“Biddles,” Clara readily agreed, obviously relieved to dispense with formality. “Did you say something of the Vatican?”
“Yes. I discovered that the paintings we took from the safe belong to the pope.”
Clara grimaced as she heaved a sigh. “I should have recalled it last evening.”
Biddles tilted back his head to laugh at her self-disgust. “Being in the midst of a burglary is not always the best occasion for coherent thought, my dear.”
“Still . . .”
“You have done astonishingly well, Miss Dawson,” Biddles assured her. “And now the question is how did Lord Doulton end up with the paintings?”
“Surely he could not have stolen them from the Vatican?” Clara demanded. “The place is a fortress.”
Hawksley sucked in a sharp breath as realization hit. “He did not.”
They both turned to stare at him in puzzlement.
“What?” Clara demanded.
“Napoleon stole them from the Vatican,” he said softly.
“Of course.” Biddles slapped his forehead, although Clara continued to frown in puzzlement.
“Napoleon?”
“It is well known that he hauled off wagon loads of priceless objects to take to Paris,” he explained. “These paintings could easily be a part of his booty.”
“But I thought the treasures were returned?”
Hawksley gave a slow shake of his head. Although he possessed little interest in moldy paintings and ancient frescos, he had heard Fredrick condemn their theft often enough. In great detail and tedious length.
“A portion only. There are countless objects still missing.”
Clara accepted his assurance with a nod of her head. “That still does not explain how Lord Doulton managed to acquire them.”
“No, but it gives us a place to begin searching,” Biddles murmured, a sudden smile curving his lips. “I believe I shall call upon a few acquaintances in the War Office. There are always one or two in my debt.”
Hawksley flicked a brow upward. Having known several gentlemen in the War Office, he was well aware that they would as soon have their privates chopped off as to place themselves at the mercy of Biddles.
“Gads, they must have been desperate indeed to have allowed themselves to be in your debt.”
The pointed nose twitched. “Just one of the many pleasures of owning a gambling den.”
Hawksley gave a low chuckle. “You are a dangerous little man, Biddles.”
“I do try. Until later, my friends.” With a flamboyant bow toward Clara, the nobleman turned on his heel and disappeared through the door.
Hawksley sensed when Clara moved to stand close to him. It was in the manner his skin suddenly prickled and his heart picked up speed. Just for a moment he closed his eyes and allowed her presence to soak into him. There was something quite satisfying in simply having her near, he discovered with a jolt of surprise. As if she completed him.
With a shake of his head at his odd fancy, he turned his gaze to discover her regarding him with a quizzical expression.
“Do you believe Biddles will discover anything of worth?”
He smiled wryly. “Trust me, if there is anything to be discovered, Biddles will soon have it ferreted out. No one can keep a secret when he is about.”
There was a brief pause as she searched his countenance with a curious gaze.
“He seems a rather unique choice of companions,” she at last admitted.
A wicked smile curved his lips as he reached out to tug a silver curl. “Surely by now you should know I prefer the unique and the unusual?”
Her eyes darkened, as if touched by his low words, but before Hawksley could take proper advantage of her momentary weakness, she was firmly stepping back.
“We must decide what we shall do next. Perhaps we could find someone to take a look at your brother’s vowels and—”
“Later,” Hawksley firmly interrupted, his glance shifting toward the window. For the first time in a long time he wished to simply enjoy the day. With this woman. “For the moment there is something I desire you to see.”
“What is it?”
“I shall show you.” Hawksley held out his hand. “Will you join me?”
She hesitated just a moment, as if debating the wisdom of giving in to his request. And then with a rather odd smile she placed her fingers into his hand.
“Yes, Hawksley, I will join you.”
With undeniable curiosity Clara allowed herself to be led into the kitchen, where Hawksley gathered a large basket of apples and oranges. Then with a mischievous grin he regained command of her hand and led her up the narrow staircase.
A part of her longed to protest at his secretive manner. She was a woman who disliked the unexpected. Indeed, she preferred a detailed schedule for every moment of her day. Structure, she had discovered, ensured that her life would remain steady and predictable without the tedious problems that seemed to plague those more impulsive souls.
“An ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure” were words she took deeply to heart.
Still, she could not deny a sense of pleasure in watching Hawksley as he urged her to follow him. He was far different from the grim pirate who had stolen her from her carriage. There was a new ease about him and a wicked playfulness that she would never have expected.
Against her will, a faint twinge of hope touched her heart. Was she responsible for the change in him? Was it possible that she truly had the ability to offer him happiness?
Reaching the last narrow flight of stairs that led to the attics, Clara sternly attempted to rein in her fanciful thoughts. She was a pragmatic woman. Wishing for something did not make it so.
Of course, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, she was not utterly infallible. Perhaps she should not be so hasty to dismiss his claim that he needed her in his life.
She might not be the most beautiful, or charming, or wealthy woman in England. But there was surely no other who would be more devoted to ensuring his utter contentment.
“Here we are.”
Rather thankful to have her tangled broodings interrupted, Clara firmly turned her attention to the gentleman who was standing beside the open door to the attic.
“Really, you are being most mysterious, Hawksley,” she informed him with a faint smile. “Whatever are you about?”
“If you will remain patient a few more moments, you will see for yourself.”
Allowing herself to be pulled over the threshold, Clara came to an instinctive halt, her hands reaching to pull up her skirts least they touch the dusty floor.
“Good heavens, what a mess,” she muttered, glancing about the tumble of trunks and boxes that were stacked about the cramped space.
Hawksley chuckled softly as he slung an arm about her shoulders. “Not now, kitten. Later you may return to clean and scrub and arrange to your heart’s content. This way.”
Nearly itching with the need to charge off to gather a pail of soapy water and a rag, Clara instead forced herself to keep pace with the gentleman at her side. He had promised she could return later, she reassured herself. And it was not as if the disorder would disappear before she could get her hands upon it.
Instead she regarded what seemed to be a narrow door across the way.
“What an odd place for a door.”
“The gentleman who built the house was an old sailor,” Hawksley explained as he steered her to the door and pulled it open. “When he was at home he wished to keep a careful watch upon his ship. You are not afraid of heights, are you?”