Her very life might depend upon it.
Gritting her teeth, she forced her heavy lids to lift.
At first she could see very little. An oppressive darkness filled the room, broken only by the weak glow of a flickering candle.
Above her she could make out a wooden beam ceiling that was held up by thick stone walls. Stone walls that were damp and coated with a thin layer of mold. It was enough to make her shudder in horror.
Her gaze darted about, but she could discover no windows and only a narrow door across the room.
Blast. She had been hauled off to a cellar, she concluded with a trickle of fear. That was surely a bad thing?
No one carried a woman to a cellar without a ghastly purpose.
Ignoring her pain, Clara struggled to sit up. She would not have her throat slit while she lay helplessly on the bed. A courageous notion; unfortunately, she had barely pressed herself upright when the room began to swirl and she clapped a hand to her mouth as she feared she might sick up.
“Argh . . .” she groaned.
“Easy, my love,” an unexpected voice murmured from behind even as a wet cloth was pressed to her neck.
Terrified to realize she was not alone, Clara sharply pulled away and turned to regard the man hovering beside the bed.
He did not look like a dangerous ruffian, she had to admit.
Indeed, he reminded her of nothing more sinister than a timid shopkeeper, or even a vicar.
In puzzlement she allowed her gaze to travel over the narrow countenance framed by rapidly thinning brown hair and eyes that seemed pale and watery in the dim light. Even his body was small and stooped, as if he spent more time bent over a book than brawling in pubs.
Still, when he held out a hand, she was swift to shrink from the approaching fingers.
“No . . . Do not touch me.”
He slowly straightened, blinking at her in mild surprise. “I assure you I have no intention of causing you harm.”
“Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe after you accosted me upon the street,” she charged.
“Oh no, you are mistaken.” He gave a fervent shake of his head, settling himself on the edge of the mattress. “It was I who rescued you from a dangerous footpad. Indeed, you might say that I saved your life.”
Clara frowned. He seemed quite sincere in his astonishment that she would believe for a moment he would wish her harm. But even as she wondered if she had perhaps made a mistake he leaned forward enough for her to catch a vague scent of peppermint and cloves that seemed to cling to him.
A chill shot down her spine.
This was the same man who had attacked her. There was no mistaking that scent. But for some reason he was determined to convince her that she had nothing to fear from him.
She could not imagine what he wanted from her or what he intended to do, but it seemed best for the moment to play along.
Had her father not always said that it was best to humor a madman?
“Then it seems that I owe you my gratitude,” she said slowly.
“You owe me nothing.” He offered a smile that revealed several teeth that were beginning to rot. Well, that at least explained his odd scent, she told herself. He no doubt used the cloves and peppermint to mask his bad breath. “I am only relieved that I happened to be keeping a watch upon you when I spotted the ruffian attempting to bundle you into a carriage.”
Her heart skipped a horrified beat even as she struggled to keep her expression calm.
“You were keeping a watch upon me?”
“But of course,” he retorted, not seeming to consider that she would find his odd behavior anything out of the ordinary. “I very much wished to speak with you, but I dare not reveal my identity by approaching you while you were in the company of others.”
Reveal his identity? Her gaze slowly roamed over the shabby coat and loose breeches before returning to the expectant expression. Comprehension dawned with a jolt.
“You are . . . Mr. Chesterfield?”
“Just as brilliant as I suspected, and even more lovely,” he breathed in appreciation. “Astonishingly lovely.”
For a moment Clara grappled to accept what was happening. This was Mr. Chesterfield. The gentleman she had corresponded with for over a year. The gentleman who was the reason she had charged willy-nilly to London. The gentleman who at one time had seemed precisely the sort of man who would make a nice, stable husband.
The gentleman who had attacked her on the street and now had her hidden in a cellar.
The gentleman she was beginning to suspect was a raving lunatic.
Damn and blast.
“How did you know I was in London?” she demanded in what she hoped was a causal manner.
“I received your letter, of course. Forgive me for not responding, but it was impossible. I could not risk putting you in even more danger.”
Clara stiffened, recalling the deadly ambush that had been set for her. “You knew I was in danger?”
“Not until too late,” he swiftly assured her. “Believe me, had I known I would have done whatever necessary to protect you.”
She wisely hid her doubt. For now it seemed best to pretend to accept whatever he might say.
“That still does not explain how you knew where to find me after I arrived.”
He heaved an audible sigh. “In truth, I just managed to reason where you might be hiding. Rather tediously dull of me to have taken so long, but in my defense I have not quite been myself the past few weeks. Even after my servant came to me with the story of a beautiful lady arriving upon my doorstep with the renowned Hawksley, I still did not put two and two together.” The rotting smile returned. “Having at last come to my senses, I was anxious to meet you face-to-face. Not, however, in such a painful manner.”
She shivered as her hand instinctively rose to touch the lump on the back of her head.
“Where are we?”
He grimaced. “Ah yes, not the sort of accommodations that I had hoped to provide for you, but for the moment I have little choice. The cellars are preferable to a bullet through the heart.”
“We are beneath your home?”
“My home for now,” he corrected, a rather odd glittering entering his pale eyes. “Soon enough I will be in the position to offer you much more than this.”
Clara licked her lips. For once she did not blurt out the first thing that came to her mind. Not when that warning voice was whispering in the back of her head that one careless word might very well bring about another painful blow.
Or worse.
“Because of the money you hope to gain from Lord Doulton?” she asked cautiously.
“Lord Doulton?” he demanded in puzzlement.
“I know that he has stolen artifacts from the Vatican. Artifacts that he gained from his cousin, who murdered two soldiers in their sleep.”
“Ah yes, a most heinous crime.” He shrugged his narrow shoulders, seemingly unconcerned at her knowledge of the ghastly murders. “Although few men can resist the lure of untold fortune.”
“I also know that Hawksley’s brother came to you with a rare parchment that he desired you to translate.”
“Rare?” The glitter in the pale eyes became hectic as he abruptly rose to his feet to pace across the narrow cellar. “’Tis priceless. The sort of document that a collector can only dream of possessing. Only a dolt such as Lord Doulton could have failed to realize its value.”
“But you recognized it, of course.”
“Of course.” He glanced back at her with a hint of annoyance that she would doubt his brilliance. “I am a scholar.”