Out of some misguided need to protect me.”
His features softened as he met her searching gaze. “I have every intention of protecting you, but I am honest enough to admit that I have need of your assistance. Whatever my varied talents, they do not include your unique ability to notice those niggling details the rest of us overlook. I promise I shall return in a moment.”
Her expression of gratitude warmed his heart far more than was reasonable, but distracted with his thoughts, Hawksley missed the dangerous sensation.
With swift steps he returned to the kitchen, discovering his manservant muttering beneath his breath as he carefully chopped a mound of vegetables.
“Dillon, I have need of you,” he commanded.
“Thank God,” Dillon breathed, yanking off the offending apron with obvious relief. “Do I get to hit someone?”
Hawksley gave a chuckle. “I fear not. I desire you to discover a housekeeper who can not only be discreet but possesses the skills to keep this house in the sort of order that Miss Dawson prefers.”
A rare smile touched the battered face. “Ach, t’will not be easy. Miss Dawson is right particular.”
“So I have discovered,” Hawksley retorted dryly.
“Mayhap I can convince my sister to come and lend a hand for a few weeks. Before she was pensioned off she was the housekeeper for Lord Tierney, and you know how fussy he was.”
Hawksley gave a swift nod. He was familiar with Lord Tierney and his notable obsessions.