by Clee, Adele
“Why mention the war when my grandfather was a marauding pirate?”
Miss Hart continued to stare at the amber flames. “Our grandfathers were privateers, not pirates. The British Admiralty commissioned the men to attack French vessels in the Mediterranean.”
Evan snorted. “Perhaps your family embellished the tale to spare you the shame.” To make her ancestor seem like an honourable gent. “Livingston Sloane looted and pillaged and would never have served the Crown.”
Miss Hart glanced at the painting of the young bearded man with a devilish twinkle in his eye. “If you believe that, why display his portrait?”
Oh, the lady was as sharp as a blade.
It would be easy to lie, but he suspected Miss Hart knew the answer.
“Because while my family disowned him, and I have been raised to despise the name, I often feel like a misfit myself.” Many times during his youth, he had imagined running away, imagined living life on the high seas, free from society’s suffocating restrictions.
Miss Hart gave a knowing hum. “When Livingston Sloane died, your father was raised by his grandmother, Lady Jane Sloane. My mother said the matron intended to eradicate the memory of her wayward son, and yet she kept his portrait.”
Lady Jane Boscobel, daughter of the Earl of Henley, had married Daniel Sloane, Viscount Leaton’s youngest son. They had married for love, by all accounts, though having married beneath her, the lady had kept her title. The couple were blessed with two sons, Cecil and Livingston, and Cecil had inherited the viscountcy when his uncle died without issue.
“Lady Sloane reverted to her maiden name when her husband died and the admiralty pronounced her son a pirate. Consequently, I always refer to her as Lady Boscobel. When one holds rank and position in society, one is easily influenced by opinion. Yet beneath the bravado was a mother who still loved her rebellious son.”
Miss Hart appeared doubtful as she stared at the portrait of the young Lady Jane. “And you display both paintings because you want to understand the mother and son bond. You wonder if your mother—”
“That’s enough, Miss Hart!” Evan never spoke about his mother and had no intention of discussing a personal matter with a relative stranger. Despite his annoyance, he softened his tone. “You have an uncanny ability to distract a man from his mission. Cease prying and permit me to finish reading this document.”
“Then, for fear of distracting you further, let me summarise the legally binding agreement.” Miss Hart squared her shoulders. “In short, you’re contractually obliged to marry me, Mr Sloane.”
Chapter 2
“Like hell I am.”
“It’s written quite clearly, sir.” Vivienne’s pulse pounded in her throat. She had expected to encounter some resistance. Mr Sloane was known for his devil-may-care attitude when it came to relationships with women. According to retiring-room gossip, the gentleman had vowed never to marry. “A direct descendant of Lucian Hart may demand to marry a direct descendant of Livingston Sloane. It is payment for the debt incurred by your grandfather when Lucian Hart saved his life.”
Mr Sloane waved the precious document in the air. “You may quote from the contract, madam, but this won’t withstand the scrutiny of the law courts.”
Despite her earlier protestations, Vivienne suspected he was right. Still, she had no choice but to persuade him otherwise. Their lives depended upon finding the rogue who would stop at nothing to obtain their hidden legacy.
“Perhaps you should finish reading the document, sir.” She kept calm, for he would rant and rave upon learning of the penalty for failing to abide by the agreement. “I shall sit patiently and wait.”
Mr Sloane arched a brow by way of a challenge. “Nothing written by a deceased relative—who must have been sotted on rum at the time—could induce me to marry.”
Vivienne sat on the gentleman’s plush damask sofa, one far more comfortable than the threadbare couch in Silver Street. “And I would prefer to marry for love, sir. But I’m sure we can come to some arrangement once the deed is done.”
“The deed?” The gentleman laughed. “Miss Hart, are you always so direct when discussing amorous liaisons?”
“Amorous liaisons?” It was Vivienne’s turn to laugh, though heat flooded her cheeks at the thought of slipping between the sheets with such a virile gentleman. “You mistake my meaning. We need my lawyer to act as a witness to the deed of matrimony. I see no reason why you would want to claim your conjugal rights.”
Mr Sloane fixed her with a heated stare. “Call me a pedant, Miss Hart, but I am not marrying a woman I cannot bed.”
The low, throaty tone of his voice would make any woman drool. Thankfully, Vivienne was made of sterner stuff. “What possible difference does it make? Many people marry for convenience.”
“Marriage is a damnable inconvenience.” The gentleman stepped closer until she was practically eye level with his muscular thighs. He looked down from a towering height. “But let’s suppose I’m considering your proposition. Though let me add, I most definitely am not.”
“Yes,” she said, feeling somewhat intimidated by his raw masculinity. His open-necked shirt didn’t help, for she’d caught more than a teasing glimpse of bronzed skin and chest hair. “Let’s presume a man of your prestigious lineage agrees to shackle himself to the granddaughter of a privateer.”
Bravery flowed in her blood. It would serve her well to remember it. If Lucian Hart could command a ship of fifty rowdy men, surely she could control a rake who spent his days solving crimes.
“If I make the ultimate commitment, Miss Hart, it will be for life. No more wild parties until the early hours. No more late-night visits from unscrupulous women. To put it bluntly, madam, I would do everything in my power to fall in love with my wife.”
Vivienne focused on keeping her mouth closed for fear of gawping.
Mr Sloane had inherited his wild, adventurous spirit from his grandfather. Yet he had acquired his sense of duty and loyalty from his father, Louis. It was said the man never recovered after losing his wife in childbed, never brought another woman into his home, not even a mistress.
“So you see how marrying me, Miss Hart, would work in opposition to your plan.” The man stepped back. His intense gaze roamed over the loose tendrils of hair escaping her chignon. “And, as you’re an advocate of honesty, you should know I’m rather rampant between the bedsheets. As such, I doubt I’d be mindful of your delicate sensibilities.”
Oh, the arrogance of the man. His lewd remark was nothing more than a weak attempt to steer her off course.
Vivienne relaxed back against the bolster cushion and forced a confident smile. “And I suppose I should offer a similar warning.” Though she could hardly profess to know anything about bed sport. “I possess the blood of an intrepid privateer and a ruthless Scottish laird. Cross me at your peril.”
Rather than offer a sharp retort, Mr Sloane’s green eyes glistened with intrigue. He made no reply and eventually lowered his gaze and continued reading the document. Vivienne began silently counting to five, knowing the volcano that was Mr Sloane’s temper was sure to erupt.
Four.
Five.
“Mother of all saints!” His irate gaze shot in her direction. “Madam, it seems I have completely misjudged your character. You’re not a wallflower. You’re a pirate come to pillage and plunder.”
“I am considered somewhat of a paradox, sir.” Vivienne hunkered down and held her nerve. “That said, had my grandfather not risked his life to save Livingston Sloane, you would not exist. They drew the contract to honour the sacrifice made, to ensure an heir of Livingston Sloane couldn’t break the oath.”
He continued to mutter and curse beneath his breath.
“Should you fail to marry me, sir, I can make a claim against your estate. Your father may have built this house, but the land once belonged to Livingston Sloane.”
“How the devil do you know that?”
“I have a copy of the origi
nal deed. The copy given to my grandfather.”
“You seem to be extremely well-informed, Miss Hart.” Mr Sloane threw the document onto the sofa. He strode to the rosewood drinks cabinet and yanked the stopper from a crystal decanter. “How is it I am scrambling around in the dark?”
She knew the answer to that, too.
Lucian Hart kept his prized possessions in a mahogany tea chest. The heirloom had passed to Vivienne’s father and then to her. But while Lucian wished to ensure every family member knew of the debt, it was said Lady Boscobel destroyed her copy of the contract.
“Upon your grandfather’s death, Lucian Hart wrote to Lady Boscobel to remind her of your family’s obligation. In her reply, she wrote that Livingston Sloane was no longer her son. She denounced all claims. Refused to accept responsibility.”
Mr Sloane stood sipping his brandy. “And there lies the hypocrisy.” Bitterness tainted the velvet texture of his voice. “Lady Boscobel openly condemned her son but made sure my father inherited this land. I presumed she came to an arrangement with the Crown, for they usually confiscate the property of a pirate.”
“Livingston Stone served the Crown, so there was no need to intervene.”
“Yet there is no evidence to substantiate your claim,” he said, reluctant to accept her version of the tale.
Oh, but there was.
Vivienne sat, hands clasped in her lap, while he downed his drink and refilled the glass. She took a moment to observe her surroundings. The burnt sienna walls, the gilt-framed paintings and sumptuous gold furnishings confirmed Mr Sloane lived in the height of luxury. Having watched him move confidently through the ballrooms of the ton, impeccably presented, he seemed far removed from his swashbuckling ancestor—more in keeping with Lady Boscobel’s highbrow pretensions. Yet tonight, with his long hair flowing wild and free, and his shirt gaping at the neck, one might mistake him for a master of the high seas.
“I must admit to knowing nothing of your background, Miss Hart.” Cradling the brandy glass in one hand, he came and sat on the sofa opposite. “How is it the granddaughter of a privateer receives invitations to the grandest balls?”
Despite the distance between them, his commanding presence made her stomach flip and her legs tremble like a blancmange. Perhaps marrying such a formidable man was a terrible idea.
“I’m the great-granddaughter of Laird McFarlane.” The powerful laird’s influence stretched the length and breadth of the land and lasted long after his passing. “Sir Otterly Hart is my paternal great-grandfather. My mother and the Countess of Hollinshead were great friends because of their Scottish heritage.”
“Otterly Hart? The explorer?”
Pride warmed her chest. “Yes, he led an expedition to Antarctica, made many discoveries in the field of astronomy. Lucian Hart inherited the same love of the sea, the same need to conquer.”
Mr Sloane swallowed a mouthful of brandy, his gaze falling to her empty hands. “Forgive me. While in a state of shock, I forgot to offer you another drink.”
With her nerves hanging by a thread, and with so much information still to impart, she needed something to bolster her courage. “May I have what you’re drinking, sir? I should take something stronger, strive to keep the cold from penetrating my bones.”
“A wily whistle?” He swirled the amber liquid in the glass. “It’s one of my famous concoctions. Rum, whisky and sugar syrup, finished with a dash of sherry. It’s far too potent for a lady of delicate sensibilities.”
“Might I be so bold as to take a sip of yours, Mr Sloane? I would hate to waste good liquor.”
The fumes would scald her throat, but she would be this gentleman’s wife before the week was out and had to foster a certain intimacy.
The flash of surprise and the sparkle of curiosity in the man’s eyes said he was fascinated by her request. “If that’s your desire.” He leaned forward and offered her the glass. “Be warned. Strong liquor is said to stimulate one’s appetite for pleasure.”
Their fingers touched as she accepted the vessel. It took effort to maintain a confident smile, to hide the delicious shiver shooting to her toes. Vivienne brought the glass slowly to her lips, aware his gaze remained fixed on her person.
“I advise but a small sip.” The throaty tone of his voice conveyed caution and a touch of amusement.
“I suspect even a small sip will roast my insides.” Having spent many summers in the Highlands of Scotland, she was used to taking a dram or two of whisky. Still, the aroma alone made her gasp. “The smell reminds me of hills and heather and babbling brooks, though I suspect my mouth will soon feel like the inside of a blacksmith’s furnace.”
Mr Sloane’s laugh reached his vibrant green eyes. The sight stole her breath and warmed her insides before the sip of wily whistle scorched her throat.
“Good Lord!” Vivienne coughed and spluttered and panted to cool the burn. A wily whistle? He should name the drink holy fire.
Mr Sloane shot to his feet and closed the gap between them. “I did warn you.” He took the glass from her hand lest she spill the contents. “It’s lethal to the untrained palette.”
“That’s the devil’s drink, sir,” she said, though she laughed too when he could not conceal his mirth. “Perhaps when we’re married, I might tempt you to mix me a whipkull. It’s a far better way to serve rum, and they say it’s the drink favoured in Valhalla.”
As expected, his smile faded at the mere mention of marriage. But he could not avoid their destiny.
“Miss Hart, though you are entertaining company, and nowhere near the dullard I expected, I refuse to abide by this ridiculous pact. Should you wish to prosecute for breach of contract, know my lawyers will have the case thrown out within a matter of hours. As to the claim on my land that you—”
“This is not about legalities, Mr Sloane. This is a matter of honour.”
Despite talk of his pirate heritage and his wild antics in the bedchamber, men respected Evan Sloane. They believed his work as an enquiry agent for the Order served as an acceptable pastime for a man with an adventurous spirit.
“You owe my grandfather your life,” she continued in earnest. “The debt must be paid. We live in a society where a son is accountable for his father’s mistakes. Your failure to abide by the agreement will bring more shame to your name than any association with Livingston Sloane ever could.”
Mr Sloane’s glare carried a hint of disdain. “Do you think I care about ballroom gossip? Livingston Sloane may have escaped punishment, but I took the beatings. School can be an unpleasant place when one’s grandfather is a pirate, and so one develops thick skin.”
“Your grandfather was a privateer, not a pirate,” she reiterated. “He carried a letter of marque. Do you not seek an opportunity to clear his name?”
“Such an effort will only rouse unwanted attention. And I have nothing but the word of a busybody as proof.”
Vivienne’s watery laugh held no amusement. “What about your duty to protect the innocent? I suffer because of your grandfather’s misfortune. If we do not marry, Mr Sloane, I doubt I shall live long enough to witness the first buds of spring.”
Mr Sloane observed her intently through narrowed eyes. “Is this about money, Miss Hart? Your mother died a year ago, and you live alone in Silver Street, I hear.”
“I do not live alone. I have Buchanan and Mrs McCready for company.”
Their ancestors had served every Laird McFarlane for the last two hundred years, and they were assigned as her protectors. Though that did not deter the devil determined to rob her of her inheritance.
Mr Sloane rubbed his jaw in thoughtful contemplation. “I shall have my lawyers prepare a new contract. You will be handsomely rewarded for agreeing to destroy this document.” He plucked the old contract from the sofa, rolled it tightly and attempted to hand it back to her.
Vivienne waved her hand in refusal. “I implore you, keep the contract. It is no longer safe in my possession.”
With a huff
of impatience, Mr Sloane pushed to his feet. “Miss Hart, this document isn’t worth a guinea. Accept my offer of financial compensation, take your servants and go home. If you’re so intent on marrying, know there are few men in the ton willing to take a wife with such a vivid imagination.”
Oh, she should have known he’d be an obstinate oaf.
Yet when he scanned her from head to toe with his intense green gaze, a glimmer of hope surfaced. Yes, she had a wild imagination, but judging by the look in Mr Sloane’s eyes, he appeared mildly captivated. That didn’t stop him from crossing the room and tugging the bell pull.
“I assume you hired a hackney to bring you here.”
“Yes, the jarvey parked a hundred yards from the front gate.” The miser had charged an exorbitant four shillings a mile—danger money for having to make the journey in a thunderstorm.
“My coachman will see you safely home. And I shall send a footman to settle your fare.”
Pride should have made her refuse his offer of assistance, but a villain might easily bribe a hackney driver to take a detour while en route to town. The intruder who broke into her house would go to murderous lengths to steal their bounty.
“Mr Sloane, there is so much more I need to explain.”
He needed to know he held the second vital clue to finding their inheritance, that she held the first. They could only obtain the third clue with proof of their marriage. She needed to explain there was treachery afoot, that someone stalked her from the shadows, had ransacked her lawyer’s office, too.
“Do not try my patience, Miss Hart. I’ve heard more than enough—”
“But our lives are in danger if—”
“What? If we don’t marry?” he mocked. “While I admire your original approach to improving your prospects, you do not want to marry me.”
Before she could challenge his opinion, Fitchett entered the room and Mr Sloane fired a barrage of instructions. “The storm is passing. I want the carriage brought round immediately. Turton is to take Miss Hart and her … her Scottish companions back to town.”
