“Regretfully, I must agree with Hawksley. A young lady on her own would not be entirely safe at a hotel,” he murmured in a sympathetic voice. “They are often frequented by the sort of loutish dandies and rakes who consider a lone female as mere sport.”
Hawksley was swift to pounce upon his advantage. “There, you see. Far better that you return—”
“However, you would be quite welcome as my guest,” Biddles overrode his words with a smooth determination. “Anna would be overjoyed to have another female about, and in truth, she has nearly nagged me to death for the opportunity to meet you.”
“Biddles.” Hawksley regarded his friend as if he were suddenly transformed into a coiled viper.
And with good reason, he told himself.
The dirty, rotten traitor.
At his side, however, Clara was not nearly so offended.
“Oh, I could not impose,” she murmured softly.
Biddles gave an airy wave of his hand. “Trust me, it is no imposition. You would be doing the both of us a great favor if you would come to stay. Anna has not felt quite up to her usual dizzying round of activities due to her delicate condition and is nearly mad with boredom. She would give a fortune to have someone for company besides my poor self.”
Hawksley furiously attempted to think of some means to counter Biddles’s defection. Unfortunately, he was too angry to come up with more than a few incomprehensible grunts.
Clara ignored him without effort. “If you are certain?”
“Consider it settled.”
“Thank you.”
Obviously outgunned, Hawksley was left with nothing to do but toss himself back into the leather squabs and glare at the man he had once called friend.
“Damn you, Biddles,” he muttered.
The slender gentleman smiled with dry humor. “You can rake me over the coals later, Hawk. For now I believe it best we have Miss Dawson settled in a hot tub with a nice brandy to warm her.”
Clara sucked in a deep breath. “Oh yes, a hot bath is precisely what I desire.”
The rest of the trip to the Hawk’s Nest was completed in thick silence. All the apologies and explanations that pounded through Hawksley’s mind were stuck in his throat at the sight of Clara’s drooping shoulders and air of weariness.
Now was not the time to press her. No matter how painful it might be to allow her to leave his side.
Waiting for the carriage to come to a halt before his darkened townhouse, Hawksley opened the door with more force than necessary.
Before stepping down, however, he paused to slay his companion with a hard frown.
“We will speak of this later.”
Biddles merely smiled. “I did not doubt that for a moment.”
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Hawksley was forced to leap lightly onto the street and make his way to his door. It was that or toss Clara over his shoulder and haul her off to his chambers.
Not the wisest notion, considering she had already been kidnapped once that evening.
He had barely reached the porch when the door was abruptly flung open to reveal a decidedly rumpled Dillon. His gaze traveled beyond Hawksley to the carriage already pulling away.
“Miss Dawson?” he demanded.
Sweeping past his servant, Hawksley headed straight for the library and waiting whiskey.
“She is well and in the hands of Biddles.”
“But—”
“Not now, Dillon,” Hawksley pleaded, sensing Dillon plaguing his heels as he moved down the hall. “Did you rid me of my father?”
The servant gave a loud snort. “’Twasn’t a simple matter, but I at last managed to convince him that his presence at the Hawk’s Nest was unwelcome.”
Entering the library, Hawksley smiled ruefully as he poured two glasses of the aged whiskey and handed one to Dillon.
God knew the loyal servant deserved a drink after having to endure the old earl.
“No doubt he made an unpleasant scene?”
“He attempted to do so until I assured him that I would as soon toss him out the window as to listen to his cackling.”
A weary smile touched Hawksley’s lips. “I knew there was some reason that I liked you, old friend.”
There was a moment of silence as they both sipped the whiskey, and then Dillon roughly cleared his throat.
“Miss Dawson . . . Will she be returning?”
Setting aside his empty glass, Hawksley shoved his fingers roughly through his hair. The image of Clara seated in Biddles’s carriage, so small and alone, tortured his mind.
“I cannot say,” he muttered. “I have made such a damnable muck of this.”
“Yes, you have,” Dillon retorted without mercy.
Hawksley glared at his companion. First Biddles and now Dillon.
What did a man have to do for a bit of sympathy?
“Perhaps I do not like you so much after all.”
Dillon shrugged. “Calling a weed a rose does not make it a rose.”
Not at all in the mood for a lecture, no matter how well deserved, Hawksley gave an impatient shrug.
“I must find Santos. I wish to ensure he had no difficulties hauling Mr. Chesterfield to the authorities and that Lord Doulton was detained before he could flee.”
“Mr. Chesterfield.” The name sounded more a curse on Dillon’s tongue. “He was the man who kidnapped Miss Dawson?”
“And also the one responsible for Fredrick’s death.”
The servant frowned. “Not Lord Doulton?”
“Yet another mistake I have made.” Hawksley heaved a sigh as he gave a shake of his head. “Do not wait up for me. I will be late in returning.”
Before he could make his escape, the servant reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.
“You ain’t intending to pester Miss Dawson tonight, are you?”
“No. She is tired and need of rest. I will go to her in the morning.” His lips twisted. “If she will even agree to see me.”
Dillon gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “She will see you, and perhaps this time you will be wise enough to tell her the truth.”
A raven brow arched. “She already knows the truth. My father saw to that.”
“I do not mean the truth of your name. I mean the truth of your heart,” Dillon corrected. “Tell her you love her before you lose her completely.”
Hawksley struggled a moment, still not at all comfortable with revealing such an intimate emotion. But as it became obvious that Dillon was not about to release him until he had his assurance, he gave a reluctant nod of his head.
“I will tell her all that is in my heart.”
“Then all will be well.”
Hawksley wished he could be so certain.
In truth, he felt as if he were standing upon the edge of a cliff awaiting someone to rescue him or push him over the edge.
A sensation that was certain to keep him pacing most of the night.
A long night that he might as well put to good use, he told himself sternly, pausing only long enough to collect his greatcoat before heading back out of the house.
Although he did not doubt for a moment that Santos could be fully trusted to deal with the villains, he wished the satisfaction of witnessing their downfall. God only knew that he had waited long enough for this moment.
With impeccable timing, John was returning with the mount Hawksley had left behind at Mr. Chesterfield’s as he stepped from the house. Tossing the young man a coin, he hauled himself into the saddle and set off into the darkness.
Three hours later found Hawksley standing in the shadowed garden behind Biddles’s townhouse.