She sensed his tension, as if he longed to snatch the papers from her and toss them into the nearest fire. Then, with an obvious effort, he plucked the poem from her fingers and forced himself to study the peculiar lines.
“Perhaps it does,” he grudgingly conceded, his brow furrowing in concentration. Clara remained silent, covertly allowing her gaze to wander over the chiseled profile. A faint shiver raced through her as she recalled the feel of his slender fingers smoothing over her skin, and the tender demand of his lips . . . “Damn.”
Jerked out of her pleasant daydreams, Clara met the startled blue gaze.
“Hawksley?”
“By God, I think you were right when you suggested that my brother went to Mr. Chesterfield with his vowels. I also think that Mr. Chesterfield must have recognized the scraps of paper as something important.”
Unaccountably pleased, but still confused, she glanced toward the paper clenched in his fingers. “Why do you say that?”
“‘Risk and harm,’” he quoted the poem. “Mr. Chesterfield was clearly a gentleman of strained means. One who suddenly possessed a desire to wed the woman who had caught his fancy. No doubt he would be eager to grasp at any opportunity to improve his dubious resources.”
She stiffened. Really, for such an intelligent, handsome, sophisticated gentleman, he could be remarkably foolish, not to mention stubborn.
“You cannot think that Mr. Chesterfield would harm your brother?”
“No, but I do believe that he might attempt to blackmail Lord Doulton,” he said slowly. “What easier means of acquiring a tidy fortune?”
Clara opened her mouth to argue. Mr. Chesterfield would never do anything so nefarious. He was a scholar and a gentleman, was he not? Then she abruptly paused.
She had already acknowledged that she knew precious little of Mr. Chesterfield. Certainly she could not attest to his character from a handful of letters.
And logic did indeed suggest that he had involved himself in something beyond his control.
“Goodness,” she breathed.
He regarded her with a somber expression. “It would explain how Lord Doulton learned of Fredrick’s suspicions.”
“And it might very well account for Mr. Chesterfield’s disappearance.”
“Yes. Either he has been wise enough to hide his presence until receiving the funds he demanded, or else . . .”
“Lord Doulton has already ended his threat,” she completed his thought in tight tones.
“Rather costly riches from heaven.”
She blinked at his words. “What did you say?”
He shrugged. “I was merely quoting from the poem.”
“Heaven above,” she muttered, that niggling she had experienced the night before returning with a vengeance.
“Hardly original; still, he no doubt considered the thought of sudden wealth as a gift from God.”
“There is something . . .” Barely aware of moving, Clara began to pace about the room, absently straightening the books upon the shelves and arranging the handful of snuffboxes into a precise line.
Hawksley gently cleared his throat. “Clara?”
“There is a pattern.” She continued her pacing, her skirts twitching in agitation. “One strand leading to another.”
“Are we discussing Mr. Chesterfield or weaving?” he demanded in wry amusement.
“Heaven.”
“Heaven?”
Consumed with her broodings, Clara circled the room, not even noting when her very large companion was forced to leap out of the way or be run over.
“More precisely, religion. The papal petition, Mr. Chesterfield, the poem, the paintings . . .” She caught her breath as she at last realized the source of that niggling. “Of course. The paintings.”
Abruptly stepping before her, Hawksley grasped her shoulders in a firm grip, his expression bemused.
“Please hold still, kitten. You are making me dizzy. What is this about the paintings?”
“Last eve when I saw the paintings, I sensed there was something I should recall about them, but I could not put my finger upon it.”
“And now?”
She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “And now I wonder how I could be so stupid. My father would have been very disappointed in me.”
His gaze narrowed as his fingers tightened upon her shoulders. “No, kitten, that I refuse to believe. Your father could never have been anything but extraordinarily proud of you.”
A warmth flared through her as her lips curved in a small smile. Gads, but he always seemed to know exactly what to say.
“Thank you.”
“Now, what is it about the paintings? You said they were priceless?”
“Priceless, and many would claim, the property of God.”
“What?”
“The Vatican.”
Feeling the tender bewilderment that was becoming all too familiar when in the presence of Clara, Hawksley watched as she resumed her pacing.
He wanted to demand that she explain her cryptic comments. Or at least give him some indication of what the devil was going through her mind. But he was becoming wise enough not to intrude when she was in the midst of her deep thoughts.
He might as well bang his head against the nearest wall.
A rather ironic situation for a man who had always taken for granted his irresistible appeal to women.
There was a slight rustle at his side and he jerked about to discover that Biddles had slipped silently into the room and was currently watching Clara with a faint smile.
“Really, Hawk, if the poor lady is in need of a morning stroll, the least you could do is take her to the park,” the little rat drawled, smoothing his hand over the buttercup coat that was jarringly paired with a scarlet waistcoat.
Hawksley smiled as he leaned his shoulders against the paneled wall.
“And risk having her trample the helpless natives?” He gave a shake of his head. “Take my advice, old friend, protect your toes and any vital organ when she nears. She can be an unstoppable force when she is in the throes of pondering.”
“And what, may I inquire, is she pondering?”
Hawksley shrugged. “Something of paintings and the Vatican.”
Much to his surprise, his companion gave a choked cough of shock.
“How did she . . . ? Egads.”
Hawksley narrowed his gaze. Dammit all, enough was enough. Was he the only one in England who had not yet managed to deduce what the hell was going on?
“What is it?”
“I made a few discreet inquiries this morning concerning the paintings we discovered.”
Hawksley froze. The last thing he desired was Lord Doulton suspecting that Biddles was involved in the hunt for his brother’s murderer.
“How discreet?”
Biddles held up a hand. “Do not fret, I merely mentioned in passing that a wealthy patron of Hellion’s had a desire to collect some of the more unattainable masterpieces, especially Titian’s Pope Alexander. A collector who did not particularly care to await the usual auctions.”
“And?”
Biddles smiled grimly. “And I was assured by one and all that my friend was wasting his time. The painting is in the hands of God.”
Hawksley froze, his gaze turning toward the silver-haired angel who had just realized they were no longer alone.
“The Vatican,” he muttered.
“Precisely.”
Reaching their side, Clara gave an awkward curtsy. “Lord Bidwell.”
“Please, Biddles.” The slender man gave a delicate shiver. “Gads, Lord Bidwell reminds me that I am supposed to be a proper gentleman.”