“Come in, then.” Turning on his heel, the man led them through a small foyer and up a flight of stairs. Stopping at the first door on the left, he threw it open and regarded them with a petulant impatience. “This be it.”
Both Hawksley and Clara paused in distaste upon the threshold. The narrow chamber was quite simply a mess.
Books, papers, magazines, and a healthy dose of pure rubbish managed to clutter every shelf and table. Clara might have thought that someone had broken in and created the destruction if not for the thick layer of dust that coated the clutter.
Her stomach clenched at the mere thought of entering the room, let alone touching anything. There could be anything under the grime.
Bugs, mold, creepy ancient creatures.
Glancing down at her horrified expression, Hawksley gave her fingers a sympathetic squeeze before pulling her across the threshold.
“I will begin with the desk, my dear, if you wish to sort through the piles near the window.”
With grudging steps she crossed toward the stacks of books on the window seat. Once there, however, she could not force herself to touch the crumbling manuscripts.
She would as soon put her hand in a viper pit.
Holding her skirts off the floor, she gave a loud cough in the butler’s direction. “Mr. Chesterfield is not a very tidy gentleman, is he?”
The servant stiffened in offense. “True genius rarely concerns itself with such mundane matters.”
Hawksley gave a bark of laughter as he rummaged among the papers. “Clearly you have never been in the companionship of true genius. I assure you that tidiness is a matter of utter necessity.”
“Sir—” the butler began to protest, only to be interrupted by Clara.
“Good heavens, I shall be a mess,” she muttered, stiffening her spine. If she could not assist Hawksley in one manner she would find another. “I must have an apron if I am to work among such filth. Kindly collect me one from the kitchen.”
“Nay, I’ll not be leaving strangers alone in my master’s study.”
“Very well, I shall go and fetch one myself.”
With firm steps Clara marched back toward the door, meeting Hawksley’s warning frown with a reassuring smile.
“Hold on here.” The butler wavered as she neared the door, clearly debating whether to chase after her or keep a suspicious watch upon the threatening form by the desk. Like most men he concluded that a mere woman could not poise any true danger, and he threw up his arms in defeat. “Damnation.”
Heading down the hall, Clara reached the stairs and with a furtive glance over her shoulders turned to head up the steps. Mr. Chesterfield might very well have taken leave of London to deal with family matters, but her instincts refused to accept that it was anything so simple. She very much feared that the man was in danger.
Finding the private bedchamber by the process of elimination, Clara sucked in a deep breath and shoved open the door.
She discovered that the cramped room was passingly tidy with an attempt to hold back the encroaching dust; still, she was relieved that she had on a pair of thick gloves as she gingerly began her search.
Near a quarter of an hour later she acknowledged that she had pressed her luck as far as she dared, and slipping from the chamber, she hurried down the stairs and back into the study. She had barely stepped over the threshold when the butler came hurrying toward her, his expression suspicious.
“I thought you had gone to get an apron?”
“I could not find one that was not as filthy as the rest of the household,” she informed him coldly.
Strolling from the desk, Hawksley placed her hand upon his arm. “It does not matter, my dear. I can find no evidence of your manuscript.”
“It seems that we shall have to go to the authorities after all.”
The butler paled at the threat. “Nay . . . I . . . I will find your bloody manuscript.”
“And how could we possibly trust you?” Clara demanded.
“Perhaps we should give him the opportunity to search, my dear,” Hawksley murmured, his gaze holding hers. “It would be a pity to make a fuss if it is simply misplaced.”
Easily sensing what he desired of her, Clara gave a slow nod. “I suppose I can wait a day or two.”
“When you find the manuscript, you may send word to the Hawk’s Nest,” Hawksley commanded.
The butler did not bother to hide his relief. “Aye.”
With an arrogant nod of his head, Hawksley led her out of the gloomy townhouse into the pale spring sunlight. In silence they crawled back into the carriage.
Only when the door was shut and they were clamoring down the cobbled road did Hawksley abruptly tilt back his head to laugh with rich enjoyment.
“Bloody hell, kitten, you were brilliant.”
Chapter Nine
“I must say, I surprised myself,” she admitted.
He reached out to grasp her hand, his smile warm. “Biddles himself could not have done better, and that is saying something.”
Clara felt her countenance warm with startled pleasure. She was not at all accustomed to such praise.
“Did you learn anything in the study?”
“I discovered that before he left London, Mr. Chesterfield was researching papal records and the history of the Vatican.”
“Perhaps not utterly surprising for a church historian, but still intriguing,” she murmured.
“My thoughts precisely.” Tossing his hat on the opposite seat, he turned to face her squarely, his diamond earring flashing in the dim shadows. “Now tell me where you disappeared to.”
“I went to Mr. Chesterfield’s bedchamber to be certain that he had truly left London.”
“What did you find?”
“Much of his clothing has been taken from the room, as well as his shaving kit, which indicates that he did indeed leave on a trip, but I found these on his desk.” Digging into the pocket of her voluminous skirts, she produced a fine gold pocket watch and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses.
Taking them from her hand, Hawksley gave a lift of his brows. “Glasses and a pocket watch? Hardly unusual objects to find in a bedchamber.”
“Yes, but a gentleman leaving town for several weeks would never leave them behind.”
He pondered the objects in his hand a long moment, clearly attempting not to leap to conclusions.
“It could be that he possesses more than one pocket watch and pair of glasses.”
The thought had crossed Clara’s mind as well, only to be dismissed when she noted the undoubted craftsmanship of the watch.
“Mr. Chesterfield did not appear to have the sort of funds that would lend itself to having several gold pocket watches. And even if he did have more than one, he would surely have taken care to place this one in a safe rather than leaving it lying upon his desk where a servant might take off with it.”
“Perhaps his trip was unexpected.” His fingers slowly closed about the watch and glasses as he stabbed her with a glittering gaze. “Or someone decided to make him disappear.”
A pang shot through her heart at the mere thought. From what she knew of Mr. Chesterfield he had been a quiet, scholarly gentleman. He would be no match for someone wishing him violence.
“But surely the servants would have reported to the authorities if he had gone missing?” she protested.
He grimaced, his expression revealing he was all too familiar with darker side of human nature.
“Not if they were paid well enough by someone who wished his absence to remain a secret. If Mr. Chesterfield did not have close family, it might be weeks or even months before his absence was noted.”