He had easily managed to locate Santos and assured himself that both Mr. Chesterfield and Lord Doulton had been properly handed over to the authorities. He had even had the pleasure of hearing both gentlemen confess their sins before they had fallen to their knees to sob for mercy.
Giving Santos thanks for his assistance, Hawksley had turned his mount for home. It had been a long day, with enough turmoil to make the most unflappable gentleman feel as if he had been run over by a team of oxen.
But even as he fully intended to seek the welcome warmth of his bed, he found his path straying far from the shabby neighborhood he called home and instead trailing through the elegant streets of Mayfair.
Oh, he could not pretend that he did not know precisely where he was going. Not when he had entered the darkened mews and climbed over the high wall to land lightly in the private gardens.
Once there he stepped beneath the cover of an ancient oak tree and simply gazed at the lighted windows.
Somewhere within the house Clara was preparing for bed.
His entire body ached with the need to go to her.
He just wished to see her face. To know that she was well and not suffering from her ghastly experience.
But while it would be a simple enough matter to slip his way into the house, he knew it would be a futile gesture.
The walls that kept him from Clara were not made of stone and glass.
It was the faintest rustle of leaves that warned Hawksley that he was no longer alone. With smooth ease he had pulled out his pistol and pointed it toward the darkness at his side. At the same moment Biddles gave a soft laugh and stepped into a slanting ray of moonlight.
“I thought you would make an appearance before the night was through,” he murmured softly.
Caught off guard at being so easily discovered, Hawksley returned the pistol to his pocket. “I am not here to bother Clara.”
Oddly, Biddles did not so much as smile at his ridiculous behavior. A rather astonishing miracle. Instead he gave a slow nod of his head, his expression somber.
“You just needed to be near her?”
Hawksley was thankful for the shadows that hid his sudden flush. “Pathetic, is it not?”
“Not at all,” Biddles retorted. “’Tis the usual behavior of a man in love.”
Love.
Gads, but the damnable emotion had a great deal to answer for.
Turning his head, he glanced toward the townhouse. “Is she . . . well?”
“Remarkably well considering all that she has endured. Anna was tucking her in when I came here to await your arrival.”
“Will she ever forgive me?”
“That, I fear, is beyond even my abilities to foresee,” Biddles murmured. “However, I will assure you that Miss Dawson is far too logical to allow her wounded emotions to overcome her better sense.”
With a frown Hawksley turned his attention back to the gentleman at his side.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that while some women might be willing to sulk and indulge in their desire to play the wronged woman, Miss Dawson has no talent for such theatrics. She would never hold a grudge simply for the sake of holding a grudge.”
Hawksley gave a slow nod. He was well aware that Clara did not delight in those tedious games that some women played so well. It was indeed one of the reasons he found her so delightful. He was never in doubt as to what was precisely upon her mind.
Both a blessing and a curse, he wryly acknowledged.
“True enough, but not quite the reassurance that I had hoped for.”
“It is more than what most women would offer you.”
He briefly closed his eyes against the tide of painful longing.
“Yes. Let us hope it is enough.”
It was a rather bemused Clara who sat upon the window seat of the bedchamber as she pulled a brush through her damp hair.
Anna had proved to be every bit as welcoming as Biddles had promised. More so, in fact. A short, curvaceous woman with a smile that could warm an artic winter, she had swiftly taken Clara under her wing.
Before Clara was quite aware of what was occurring, she had been whisked into a hot bath and changed into a clean robe. Even then Anna did not stop hovering until she had ensured that Clara had eaten every bite of the delicious stew that had arrived in her chambers upon a tray.
Thankfully, her motherly clucking had not included any attempts to force Clara into unwelcome confessions, or even to discover why she had been landed with an unknown woman at such an hour.
Although Clara was never one to hide from her troubles or attempt to pretend that they did not exist, for the moment she was content to allow herself to be cosseted and fussed over. It was a novel and not unpleasant experience.
With a faint sigh Clara set aside her brush and reached to crack open the window. Anna had demanded that the servants light a large fire before her bath, and the heat pouring into the room was nearly overwhelming.
Leaning forward, she sucked in a deep breath of the fresh air, only to freeze at the familiar scent of male cologne.
Hawksley.
There could be no mistake.
Brooding upon his most peculiar behavior, Clara paid scant heed to the sound of her door softly being pushed open. Only when a hand gently touched her shoulder did she turn to meet Anna’s quizzical smile.
“Clara, I thought you would be fast asleep by now. Is anything troubling you?”
Troubling her? Clara resisted the urge to roll her eyes heavenward. She wished it were so simple.
“Hawksley is down there,” she said in clipped tones.
Anna shot a startled glance toward the darkened window. “You can see him?”
“No, I can smell him.”
“Smell . . . ?” Anna gave a sudden chuckle. “Ah . . . cologne. French, is it not?”
“Yes.” And utterly fatal to women, she silently added. It should be outlawed.
Twitching her skirts out of the way, Anna seated herself next to Clara at the window seat, her expression one of sympathy.
“Horatio did not reveal all, but I suspect that Hawksley has managed to break your heart.”
It took a moment for Clara to realize that Horatio must refer to Lord Bidwell, then she gave a deep sigh.
“To wound it, anyway,” she reluctantly confessed.
“Men.” Anna gave a disdainful sniff. “What has he done?”
Clara bit her lip at the burning pain that clutched at her heart.
“He pretended to be something he is not.”
Anna’s brows drew together. “And what did he pretend to be?”
Clara clutched her hands into fists upon her lap. “A simple gentleman of strained means.”
There was a moment of startled silence.
“And you are angered to discover he is instead a man of wealth and position?” Anna demanded in confusion.
“Of course.”
“No doubt you have your reasons.”
“I should think it obvious.”
Anna carefully cleared her throat. “Perhaps you will humor me?”
Clara abruptly rose to her feet, twisting her hands together as she aimlessly paced the floor.
“For goodness’ sakes, what do I have to offer such a man? I have no fortune, no proper breeding, and worse, I do not have the talent to play the role of a viscountess, let alone some day a countess,” she burst out in annoyance.
“Obviously Hawksley believes you possess such a talent.”
Clara choked back a sob. “No, he is absolutely certain I do not, and that is precisely the point.”
Anna pressed a hand to her temple. “I think there must be something wrong with my brain, it does not seem to be functioning properly.”