He had pretended to be her friend when all along he was allowing her to be played a fool by Hawksley.
“Where are you going?”
Her chin jutted to a stubborn angle. “I am going home, where I belong.”
“But it is far too dangerous for you to return,” he insisted.
“No longer. Hawksley will ensure that Lord Doulton is dealt with this evening. I no longer have a reason to remain.”
Dillon chewed his lip at her stiff words, easily sensing the strain beneath her calm fa?ade.
“It is far too late to be catching the stage, miss. At least wait until morning.”
She stiffened at the mere thought. Remain here? Where she would be forced to confront Hawksley and listen to his empty assurances he had never intended to rip her heart out?
Oh no. That would never do.
“I do not care if I am forced to walk, Dillon,” she said fiercely. “I will not stay another moment beneath this roof.”
A hint of desperation settled about Dillon as he twisted his hands together.
“If you will just wait a moment, I will call for the carriage . . .”
“No.” Stepping forward, Clara gave the man a brief hug. She could not be angry with him. This entire fiasco could be laid entirely at the feet of Hawksley. “I will always remember your kindness to me, Dillon. Good-bye.”
Feeling tears beginning to prick in the back of her eyes, Clara hastily turned and hurried for the door before she managed to become a babbling idiot.
At least she could leave with a bit of dignity.
Dignity that lasted until she reached the darkened corner of the street.
Coming to a halt, she glanced about the shadowed buildings that lined the street.
Well . . . now what, she brooded.
She did not doubt that Dillon had been correct when he insisted there would be no stages to be had at such a late hour. And she had no friends or acquaintances to call upon.
Obviously she would have to seek out the nearest hotel.
It was what she had intended to do before ever arriving in London.
Now, if she just knew where the devil one might be found.
Squaring her shoulders, she set off at a brisk pace, keeping her eyes upon the narrow street for a passing hackney.
She would survive this, she told herself grimly. She always survived.
With her head turned, Clara had no warning of the large form that suddenly stepped from behind a large hedge. Nothing but an unexpected whiff of peppermint and cloves.
On the point of turning, she did not even manage a scream when a blinding pain flared through the back of her head. Instead she slid silently to the damp ground, a wave of darkness smothering the panic that stabbed at her heart.
Hawksley was seated within the sacred inner offices of the War Office when a servant discreetly pressed a note into his hand.
Just for a moment he debated slipping it into his pocket unread. After all, what could be more important than the grim-faced gentlemen seated around the oval table?
Biddles had made good on his promise to assemble the sort of powerful aristocrats, military commanders, and even royal officials they would need to have Lord Doulton facing the noose. More importantly, they had listened to the rather far-fetched accusations without yet having them tossed into Bedlam.
Now was not the time to be distracted.
But even as his fingers closed about the folded paper, an odd premonition seemed to inch down his spine.
It was nothing more than a vague sense that all was not right. But it was enough to have him smoothing out the folds of the paper to read the hastily scrawled message.
Clara is in great danger. You must return at once.
His blood ran cold as he easily recognized Dillon’s hand, and without thought he reached out to grasp Biddles’s arm in a biting grip.
With a startled blink, the thin-faced gentleman turned to regard him with concern.
“What is it?”
It took a moment to force his stiff lips to work. For all his daring deeds and habit of flaunting death, he had never known true terror before this moment.
“Clara,” he managed to rasp.
There was no hesitation as Biddles slipped a small pistol from his pocket and placed it in Hawksley’s hand. “I will finish this business and collect Santos.”
The crisp authority in his friend’s tone was as effective as a slap to the face. With a sense of relief, Hawksley battled down the smothering panic so that he could once again think clearly. He would be no good to Clara if he was a raving lunatic.
“Thank you.”
With a silent grace Hawksley slipped from the room; then picking up his pace to a full-out run, he burst out of the building, leaping into Biddles’s waiting carriage with a curt command to return him to the Hawk’s Nest.
It was a testament to Biddles’s unconventional training that the driver did not hesitate for a moment as he set the horses into a brisk pace that did not waver until they reached the cramped townhouse.
Hawksley did not wait for the carriage to pull to a halt before he was leaping onto the pavement and charging up the path. Throwing open the door, he discovered Dillon awaiting his arrival with a pale countenance and his hair standing on end.
A piercing pain shot through him as he reached out to grasp the man by his shoulders.
Hellfire, it had to be bad. He had seen the stoic man face bullets without batting an eye.
“Dillon . . . what is it? Where is Clara?”
Anguish darkened the older man’s eyes. “She is gone.”
“Gone?” Hawksley gave a shake of his head. The man was babbling. Clara could not possibly be gone. She had promised. “What do you mean gone?”
The grizzled countenance abruptly hardened as the servant stabbed him with a glare that could have killed at a hundred paces.
“She packed her bags and left near an hour ago. I tried to stop her but she was too angry to listen to me.” Dillon lifted a fist to shake it in his direction. “I warned you, Hawk. I told you to tell her the truth.”
Very well, there could no longer be any doubt. His faithful servant had most certainly tumbled into lunacy.
“What the bloody hell are you babbling about? Why would Clara leave?”
“No doubt because she at last had the pleasure of meeting your offensive toad of a father.”
Of all the dangers Clara might face, this was one he had not envisioned. How could he? The Earl of Chadwick had never bothered to call upon him before.
Now a sense of sick dread clutched at his stomach.
“Father . . . here?”
“Yes.”
Hawksley muttered a string of vile curses beneath his breath. He did not doubt for a moment that his father had managed to be gloriously rude to poor Clara. He had always possessed a remarkable talent to offend and insult others.
And worse, he obviously must have revealed Hawksley’s identity.
Why else would she have packed her bags and left?
However ghastly his father might be, Clara would stand up to him without fear. That much he knew for certain.
Clenching his jaw until he thought that his teeth might shatter, Hawksley reached out to grasp the front of Dillon’s coat.
“Do not give me that look, Dillon. Just tell me what has happened to Clara.”
Clearly sensing this was no time to test Hawksley’s temper the servant grimaced.
“I was concerned when she left so I sent Billy and John to follow her.”
“And?”
“And a bloke snuck up behind her on the street and forced her into a carriage.”
“What do you mean forced?” he rasped.
“He knocked her over the head and bundled her into the carriage before Billy or John could reach her.”