Hawksley had always considered himself a rather shrewd gentleman. Perhaps more than merely shrewd. But not even he was capable of following her obscure reasoning.
“What does that have to do with a brooch?”
“Well, I could not help but notice that while Millicent was quite contentious in avoiding sweets and richer foods when in company, she still had not lost the weight that must have been expected by such a rigid diet. Indeed, she was quite obviously gaining.”
“And?”
“And it occurred to me that she must be sneaking into the pantry to enjoy those treats being denied her,” she concluded, not quite able to hide the note of pride in her voice. “It was, of course, a place no one would think to search for a missing brooch.”
Hawksley smiled at her undoubted skill. Gads, if Bow Street possessed such intelligence, then his brother’s murder would have been solved months ago.
“No one except you.”
“I merely used logic,” she murmured, although it was obvious that she was pleased with his admiration. “It is an approach I have found quite effective in solving most problems.”
“Clever, indeed, but—” Hawksley abruptly cut short his words as he heard a faint sound from above. Someone had entered the cottage. Pulling Miss Dawson close, he whispered directly in her ear. “We are no longer alone.”
She gave a nod of her head, her hand reaching up to clutch at his lapel. Hawksley covered her fingers with his own, rather surprised to discover how cold they felt.
Damnation. She maintained such an air of implacable calm that he continually underestimated just how frightened she must be.
He tugged her even closer, laying his cheek upon the top of her head. He would get her away from this cottage, he abruptly swore. He would not allow Lord Doulton to harm a silken hair upon her head.
Hearing sounds from behind the cupboard, Hawksley placed a finger upon Miss Dawson’s lips in silent warning before removing his pistol and cautiously creeping up the stairs. He had no true fear that the villains would manage to discover the hidden door, but he desired to know what their plans might be.
If they sought to lay another trap he needed to know the details.
Pressing his ear to the wall, Hawksley closed his thoughts to all but the muffled voices that echoed through the heavy wood. At first he heard nothing more than the usual curses and barks of command as Jimmy ordered his men to make a thorough search of the cottage. Then, as it became obvious nothing was to be found, there came a growing rumble of complaints from the gang of cutthroats.
It was obvious the men were beginning to suspect that Jimmy had led them upon a fool’s errand and were none too pleased with the notion of continuing the search in the damp night air.
Especially not when the cottage offered a roof over their head and a nice stash of brandy.
Hawksley gritted his teeth, sensing the inevitable even before Jimmy disgustedly agreed that there was little hope of finding Miss Dawson at such an hour.
Replacing his pistol, he silently moved back down the stairs and placed his arm about his companion’s stiffly held shoulders. Keeping his other hand upon the wall to guide himself, he cautiously led her farther down the tunnel before coming to a halt.
“I fear that this shall not be so simple as I had hoped,” he whispered softly.
“What is it?”
“They have determined to remain at the cottage for the night.”
She caught her breath at his unwelcome confession. “We surely are not to remain in this tunnel?”
“It is certainly preferable to joining Jimmy Blade and his merry band,” he pointed out dryly.
“I . . .”
“What is it?”
There was a long pause before she at last heaved a sigh. “I do not like enclosed places. They make me . . . uneasy.”
Hawksley pondered their options. He had to admit he was not particularly fond of the notion of remaining in the damp tunnels either. Not when they offered the opportunity to become trapped in the enclosed space.
But fleeing would leave them vulnerable until he could locate Dillion and his men.
Silently considering the best course of action, Hawksley felt Miss Dawson wrap her arms about herself. It made his decision simple.
Fredrick had possessed precisely the same sort of irrational fear of enclosed places. Hawksley would make no one suffer an entire night of such discomfort.
Keeping her close, he began steering her firmly down the tunnel. “Come.”
“Where are we going?” she demanded.
“These tunnels lead to the woods. We will be safe enough there.”
She said nothing, but Hawksley did not miss her small sigh of relief. The faintest smile curved his lips. For all her staunch courage and undeniable cleverness, Miss Dawson was not invulnerable.
It was a knowledge that somehow made her all the more intriguing.
Chapter Five
They traversed the tunnels in silence, Hawksley on alert and Miss Dawson lost in the Lord only knew what peculiar thoughts.
As they walked, Hawksley kept himself sharply aware of his surroundings.
The faint moisture in the air, the rustle of muslin skirts, the distant croak of a frog, and overall, the sweet hint of vanilla that clung to his companion’s skin.
It was a scent, he absently decided, that he preferred to the usual perfumes that women drenched upon themselves. It was not exotic or deliberately sensual. Instead it was enticingly fresh and without the artifice he disliked.
Perfectly suited to his angel.
Nearly a quarter of an hour later there was a subtle incline and Hawksley slowed their hesitant pace even further. He sensed they were nearing the end of the tunnel and he had no desire to abruptly charge out into the open.
Another five minutes and he came to a complete halt as he heard the unmistakable sound of rock striking against rock.
“What was that?” Miss Dawson demanded.
There were two more strikes, followed by silence. One strike then another.
Hawksley smiled. “Santos.”
“Why is he tapping on the wall?”
“So I do not lodge a bullet in his heart.”
“Oh.”
With a slight tug he had her moving forward again, and in next to no time they were pressing their way through the branches that hid the entrance to the tunnel.
As he had surmised, Santos was standing in the moonlight, his magnificent white stallion tied a short distance away.
“It seems your cottage has been invaded by a horde of unwelcome pests,” Hawksley murmured as he plucked a stray leaf from Miss Dawson’s tangled curls.
Santos noted the unwittingly possessive gesture with a mysterious smile, but keeping his thoughts to himself, he turned his head toward the distant cottage.
“Yes, and in the process have inconvenienced a most lovely lady.” His voice was smooth but edged with a lethal intent. “Clearly they need a lesson in manners. One I intend to deliver quite forcibly.”
Hawksley was in full approval of wiping out the scourge currently drinking themselves insensible, but first he had a more pressing concern.
“A word, Santos,” he murmured with a pointed glance toward the woman at his side who had pulled out a handkerchief to futilely brush at the dust on her gown.
Following his glance, Santos allowed his gaze to rest upon the curls shimmering like a silver halo in the moonlight.
“If you insist.”
Hawksley’s lips tightened. He discovered that he did not care for a gentleman regarding Miss Dawson with such open male speculation.
Especially not a man who had only to cast a lady one of his smoldering smiles to have her doing whatever he might bid.