“He wouldn’t agree, I assure you.”
He offered a dramatic shudder. “Lord save me from happily married gentlemen.”
Biddles chuckled. “We are a dull lot, are we not?” Reaching behind him, the slender gentleman produced a bottle to pour Hawksley a measure of the amber spirit. “I think you will find this to your taste.”
Accepting the offering, Hawksley took an experimental sip. Ah. A smoky fire slid down his throat. Whiskey, of course. Hawksley always drank whiskey. “Excellent. Your private stock?”
“Of course.”
Beyond his skill in spying, Biddles always managed to procure the finest spirits. Another reason to like the man.
“I would ask where you purchased it, but I have a feeling you have no desire to share your source.”
Biddles held up his hands in a helpless motion. “I must have something to maintain my intriguing air of mystery.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “You become any more mysterious and Parliament will have you locked in the Tower. Prinny already complains you need to have a bell tied about your neck to keep you from lurking about and sticking your nose into places it has no business being.”
“My poor nose.” Biddles fondly stroked the pointed end. “It is sadly abused.”
“It is a lethal weapon.”
The pale eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You will not be nearly so condemning when you discover what this nose has managed to sniff out.”
“You have information for me?”
“Not precisely the sort you requested, but I think you might find it interesting.”
Hawksley did not move, but every muscle in his body tightened in anticipation. Biddles would not have approached him if he didn’t think the information was something he could use.
“Tell me.”
“There is a rumor floating about the stews that a certain Lord Doulton approached Jimmy Blade with an offer to pay him one hundred quid.”
Hawksley abruptly set aside his whiskey. He could not deny a measure of surprise at the information. Although he suspected that the elegant Lord Doulton dabbled in all sorts of nasty business, the man had always been careful to keep his reputation spotless. He preferred to hire others to wallow in the muck.
“He has need of a thief?”
“A highwayman.”
Well. This just got more interesting by the moment.
“Why?”
“It seems there is a carriage on its way to London from Kent that Lord Doulton does not wish to arrive.”
Hawksley narrowed his gaze even further. “There is something in the carriage he desires?”
Biddles grimaced. “Actually, there is something in the carriage he wants dead.”
An icy fury flared through his heart. Damn the ruthless bastard. One day he would overplay his hand and put himself in Hawksley’s clutches. And that day would be his last.
“Who?”
“A Miss Clara Dawson.”
Shock made him catch his breath.
“A woman?”
“Yes. Is she familiar to you?”
“I have never heard her name before. Bloody hell, why would Doulton want this woman dead?”
Biddles shrugged. “Well, the prig is too much a cold fish to have it be for the usual reasons a gentleman might wish to do away with a woman. Love, hate, jealousy. So it must be that he either owes her money or she has information he does not care to have spread about.”
Hawksley shoved away from the wall. Unfortunately, there wasn’t the necessary room for a good pacing. He took two steps to the chair and then back to the wall. Still, by the time he turned he had made his conclusion.
He had already discovered that Doulton possessed an astonishing fortune. Too much fortune for a man who had inherited a crumbling estate and a pile of bills. The nobleman could easily afford to pay off any trifling debt.
“Information,” he said firmly.
“That would be my guess,” Biddles offered.
“You said the carriage was coming from Kent?”
“Yes.”
A silence descended as Hawksley debated how best to use his unexpected windfall.
He could lay a trap for Jimmy and force whatever information he might possess out of him. Not a bad plan except for the realization that Doulton sharing his reasons for wanting the woman dead was about as likely as a pig sprouting wings.
No. Jimmy would know nothing.
But the woman . . . ah yes.
She knew something. Something Doulton was willing to kill to keep secret.
“Where is Jimmy to attack?” he abruptly demanded.
“Westerham, just past the King’s Arms.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
Hawksley gave a slow nod, then with a lethal smile he reached out to lay his hand upon Biddles’s shoulder.
“I owe you yet again, old friend.”
Biddles grasped his arm before he could move away, his expression somber.
“What do you intend to do?”
A grim determination hardened his already hard features. “Get to the information before Jimmy Blade can make it disappear.”
Biddles took a moment before he slowly released his arm. “Take care.”
Chapter Two
It was not until she had hired the carriage and was well on her way to London that Miss Clara Dawson discovered she was not at all suited to long journeys.
The swaying carriage made her queasy and the relentless jolting made her head ache. Even worse, her unsettled stomach made it impossible for her to read or work upon her needlework or even count the blasted cows as they passed. She was a prisoner in the cramped confines with nothing to occupy her restless mind.
Who could have known?
Having lived in a small village for all her six-and-twenty years, she had always used her God-given feet to take her about. And the few times she had resorted to accepting a ride by a kindly neighbor, the distance had been short enough to avoid any hint of her weakness.
Besides which, it was not as if she were one of those timid, easily distressed creatures who was overset by every situation that might come her way. While she might barely stand five foot and weigh little more than a feather, she was a sturdy, sensible woman.
Most would say far too sensible. Or even annoyingly sensible, despite the fact she’d had no choice in the matter. When a woman was left on her own at the tender age of seventeen with a mere pittance and no family to speak of, she either learned to confront life squarely or she found herself begging in the streets.
Still, it was perhaps best that she had not realized just how great her discomfort would be, she acknowledged as another pain shot through her head. As much as she wished to ease the curiosity that had plagued her for the past fortnight, she sensed she would have been far less likely to leap into this carriage and head off so willy-nilly if she had known the nasty surprise awaiting her.
At least she had the comfort of knowing they were less than two hours from London, she told herself. And the small sherry she had enjoyed at the posting inn had helped to ease her heaving stomach. She was bound and determined to survive.
It was, after all, what she did best.
Chancing a brief glance out the window, she noted the sun was slanted toward dusk. It would be dark by the time she arrived at the hotel, but at least the weather was cooperating. After a week of endless rain, the sun had struggled through the clouds to chase away the gloom. She would not be forced to make her first appearance in London wet and bedraggled.
Queasy and weary was bad enough.
Leaning against the worn leather squabs, she resisted the urge to close her eyes. The swaying was horrid enough with her eyes open; with her eyes closed it was unbearable. She barely dared to blink.