A scholar.
Of course. He was a scholar just like her father.
What would he have done in such a situation?
Briefly she recalled the quiet, studious man who always had a smile for his only daughter. A sweet-tempered man with a gentle soul.
But one who could become as rabid and secretive as any scholar when it came to his research.
“If Fredrick believed the petition to be of historic value, he would have been careful with what he was willing to share. With anyone,” she said slowly, lifting her head to meet his watchful gaze. “True scholars are notoriously fearful of having others steal their research and claim it as their own.”
He stilled at her words. “Are you implying that the petition itself is somehow valuable?”
Clara grimaced. It all made sense, but she was well aware that it was little more than a leap of faith. The logic involved would fit in a thimble.
“It is only a theory,” she warned. “And a rather far-fetched one at that.”
He did not seem to hear her words of caution as he lifted himself from the desk to pace across the worn carpet.
“Why would Lord Doulton use a valuable document as scrap paper?”
“Perhaps he did not realize the value. If it was stuffed among the paintings, it might easily have been dismissed and tossed aside.”
“Until Chesterfield approached him and blackmailed him for the return of the petition,” he said slowly.
“Lord Doulton would realize that he was in more danger than simply being blackmailed for a forgotten piece of parchment. He had brought unwanted attention upon himself, and worse, there was now a connection to him and the Vatican.”
He moved to grip the mantle above the fireplace, his knuckles turning white with strain.
“And so he took the necessary steps to rid himself of those who might stir up unwanted questions. Including my brother.”
Leaving the desk, Clara moved to lay a hand upon his tense arm. Too often she allowed herself to forget just how difficult this must be for Hawksley.
“We will find the evidence we need, Hawksley,” she promised. “Lord Doulton will pay for what he has done.”
The blue eyes flashed with frustrated pain. “That is all I have thought of for months. All I wanted . . .”
She shifted to lay her hands upon his chest, her expression troubled. “What is it?”
His eyes briefly closed. “I suppose I am at last realizing that even should Doulton be punished, it will not bring my brother back to me. He will still be dead and I . . . I will be completely alone.”
Her heart twisted. He sounded so lost. So terribly frightened of the future. It was a feeling she knew all too well.
And one she could not bear the thought of this wonderful man enduring.
Not giving herself time to consider the wisdom of her words, she laid her head upon his chest and wrapped her arms about him.
“No, Hawksley, not alone,” she whispered. “I will be with you.”
She felt him stiffen beneath her. “Clara, what are you saying?”
Tilting back her head, she was startled to discover his expression guarded, as if he feared she was playing some horrid jest upon him.
“I think you know perfectly well what I am saying,” she whispered, a blush staining her cheeks.
His fingers lifted to brush over her lips, his eyes glowing with a hectic glitter.
“Since I quite often am at a loss when you speak, kitten, I think it best if you tell me in simple words so that my poor brain can comprehend what you mean.”
Regarding the fiercely handsome countenance, Clara nearly faltered. How she possibly hope to please such a man? He could have any woman he desired. All of them more beautiful, more charming, and more wealthy than herself.
But none of them capable of loving him with more devotion, her heart whispered.
She swallowed heavily, and for the first time in her six-and-twenty years, tossed caution to the wind. She would take a chance.
A chance that would either bring her happiness beyond her wildest imaginings or break her heart utterly.
“I will be your wife, Hawksley,” she said simply.
There was a brief, terrifying pause when Clara was suddenly certain that he must be regretting his impulsive proposal. Then, before she could guess his intention, she discovered herself lifted off the floor as Hawksley planted a burst of heated kisses over her countenance.
“You will not be sorry, kitten,” he muttered, his lips brushing her mouth. “I promise I will make you happy.”
Squeezed by his tight grip to the point she could barely breathe, Clara slowly smiled.
Her father had promised that someday she would meet a man who could appreciate her just as she was. A man who would see beyond her annoying eccentricities and peculiar habits.
Who the devil would have suspected he would be a dangerous, wicked pirate?
Chapter Fifteen
Hawksley awoke to a loud clatter of pails and pouring water as his bath was being prepared. Instinctively he reached out for Clara, only to heave a sigh as he recalled her slipping from his arms to return to her own bed before dawn.
Damn, but he needed to get her before a vicar. The sooner the better. He did not like awakening alone. Not when he might begin the day with an angel in his arms.
His dark thoughts were interrupted by another loud clatter, followed by a string of hair-raising curses.
Dillon, of course, he acknowledged even before he opened his reluctant eyes to regard the grizzled servant. And in an even fouler mood than usual, if his grim expression and rigid movements were anything to go by.
“Good God, Dillon, there have been French invasions less deafening than you pouring a simple bath,” he groaned as he pushed himself upright and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I presume you are in some sort of a twit?”
“A twit?” Dillon allowed an empty pail to clank loudly onto the floor. “Should have strangled you in your sleep when I had the opportunity.”
Hawksley lifted his brows at the muttered threat. “I do hope that I have done something to annoy you, you cantankerous old goat. I should hate to think I have harbored you beneath my roof for all these years while you plotted my demise.”
The gnarled servant kicked a stray pail, wincing as he obviously hurt his toe. “If I’d been plotting you’d already be cold in the ground.”
“Why do you not just tell me why you are so perturbed before you do injury to yourself?” Hawksley retorted.
“Very well.” His chest swelling with indignation, Dillon turned to stab Hawksley with a withering glare. “I thought you to be a gentleman.”
Hawksley lifted his brows even higher. “Hellfire, that is a stretch even for you, Dillon. Why the blazes would you ever presume a poverty-stricken rake with nothing more than a talent for gambling could claim the title of gentleman? I certainly have never done so.”
“Even a hardened rake should recognize a lady when he encounters one,” Dillon muttered.
Ah. So that was it. Hawksley heaved a deep sigh. He should have known he could hide nothing from his loyal servant. The man possessed an uncanny ability to know precisely what was upon his employer’s mind. Hawksley had often depended upon that talent over the years.
Attempting to hide his amusement, Hawksley settled himself more comfortably upon the pillows. There was no reason he could not have a bit of fun. Dillon had often enough played some prank or another upon him.
“May I hazard a wild guess and say that you are referring to Miss Dawson?” he drawled.
The battered features hardened. “I am not blind. I have seen how you look upon her.”