Dusting his hands with a lace handkerchief, Biddles offered him a sly smile.
“The danger, of course, is half the enjoyment. Windows are always so much more interesting than doors.”
Crossing the room, Hawksley replaced his pistol in the drawer and leaned negligently against the corner of the desk.
“It must make it rather interesting when you escort your wife about town,” he drawled.
“Oh, Anna is always up for a bit of sport.”
Hawksley gave a bark of laughter. He did not doubt for a moment that the spirited Anna would readily crawl through a window if she chose.
“She would have to be up for a bit of sport, wed to you.”
“True enough.” Tossing aside the handkerchief, Biddles stabbed him with a knowing glance. “Let us hope Miss Dawson possesses an equal taste for dashing gentlemen.”
Hawksley narrowed his gaze. “I beg your pardon?”
The pointed nose twitched. “You have asked her to wed you, have you not?”
“How the devil . . .”
Biddles tilted back his head to laugh with rich enjoyment.
“Really, Hawk, I am not blind. There are only two reasons for a gentleman to possess that look of vacant astonishment. Either you have just been run over by a carriage or you are in love.”
“Love? Do not be . . .” The growling words trailed away as Hawksley encountered his friend’s shrewd expression.
Blast. Who was he fooling? Of course he was in love.
Why else had he kept Clara with him even when he could easily have handed her over to the care of Santos? Why else had he used his last grout to hire servants to keep her happy? Why else had he been near sick with tension until she had at last agreed to become his wife?
At least his madness had a name.
Watching Hawksley grapple with the stunning truth, Biddles at last arched a brow.
“Well?”
“Bloody hell.”
Biddles moved forward to clap him on the shoulder, a grin splitting his face.
“I fear that it happens to the best of us. And if it is any consolation, you have chosen well.”
Hawksley’s slowly smiled. “Yes, I have.”
Biddles gave his shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. “Now, let us see if we can rid London of Lord Doulton so that you may wed in peace.”
Hawksley gave a lift of his brows, knowing that smug tone all too well.
“Ah, you managed to speak with someone within the War Office.”
Biddles produced a painted fan to waft it gently beneath his nose. “I did. And I happened to pick up a few very interesting details.”
“What details?”
The pale eyes glittered. “Did you know that Lord Doulton had a young cousin who was an ensign in the ninety-second Foot?”
“No.”
“A tragic story.” Biddles assumed a sorrowful expression. “The poor boy served in both Spain and then France before he was lost during an ambush and his body never recovered.”
France? Hawksley narrowed his gaze. He was beginning to suspect where Biddles was leading him.
“Tragic, indeed.”
“And oddly enough, he was upon a secret mission when he and two other soldiers were attacked by bandits.”
“What sort of secret mission?”
Biddles snapped his fan shut. “Guarding a very large wagon filled with priceless artwork bound from Paris to the Vatican.”
Hawksley nearly choked. He had hoped for some sort of connection between Lord Doulton and the Vatican. He could not have ever have dreamed that it would be so tangible.
“Damnation,” he breathed. “Do the officials know what happened?”
“The actual events seem to be suspiciously obscure. The soldiers set out from Paris, but they had only traveled a few days when it appears that they were attacked and the wagon went missing. Unfortunately, two of the soldiers were shot in the back of the head while they slept, and the third had completely disappeared after what appeared to be a terrible struggle.”
Hawksley shuddered. By any standard it had been a brutal attack. Only the most heartless sort of bastard would shoot a man while he slept.
“Appeared to be a struggle?”
“The authorities have never been entirely satisfied with the notion that bandits could outwit three trained soldiers and make off with the bounty, not to mention the fact that none of the artwork has made an appearance upon the European auction blocks.” Biddles’s thin features abruptly hardened, putting paid to his usual air of frivolous indolence. Anyone who dismissed Lord Bidwell as a silly buffoon made a dangerous, and at times deadly, mistake. “Still, with no evidence to the contrary, they could hardly brand a soldier as a traitor and a thief. Not without considerable proof.”
Hawksley slowly smiled. His friend had done well. Very well.
“We now possess a legitimate connection between Lord Doulton and the stolen artwork.”
“Indeed,” Biddles agreed without hesitation. “For a nefarious man it would have been a simple matter to await his turn at guard duty during the night and shoot his companions in the back of the head. Afterward he could have created the appearance of a struggle and taken off with the wagon.”
Hawksley paced across the room, refusing to allow himself to be distracted by his instinctive hatred for a man capable of such cold-blooded murder. Instead he forced himself to consider what must have occurred once the treasure had been so brutally taken from the soldiers.
“From there he must have smuggled the goods to England.”
Biddles gave a nod. “According to Santos, it would not have been a difficult task.”
Hawksley abruptly halted his pacing, a frown marring his brow. “So what happened to the treacherous young cousin?”
Biddles gave a lift of his hands. “Either he is in hiding or . . .”
“Or he is yet another victim of Doulton’s greed,” Hawksley finished in hard tones.
“Yes.”
Hawksley clenched his hands at his side. “It is time for the bastard to pay.”
Biddles moved to stand before him, his expression uncommonly somber.
“I agree, but we must recall that for all his sins Lord Doulton is a peer of the realm,” he pointed out. “We cannot have him simply hauled off by the magistrate.”
Hawksley smiled without humor. He now had all the proof he needed. Lord Doulton was responsible for Fredrick’s murder. And for that he would pay.
“Oh, I have no intention of bothering the magistrate with such tedious rubbish. A lead ball through the heart is much more efficient.”
The pale eyes narrowed at Hawksley’s grim tone. “And might very well have you transported. I do not believe that Miss Dawson would care overmuch for the climate in the colonies.”
Hawksley regarded his companion in astonishment. There was a time when Biddles would not have hesitated to deal out justice. With his own hands, if necessary.
“You cannot be suggesting that Lord Doulton not be punished for his sins?” he gritted.
“Of course not.” There was a steely determination in the pale eyes. “But this is no longer a simple matter of murder or even theft. Lord Doulton has entangled himself in war crimes for which he might very well be hung for treason. I suggest we turn the matter over to the War Office.”
Hawksley gave a growl of frustration. He had dreamed too many nights of having his hands around Doulton’s throat to abandon his bloodthirsty desire with ease.
“You believe they can see him hang?”
“If nothing else, they can certainly ensure that he is driven from England and never allowed to return,” Biddles temporized.