With a blink Hawksley realized he was standing in the middle of the office with an empty glass clenched in his hands. He grimaced as he set aside the glass and sucked in a deep breath.
“Forgive me, Biddles. I fear that I am rather distracted.”
“Understandable, old friend. You have endured much.” The thin face hardened. “Lord Doulton shall pay, that I assure you.”
Hawksley gave a short laugh. “’Tis not Lord Doulton who has my nerves twisted into knots. That honor can solely be laid at the feet of Miss Clara Dawson.”
“Miss Dawson? You intrigue me.” Biddles abruptly leaned forward, his sly smile returning. “Tell me, Hawk, what has she done that has you in such a twit?”
Hawksley folded his arms over his chest. “Do not smile at me in that manner, Biddles.”
“What manner would that be?”
“A condemned man who is pleased to have a partner in his misery.”
“Is that how you feel? Condemned?”
“That all depends upon the hour.”
The pointed nose twitched in avid curiosity. “Beg pardon?”
Hawksley blew out a sigh. He was not particularly comfortable in revealing his emotions. Hell, under normal circumstances, boiling tar and feathers could not have wrenched a confession from him.
But Miss Clara Dawson had ensured these were not normal circumstances, and he possessed a near-overwhelming urge to discover if he had completely lost his mind.
“I haven’t a clue what I shall feel from one moment to another,” he growled. “In one breath I desire to toss Miss Dawson into the nearest carriage and have her sent back to that damnable village so that she will no longer be a plague to me, and the next I want her flat on her back in my bed.”
Far from appearing shocked by his words, Biddles tilted his head to one side with a smirk.
“I should choose the bed if I were you. According to Santos, this Miss Dawson is not only beautiful but extraordinarily intelligent.”
Hawksley’s teeth snapped together. A pox on the dashing smuggler. “Santos plays a dangerous game.”
“He is not happy unless he is walking the edge of disaster.” Biddles shrugged. “Still, his taste in women is impeccable. If I were you I would make her my mistress before he can seduce her away.”
Hawksley was not even aware he was moving until his hands slapped loudly onto the desk. “Damn you, Miss Dawson is a lady, not a light skirt.”
The little rat did not even blink. Instead he leaned back in his seat and templed his fingers beneath his chin.
“Then make her your wife.”
“Wife?” Hawksley jerked back as if he had taken a roundhouse to the chin. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Why not?”
Why not? Good God, there were a dozen, nay, a hundred reasons why not. The fact that he could not think of one was simply because he was so utterly stunned by the absurd suggestion.
“What the blazes would I do with a wife?” he at last blustered.
“If I need tell you, Hawk, then perhaps you should give up on women altogether,” Biddles drawled.
His gaze narrowed. He did not need anyone to tell him what could be done with Clara, a wedding ring, and a bed. It was seared into his mind.
“There is more to a wife than bedding her.”
“Quite a bit more,” Biddles readily agreed. “Should you be fortunate enough, she will also be a friend, a helpmate, and the one person in the world whom you will trust above all others.”
Hawksley’s chest tightened in a frightening manner before he forced himself to frown. Helpmate . . . fah.
“You sound like a ghastly poet.”
“No, merely like a happily married man.”
“Not all men can claim such satisfaction,” he swiftly pointed out. “Indeed, the clubs are littered with husbands seeking solitude from their nagging wives.”
Biddles gave a superior lift of his brow. “That is because they sought a wife they believed would suit their needs. One who was beautiful, or wealthy, or from the proper family.”
“And you think I should seek a bride who does not suit my needs? Rather absurd logic, even for you, Biddles.”
“I do not think you should seek one at all,” he corrected smoothly. “I believe that fate will ensure you stumble across the true woman for you. Or sometimes fate just tosses her straight at your head.”
Just for a heartbeat Hawksley recalled the moment he had opened the door to the carriage. There had been a jolt of recognition. As if he had been waiting for the lovely angel. Perhaps all his life.
No. God, no.
He shoved his hands through the long strands of his hair. “Enough. I have no interest in acquiring a wife.”
Biddles’s expression became suddenly somber. “’Tis unfortunate, but there is no escaping the fact that you now possess responsibilities that cannot be ignored forever, Hawk. One of which is to marry and produce children.”
Hawksley froze, his countenance grim.
“Responsibilities that I will not consider until after I have caught Fredrick’s murderer.” He squared his shoulders. “Now can we please turn our attention to the reason I sought you out this evening?”
Chapter Eleven
It was nearly a week later when the plan was at last put into place. Throughout the long days Clara had remained patient, although she had chafed at the knowledge that she was unable to offer assistance in the actual details of the scheme.
In truth it had been Hawksley’s friend Lord Bidwell who had taken charge of arranging the high-stakes hazard game that was perfectly suited to lure Lord Doulton to Hellion’s Den for the evening, and Santos who had devoted several evenings to covertly watching the servants’ routines so there would be no unpleasant surprises.
As for Hawksley, he had disappeared each afternoon only to return when the dawn was breaking.
At first Clara had feared he was avoiding her.
He certainly would not be the first man to go to extraordinary lengths to flee her presence. Some even went so far as to leap behind bushes when they spotted her walking down a lane.
Why should he be any different?
Fortunately, the horrid notion barely had time to slice through her heart before she discovered the truth.
Returning her breakfast tray to the kitchen, she had heard Dillon speaking to his sister, who had recently arrived to take over the housekeeping duties. He had confessed that Hawksley had been forced to return to the gambling hells to earn enough money to pay for the wages of the increased staff.
Her fear had shifted to guilt.
Oh . . . blast.
She knew perfectly well that Hawksley had only hired the housekeeper and maids to please her.
Servants he could ill afford.
Still, there seemed no simple means of confronting him with her knowledge. Even she knew better than to offer him the funds she had brought with her, as meager as they might be, or to suggest that he allow her to care for the house without assistance.
Gentlemen were astonishingly sensitive when it came to such matters. And the less money they possessed, the more sensitive they became.
It was all a mystery to Clara. But then, most things that had to do with the opposite sex were a mystery to her. Such strange creatures.
It seemed best to hold her tongue until she could consider a means of easing his burden without harming his pride.
At last the days passed and the plans were in place and Clara discovered herself rattling through London in the closed carriage with a clearly tense Hawksley.
She allowed his ceaseless lectures to wash over her as she smoothed her hands over the pants and shabby coat Dillon had procured for her. It felt odd to be dressed as a man, but she had to admit Hawksley had been right. Such attire gave her much more freedom than that blasted crepe dress from the netherworld. And best of all, her hair had been shoved beneath a hat rather than concealed behind a heavy veil.