She was fully prepared for her life of crime.
Shrouded in the darkness of the mews, the carriage came to a silent halt and Hawksley assisted her into the narrow alley. Still without speaking, she discovered herself being hoisted over the high wall. She stifled a squeak as she was swung over the top to land awkwardly on the other side.
She was quick, however, to have herself upright and dusted off before Hawksley landed softly beside her. He would use any excuse, no matter how trifling, to force her to remain in the carriage.
As if to prove her point, he regarded her with a searching gaze before reluctantly pulling her toward the looming stone structure.
“Here we are,” he whispered.
Clara’s eyes widened as she counted the arched windows that glinted in the moonlight. She did not doubt her cottage could fit in the kitchens alone.
“Good heavens. It is quite . . . lavish, is it not?”
Hawksley gave an inelegant snort. “Lord Doulton possesses a taste, or many would say a lack of taste, for the large and gaudy. The question is how he has managed to acquire the fortune to pander to his expensive habits.”
Clara nodded. To purchase such a home and staff would require an enormous fortune.
“Hopefully we shall soon discover.”
“Clara.”
His hand landed upon her arm, and Clara heaved a sigh. “Yes, Hawksley, I know. I am to remain at your side at all times, keep my mouth shut, and leap through the nearest window at the first hint of danger.”
The blue eyes flashed in the darkness, his other hand reaching up to gently cup her face. “If something were to happen to you . . .”
A tiny thrill of pleasure shot down her spine. It had been far too long since he had touched her, she inanely realized. She had missed the feel of his warmth.
“It will not. I am not a courageous sort. If something occurs, I assure you that I will scamper away in the most cowardly fashion.”
His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “I would feel much better if I truly believed that.” There was a faint whistle in the distance and Hawksley sucked in a deep breath. “That will be Santos. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then let us be done with this,” he muttered, grasping her fingers in a tight grip as he led her toward the back of the house. They had reached a pair of French doors when a tall form suddenly detached from the shadows and Santos joined them. Dressed in black, as were Clara and Hawksley, he was tall and beautiful, and when he flashed her a seductive smile she could not help but smile back. He was not Hawksley, but there was not a woman alive who would not go a bit weak in the knees when near the man. A frown abruptly marred Hawksley’s brow, and the glance he shot toward his friend seemed unnecessarily fierce. “You have searched the house?”
Santos chuckled with a strange hint of satisfaction.
“Yes. The staff have all retired to the servant quarters except for a footman and Lord Doulton’s valet.”
“You will keep watch upon them?”
“Of course. Biddles is already within the library awaiting you.” Stepping forward, he grasped Clara’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “Be careful, meu anjo.”
He disappeared through the French doors as Hawksley muttered beneath his breath. They waited a long moment before following him within, both moving with a slow caution that had Clara’s nerves on edge. She discovered it was one thing to logically plot stealing into a house, and quite another to actually do the deed.
Thankfully, she managed to make it to the library without stumbling, sneezing, fainting, or even breaking her neck. Slipping into the vast room, they shut the door behind them and there was a rustle of movement. In moments a small gentleman with a pointed nose and shrewd eyes had lit a candle.
“So glad you could make it, Hawk,” the gentleman drawled, walking forward to regard Clara with a disturbingly perceptive gaze. “Ah, and the intriguing Miss Dawson. My very great pleasure.” Lifting the candle, he studied her flushed countenance. “Egads. Santos did not exaggerate.”
Hawksley gave a low growl at her side. “Not now, Biddles. Have you discovered anything of interest?”
Lord Bidwell turned that unnerving gaze upon Hawksley for a long moment before waving his hand about the room.
“The usual collection of the vulgar. Really, it is astonishing how many who seek to claim the position of gentlemen retain the soul of the bourgeoisie.” They all took a moment to grimace. Although there were a handful of obligatory books upon shelves, it was the artwork that held and captured the attention. Paintings, sculptures, and figurines were hung, crammed, and stuffed into every available space. All of them of dubious quality, and all of them of naked women. “There is one thing of interest, however.”
“What is it?” Hawksley demanded.
Leading them to a distant alcove, Lord Bidwell halted before a life-sized statue of a woman with a bosom that made Clara wonder how it could possibly remain upright.
“If I do not miss my guess, I believe it to be a safe,” Biddles murmured.
Hawksley gave a raise of his brows. “Vulgar, indeed.”
The thin gentleman was busily running his fingers over the statue, giving a faint sniff as he reached the tip of one breast.
“How depressingly predictable,” he drawled, pressing a hidden lever so that the front torso swung open.
Taking the candle from his friend, Hawksley leaned forward to peer into the murky darkness that ran down both legs.
“There is something within. Ah.”
He pulled out a neatly folded paper, and Clara reached out to pluck it from his grasp. “Good heavens, it is my letter.”
“Indeed.” Hawksley narrowed his gaze before returning his attention to the safe. “There is something else.”
“More letters?” Biddles demanded.
“No.” He pulled out what appeared to be several squares of canvas tidily rolled together. “What the devil?”
Clara gave a sudden gasp. Her father had taught her well.
“Hawksley, be careful,” she warned.
He regarded her in surprise. “Do you know what it is?”
“Paintings.” Taking the bundle from him, she moved to a nearby table where she smoothed the canvases flat with exquisite care. “Dear heavens, not just paintings. Titian, Valentino Baroccio . . . and what I suspect might be a Raphael.” Something niggled in the back of Clara’s mind, but at the moment she was too stunned at actually having her hands upon such masterpieces to give it much note. “These are priceless.”
The two gentlemen crowded behind her, peering over her shoulder.
“She is quite right, Hawk,” Biddles said. “These are masterpieces. They cannot be left here and allowed to disappear.”
“Damn.” Hawksley blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was not yet prepared to tip my hand, but it appears we shall have no choice.”
Clara breathed a sigh of relief as she carefully rolled the canvases and handed them to Lord Bidwell. As an art scholar, her father had firmly believed that such works should be offered for all the world to enjoy, from kings to the lowliest servant. He would have thought it no less than sacrilege to leave the paintings in the hands of a scoundrel.
Taking the paintings with obvious reverence, the thin gentleman glanced toward Hawksley. “Shall we continue with our search?”
Hawksley moved to shut the now-empty safe. “Not this eve. I prefer not to press our luck.”