“That seems to be a common conclusion among most who know me.”
“Bloody sharp,” Pendleton muttered even as he backed away with something just short of an all-out run.
Hawksley did not even bother to watch the rather amusing retreat. Instead he silently sipped at his whiskey as he contemplated what to do with the remainder of his evening.
It was too late to pick up on the trail of Doulton. And in truth, he was weary of the fruitless effort. He could always move on to another gambling hell. His luck was in and he could always use the blunt. That, however, held little appeal as well.
He sipped more of the whiskey.
If he was being perfectly honest, nothing seemed to hold appeal. Oh, perhaps a luscious armful of willing woman. That usually managed to lift a man’s spirits. Unfortunately he had no current mistress and no desire to go to the effort of locating one.
Bloody hell. He leaned back in the seat. He was weary.
Weary and frustrated and so sick at heart that there were times when he wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and never leave.
The bleak thoughts were interrupted as a thin, rat-faced gentleman attired in a shocking pink coat and yellow waistcoat slid into the vacant seat across the table.
A faint smile, genuine on this occasion, tugged at Hawksley’s lips.
He had acquired any number of casual acquaintances since being tossed out of his father’s home and traveling to make his fortune in London. But there were few he actually considered a friend, and even fewer that he trusted.
Lord Bidwell, better known as Biddles, was one of those few.
Although now a properly married gentleman with the task of ensuring Hellion’s Den kept him disgustingly wealthy, Biddles had once been England’s most proficient spy. Intelligent, cunning, and possessing the sort of morals that allowed him to climb into the sewers with the best of them, he had done as much as Wellington to save England from defeat.
His retirement from the War Office had been a decided blow for his country but a blessing for Hawksley.
Never one to allow his talents to fall into waste, Biddles kept himself entertained by turning his attentions to those closer to home. There was nothing that occurred in London, be it in the most elegant ballroom or the seediest backstreets of the stews, that Biddles was not aware of.
Which was why Hawksley had turned to him the moment he realized he needed assistance.
“Ah, Hawk, you are in your usual charming mood, I see,” Biddles mocked as he raised a lacy handkerchief to dab at his pointed nose.
Hawksley shrugged. “I find it difficult to be charming when I am being accused of cheating.”
“Then you shouldn’t win so often, old chap. It makes gentlemen peevish.”
“It makes me peevish when I cannot pay my rent.”
The pale eyes narrowed as Biddles regarded him with a shrewd thoroughness.
“Difficulties?”
Hawksley choked back a humorless laugh. He could write an epic on difficulties. A father who detested him. Bill collectors yammering at his heels. A title and duties hanging about his neck like a yoke. A murdered brother. Oh, and an investigation that had produced precisely nothing. Well, nothing more than a lingering headache and a bad taste in his mouth.
“No more so than usual,” he retorted in wry tones.
“You know I always stand prepared to offer assistance if you find yourself in need,” Biddles murmured.
Hawksley gave the faintest nod. He did know. And it offered him a comfort he rarely found these days.
“Not necessary at the moment, although I do appreciate the offer.”
Biddles gave a small smile. “I believe I have something you will appreciate even more.”
Hawksley lifted his brows. “Is she beautiful?”
“I fear it is not a woman.”
“A pity,” he drawled. “Now that I have a bit of blunt I could use some companionship.”
“A swift means of not having your blunt for long.”
He briefly thought of the luscious, dark-haired widow who had been on his scent for the past weeks. And the slender blond actress who had offered all sorts of intriguing possibilities.
Either would do.
“Ah, but what more delightful means of becoming a pauper?”
Biddles gave a soft laugh. “I must refrain from answering such a leading question. I am a married man, after all, and I prefer my head not to be placed upon the platter.”
“Where is your charming wife?”
The expression of sardonic amusement faded as a frown of annoyance marred the thin countenance. Hawksley noticed that frown quite often when men spoke of their wives. Only one of a dozen reasons he was not wed.
“She was decidedly pale this morning and I left strict orders that she was to stay home this evening to rest.” Biddles grimaced. “Of course, that only ensures that she will be gadding about to every assembly and ball in town. She possesses a remarkable dislike for orders.”
Hawksley sipped his whiskey, his lips twitching. “Perhaps you have not been stern enough in teaching her who is master.”
“Master?” Biddles tilted back his head to laugh with rich amusement. “I would suggest you not say such a thing in Anna’s presence.”
“You believe it would be my head upon the proverbial platter?”
“Without a shred of doubt.”
“That is the trouble with wedding a spirited woman.”
“Ah no, that is the pleasure,” Biddles corrected with a wicked glint in his eyes.
Hawklsey briefly thought of the actress again. She was spirited in all the right ways. And without the bother of a wedding ring. Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely certain she was worth the effort or the money.
A thought that entered his mind far too often of late.
Bloody hell. Obviously, the sooner he ended this frustrating search for the truth, the better.
Another few months and he’d be a damn eunuch.
“I should be on my way. Pendleton is no doubt drinking himself into a rage in some corner and I have no desire to have to shoot him.”
Biddles glanced about the crowded room. “If you are not in a desperate hurry, I think you should join me in my office.”
“Office?” Hawksley grimaced. The word was enough to conjure up his father’s large study where he had regularly endured endless lectures, sermons, and an occasional beating. None of which had done the least good. “That sounds tediously dull.”
“Actually I think you will find it of great interest.”
Interest? Hawksley narrowed his gaze. “I suppose I could spare a few moments.”
Together they left the table and climbed the narrow stairs to the upper floor. Out of habit Hawksley glanced about to ensure he was not being watched. He had taken care to hide the fact that he was searching for his brother’s murderer, but he was never foolish enough to lower his guard.
Satisfied that the crowd below was suitably entranced by the turn of cards and rattle of dice, he allowed himself to be escorted into a barren room that was only notable for its lack of space.
Giving a lift of his brows, he glanced over at the desk and lone chair that managed to consume the small chamber.
“Not quite what I expected from the notorious Hellion,” he murmured, referring to Biddles’s partner, who had once been the most successful rake in all of England.
Daintily dusting off the edge of the desk, Biddles perched himself upon the worn wood.
“His wife has ensured that he is not nearly so notorious these days.”
Hawksley leaned against the paneling, crossing his arms over his chest. “Poor blighter.”