“Perfect. Tell her that we shall have need of her as soon as possible.”
“I’ll go fetch her now.”
“While you are out I shall also need you to procure two gowns for Miss Dawson.”
Surprisingly, Dillon’s features abruptly hardened with a grim expression.
“She ain’t the sort of woman to be accepting gowns from gentlemen,” he growled.
Hawksley grimaced wryly at the unmistakable warning. How the devil could Clara claim she possessed no ability to charm the opposite sex? Since he had taken her from the carriage, she had managed to bewitch every man foolish enough to cross her path.
“I am well aware that Miss Dawson is a lady,” he assured his servant. “But if she is to leave this house, she will need to be suitably disguised. I would suggest a few of those black crepe gowns that widows always feel the need to drape themselves in and a heavy veil.”
“Oh . . . aye. I shall see what I can discover.”
With a rueful shake of his head, Hawksley turned to retrace his steps back to the woman who had already managed to storm her way into his life.
Gads, first he was playing the cavalier and now he was hiring servants to please her finicky nature.
If he did not watch himself, he would end up with a leash about his neck.
His steps briefly faltered as the disturbing thought flared through his mind. Then just as swiftly he was dismissing it as ridiculous.
Fah. He was in absolute control of the entire situation.
Absolute control.
Clara squirmed uncomfortably on the leather seat of the carriage.
She had never considered what those poor Egyptian mummies must suffer through. Of course, they at least were dead before they were put through such torture.
She, on the other hand, was very much alive and swathed from head to foot in enough black crepe to encircle a woman three times her size, not to mention a wide bonnet with a thick veil that made breathing far from a certain thing.
At least she would not be traveling far enough to test her stomach in the closed carriage. And better yet, Hawksley had not broken his promise, she acknowledged, stealing a pleased glance at the man seated at her side.
Most gentlemen in his position would no doubt have insisted that a lady had no business being part of a murder investigation. They would claim that they were only attempting to protect her when in the back of their minds they would be certain she would only be a nuisance.
But not Hawksley.
He believed in her strange talents.
He believed in her.
The knowledge sent a warm flutter through her stomach.
Regarding the fiercely beautiful profile, Clara barely noted when the carriage rolled to a halt. It was only when Hawksley turned to consider her with a tight smile that she realized they had arrived.
“This is the address. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, you are my cousin from Devonshire who has recently suffered the loss of your husband and are in town to settle his affairs.”
Her lips curled into a smile. He had drilled her on her part for the past hour.
“I shall not forget.”
“And you are not to lift your veil for any reason.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “How many times must I promise you I will not?”
Clearly realizing he was being a tad ridiculous, he offered a rueful grimace. “Very well.”
Pushing open the door to the carriage, he stepped onto the road and lowered the stairs. Eager to at last discover something of Mr. Chesterfield, Clara twitched aside her heavy skirts and hurried down the stairs.
Unfortunately, she had neglected to take into account the thick veil and predictably missed the first step. With a cry she discovered herself plunging into Hawksley’s waiting arms.
For a moment she simply leaned into his chest, breathing deeply of his intoxicating scent as he held her close. Despite the urgency of their task, it seemed a very nice place to linger. Hawksley seemed to agree as his arms briefly tightened, then with obvious reluctance he steadied her and dropped his arms.
“Careful, kitten.”
She gave an impatient tug on the veil. “Blast. I can barely see through this ridiculous thing.”
“Which means that no one else can see through it either.”
“That will certainly ease my mind when I break my neck,” she said dryly.
He gave a soft chuckle as he firmly pulled her arm through his. “Just hold on to me, I won’t let you fall.”
Together they stepped through the narrow gate and approached the townhouse.
Although respectably situated in Cheapside, the residence possessed little to recommend it. The gardens were shabby, the shutters peeling, and the front knob unpolished. Not at all what she had expected from her intelligent, methodical Mr. Chesterfield.
Perhaps sensing her surprise, Hawksley cast her a sideways glance as they stepped onto the stoop and he used the knocker. Clara shrugged, forcing herself to concentrate upon matters at hand as the door was pulled open to reveal a wiry, nearly bald butler with a sour expression.
“Yes?”
“We are here to see Mr. Chesterfield,” Hawksley announced.
The butler narrowed his beady eyes. “Mr. Chesterfield ain’t at home.”
“We do not mind waiting.” Hawksley took a smooth step forward. “If you will show us to—”
With a surprisingly swift motion the servant shifted to block the doorway. “I fear you misunderstand, sir. Mr. Chesterfield has left London.”
Beneath her fingers Clara could feel Hawksley’s muscles tense. “Left London, you say? Where has he gone?”
“He had family business to attend in the north. If you would like to leave a card, I will see that—”
Realizing that the butler was on the point of shutting the door in their face, Clara rapidly searched her mind for a means of entering the house. Not only was her concern for poor Mr. Chesterfield increasing by the moment, but she knew that Hawksley was desperate to discover some connection to his brother within.
If she did not take matters in hand, the dangerous pirate was quite capable of forcing his way in.
“No, that will not do at all,” she stated in tones that would have done a duchess proud. “I traveled a great distance to meet with your master. He was transcribing a rare manuscript for my lately departed husband. His mother and I are anxious to have it returned.”
The sour expression soured further. “Manuscript? I ain’t knowing of any manuscript.”
“It must be within.” Clara allowed herself a strategic pause before clutching at Hawksley’s arm. “Unless . . . dear Lord, what if he has taken off with it? We must go to Bow Street at once. That is my only inheritance.”
Something that might have been amusement flashed in the blue eyes, but with a readiness that Clara admired, he swiftly followed her lead.
“Of course, dear cousin. We shall inform the authorities immediately.”
“Here now, there’s no call to do anything rash,” the servant blustered. “Mayhap I can search the master’s study and find the manuscript.”
Clara met his offer with a disdainful sniff. “Fah. You are merely providing your master with more time to escape with his ill-gotten treasure.”
“Quite right.” Hawksley leaned forward in a threatening fashion. “I must insist that we be allowed to search the study for ourselves.”
There was a tense moment as the servant grimly attempted to choose between the lesser of two evils.
It was no doubt the air of violence that shrouded the looming Hawksley that at last swayed the balance. He was an intimidating beast under the best of circumstances. When he chose to use the full force of his will he was downright unnerving.