Except...
Except for the petition.
A petition that he coveted with a frenzied lust.
Clara felt an icy fist clutch at her heart.
“Did you tell this to Lord Doulton?” she whispered even though she knew the answer.
“That idiot. Certainly not.”
“Then . . .” She hastily swallowed her words.
Careful, Clara, she silently warned herself.
Now was not the time to reveal that she had just figured out that Lord Doulton would have no reason to kill Fredrick.
Not when it was painfully clear that the person with the most pressing reason to wish the man dead was standing just a few feet away.
“What?” her captor demanded.
Determined not to panic, Clara stretched her lips into what she hoped was a reasonable imitation of a smile.
“I was just thinking how terribly clever you are.”
He frowned, although it was obvious he was pleased with her seeming admiration.
“Not quite clever enough. I still do not have the remaining pieces of the petition, and without them what I do possess is nothing more than worthless rubbish.”
“I do not doubt you will find them.”
With a casualness he could not quite pull off, Mr. Chesterfield plucked at the sleeve of his worn coat.
“Actually, I had hoped you might be of service.”
“Me?”
“It occurred to me that Fredrick might have given the vowels to his brother for safekeeping.”
Her heart came to a full halt before jolting back to life with a painful leap.
Dear heavens, he suspected that Hawksley had the vowels in is possession. Which unfortunately explained his sudden interest in her.
An interest that was not at all reassuring.
“Hawksley?”
“Well, he does possess the reputation of being a dangerous enemy who has killed more than one man upon the field of honor. Who better to keep watch over such a valuable prize?”
She lowered her lashes, covertly glancing about the barren room. Her heart sank at the realization that there was nothing at all to use as a weapon. And worse, the only means of escape was the narrow door across the room.
However swift she might be, she could not reach the door before Mr. Chesterfield could halt her.
“A reasonable conclusion,” she at last forced herself to rasp, knowing her only hope was to keep him talking and await an opportunity to flee. “But I fear you are mistaken. Hawksley knows nothing of the petition.”
The pale eyes narrowed as he stepped toward her. “Now, now, my dear. You must not lie to me. I know that Hawksley has been asking awkward questions about historical manuscripts. Why else would he do so if he did not possess the vowels?”
The chill within her deepened. If Mr. Chesterfield believed Hawksley to have the vowels, then he was in grave danger.
No matter what had occurred between them, she could not bear the thought of him being hurt.
Quite prepared to sacrifice everything to ensure his safety, Clara slowly rose to her feet.
“That is why you brought me here? To discover if Hawksley possesses your petition?”
“Of course not.” He appeared shocked by her accusation. “I have every intention of making you my bride. But you must see that I cannot ask you to live as a pauper with a man who is laughed at and mocked by his peers. You deserve a fine house with servants and a husband who can command the respect of all those about him. Everything I have done was for you. To please you.”
The fierce edge in his voice assured Clara that he was perfectly serious. In his twisted mind he had managed to convince himself that everything he had done was for her. No doubt even the murder of poor Fredrick.
A tidy means of avoiding any unpleasant pangs of guilt.
She gave a slow shake of her head. “I am sorry if you truly did this for me. It certainly is not what I would have wished. Obviously neither of us truly knew the other.”
His brows snapped together in an ominous manner. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “I have no taste for fancy homes or servants, and I assure you that the only respect you ever need have earned was my own.”
“No.” Whirling about, Mr. Chesterfield shoved trembling fingers through his hair. “There was no other way. I had to have the petition. I still have to have it. It is the only way.”
Clara silently edged toward the door. She could almost feel what little sanity the man possessed slipping away.
She had to get out. And swiftly.
“Why?” she demanded in soothing tones. “I have told you I do not care for riches. Why can we not simply be happy with being together?”
“It is too late.” Without warning he spun about, backing her toward the wall as his chest heaved with his tumultuous emotions. “I will not be denied what is rightfully mine. Now tell me where those vowels are or I will hunt down Hawksley and kill him as I did his brother.”
Her hands clenched at her side until her nails drew blood, but her mind remained thankfully clear.
If she could not escape, she would at least make certain that nothing happened to Hawksley. That she could not bear.
“You are right, there is no purpose in lying when you are clearly far too clever for me,” she retorted, surprised that her voice did not so much as waver. The Lord knew she had never been so terrified in her entire life. “He did have the vowels, but he had no notion of their worth. He gave them to me to study.”
“I knew it.” Stepping so close his foul breath threatened to overcome her, Mr. Chesterfield clenched her shoulders in a painful grip. “Tell me where they are.”
Swiftly searching her mind for a suitable lie, Clara was distracted as she glanced over Mr. Chesterfield’s shoulder to discover the wooden door silently sliding open.
Expecting Mr. Chesterfield’s servant, she nearly swooned in relief as a familiar male form stepped into the darkness.
Hawksley.
He had found her.
Unaware of his danger, her captor gave her a violent shake. “Tell me.”
Her eyes never strayed from the fierce blue gaze as Hawksley moved forward and raised his arm. With one smooth motion he struck Mr. Chesterfield on the back of his head with the butt of his pistol.
There was a strangled groan before the villain slid to the ground.
Then silence filled the cellar.
Chapter Nineteen
For a moment Hawksley could do nothing but gaze at Clara.
She was rumpled, with dirt upon her face that he did not doubt she would soon be nagging to have washed off. And even in the flickering light he could detect there was an unnatural pallor to her countenance.
But she was alive.
Alive.
A violent wave of relief swept through him, and without thought he reached out to pluck her over the unconscious man on the floor and haul her against his chest.
“Bloody hell, you frightened me, kitten,” he rasped, burying his head in her hair as he battled the tears prickling his eyes.
She was shivering as she laid her head upon his chest.
“It was Mr. Chesterfield,” she muttered into his shirt. “He was the one who killed your brother, not Lord Doulton.”
Having already concluded that the damnable Chesterfield was far more involved than either of them had suspected when he realized where the carriage had taken Clara, Hawksley gave little attention to the revelation.
Later he would have time to take revenge upon the villain. For now his only concern was for the woman in his arms.
With tender care he ran his hands down her back in a soothing manner. “Shh . . . It does not matter at the moment. We can speak later.”
“He said he did it for me.” She shuddered in horror. “He said that he had to have the petition so that he could ask me to become his wife.”