As a lover he was passionate, tender, and surprisingly playful. She could not recall when she had laughed so much as she had lying in his arms.
But while she cherished the moments she spent with Hawksley, she could not deny that there was a growing restlessness in the back of her mind.
She could never be fully at ease when there was a puzzle to be solved.
Certainly not with a puzzle as important as discovering the identity of Fredrick’s murderer.
Unaware of the lazy blue gaze that kept close track of her growing distraction, Clara was startled when Hawksley abruptly broke the silence.
“Is there something wrong with your trout?”
With an effort she forced her thoughts back to the small dining room, and more importantly back to the handsome gentleman sprawled in the seat opposite her.
A faint amusement raced through her as her gaze lingered over the chiseled features and broad form. With his raven hair pulled to his nape and his earring glinting in the candlelight, he looked deliciously wicked.
Goodness, what woman in her right mind could have taken her mind off him for a moment? Especially a woman who could never have dreamed in her wildest fantasies she could attract his attentions?
It was little wonder she had been left firmly upon the shelf.
“Oh no, it is perfect,” she protested. “Mrs. Black has proven to be very skilled in the kitchen.”
A raven brow flicked upward. “There must be some reason you are not eating.”
She grimaced, well aware she could hide nothing from his piercing gaze.
“I was thinking of Lord Doulton.”
“Yes, well, that is enough to make anyone lose their appetite,” he growled, his features tightening at the mere mention of the man’s name. “Were you thinking anything in particular?”
She blew out a frustrated sigh. “I was simply attempting to straighten things out in my mind.”
“Were you successful?”
“Not particularly,” she confessed. She hated the feeling that she had overlooked something important. Something that might very well help Hawksley. “What I need is paper and a pen.”
There was a short pause as he regarded her in a searching manner. Then with an elegant motion he was on his feet and pulling out her chair for her.
“Very well, we can retire to the library.” In silence they left the room and moved down the short hall to the book-lined room. Clara waited while Hawksley lit the candles upon his desk and pulled out a piece of parchment and a pen. “Here you are.”
Taking a seat at the desk, she pulled the writing implements toward her and gathered her thoughts.
A lesser woman might very well have been distracted by the large pirate who leaned over the back of the chair with his hand flat upon the desk. Not only did his close presence send a rash of prickled awareness over her skin, but his scent cloaked her with potent force.
Even worse, the desire to pull his head down and kiss those talented lips suddenly seemed like a much better notion than hashing through Lord Doulton’s nefarious dealings.
Thankfully, Clara was well aware that she would have no peace until she had sorted through the unease plaguing her, and she managed to resist tossing herself at Hawksley like some common tart.
“Let us begin at the beginning,” she muttered, scratching the number one upon the paper.
“Which beginning?” he demanded, his breath tickling her ear.
“The beginning of what we know of Lord Doulton. Now, according to your brother’s journal, he played cards with the gentleman and received the vowels that you found hidden.”
“Yes.”
She wrote card game on the paper. “We assume that he noticed the writing on the back of the vowels and became curious.”
“Which led him to Mr. Chesterfield.”
“Precisely.” She wrote vowels followed by Mr. Chesterfield. “From there we think that Mr. Chesterfield approached Lord Doulton and demanded some sort of payment for keeping his silence.”
She could feel Hawksley stiffen behind her. If he were a dog, his hair would be bristled and his teeth bared.
“And ensured Fredrick’s death,” he growled.
Neatly scratching the number four on the paper, Clara paused. This was the source of her unease, she abruptly realized. Number four.
“It is missing,” she muttered.
“What is missing?” he demanded in confusion.
“Number four.”
“Number . . . ?” Hawksley shifted to lean against the desk, his arms folded over his broad chest. “I presume you are now speaking in the obscure ‘Clara tongue’ only you understand. You will have to translate for me, I fear.”
She wrinkled her nose at his teasing. “Number four should be the manner that Mr. Chesterfield blackmailed Lord Doulton. But how did Mr. Chesterfield know that Lord Doulton was involved in anything nefarious?”
A frown tugged at his brows. “The vowels . . .”
“Revealed a petition to the pope,” she said, warming to her subject. “On its own it is meaningless. There are no doubt thousands of such petitions. It might have been peculiar, but it would not have revealed that Lord Doulton possessed stolen artwork from the Vatican. There is still something we are missing.”
He gave a slow nod of his head, easily following her logic. “Perhaps you are right. Still, it is impossible to know unless we find the missing Mr. Chesterfield.”
“May I see your brother’s journal?” she abruptly demanded.
“Of course.” Reaching beneath his jacket, he pulled out the leather book and vowels that he still kept close to his heart. A gesture that revealed just how deeply he still mourned his brother’s death.
Giving his fingers a tender squeeze, she took the journal and flipped through the pages.
Arriving at the date of the infamous card game, she studied the tidy handwriting. Speak to me, Fredrick, she silently willed, tell me your secrets.
Coming to the bottom of the page, she pointed toward the meticulous numbers at the corner.
“What are these?”
Hawksley leaned forward. “It is the tally of what he won during the evening. Fredrick was always careful to keep careful account of such matters.”
Clara carefully smoothed out the vowels on the desk. “But the vowels do not equal this number.”
Hawksley shrugged. “That means very little. No doubt some of his winnings were from other gentlemen who possessed the funds to pay him that evening. Not all gamblers depend upon vowels.”
He had a point, of course. Still, Clara felt a tiny flare of excitement.
“Or there might have been other vowels.”
Hawksley appeared more confused than excited. “If there had been other vowels, they would have been with these.”
“Not if Mr. Chesterfield kept them to examine more closely.”
“Why would he keep only a portion of the vowels?”
A reasonable question, she had to concede. Closing her eyes, she attempted to imagine what had occurred. She could see Fredrick bent over the vowels, piecing them together as he realized there was something written on the back. As a scholar he would have been curious and of course determined to unravel the mystery. He must have managed to decipher that it was of a religious nature for his thoughts to turn to Mr. Chesterfield, a religious historian.
And then what?
The brain that she took such pride in seemed to flounder.
Why would he have taken only half the vowels to Mr. Chesterfield? It was hardly the swiftest means to uncovering the truth of the document. And as a scholar . . .