by Clee, Adele
“Yes, sir.” Fitchett nodded and left the room.
Mr Sloane turned to her. “I shall arrange a meeting with my lawyers,” he continued in a business-like fashion. “We will thrash the matter of the contract out there. And as I have no intention of bringing children into this world, the debt ends with us.”
There were two types of actions—those motivated by love and those motivated by fear. Could he not see she was at her wits’ end? No doubt this handsome and physically powerful man had never been pushed to the limits of his sanity. Yes, it was utter lunacy to marry a stranger because of a pact made seventy years ago. But she had to say something to make him comprehend the genuine threat to their lives.
“You don’t understand, Mr Sloane. We both hold clues to the missing treasure.”
But he was already ushering her towards the drawing room door. “I understand, madam. Desperate people say desperate things. But I shall see that you’re compensated for your grandfather’s sacrifice.”
Vivienne shuffled back into the hall. “Sir, you fail to see the gravity of the situation.” She clutched his forearm. “Why will you not let me explain?”
Hard muscle flexed beneath her fingers and the gentleman shivered visibly. He glanced at her hand for a few seconds, his brow furrowing in confusion. When their gazes locked, recognition flashed in his eyes. He must have felt it, too, the prickle of excitement, the spark of recognition.
“We cannot fight our destiny,” she said, reluctantly pulling her hand away and breaking the connection. Vivienne reached down between the valley of her breasts and removed the tiny scroll. Oh, she was more than desperate. “If you won’t listen to me, then take this. Keep it safe. Should I meet a grisly end, you must return it to Buchanan.”
Mr Sloane seemed more interested in the swell of her breasts than her prized possession. When he failed to take the parchment, she grabbed his hand and thrust it into his palm.
“I am placing my trust in you, sir. This is the first clue to finding our legacy. You already possess the second clue.”
The gentleman appeared more confused than ever. “Why would you trust a stranger with something so important, Miss Hart?” Suspicion darkened his tone. “Why trust the man opposed to your plan?”
Vivienne inhaled deeply. He would think her a candidate for Bedlam if she spoke the truth, but needs must. “You’re floundering, I can see. But you will marry me, Mr Sloane. During the coming days, the devil will seek to destroy us. Finding our legacy is the only way to save our lives.”
The crunching of carriage wheels on the gravel sent her pulse soaring. She was out of time, and he refused to listen.
Fitchett appeared, carrying Vivienne’s wet cloak and gloves. “Miss Hart’s servants are in the carriage, sir, and I sent Dawson to pay the jarvey’s fare.” The butler glanced at Vivienne, his expression brimming with sympathy. “Your outdoor apparel, Miss Hart.”
Vivienne took her cloak and gloves. Perhaps she should leave before Mr Sloane attempted to return the scroll and the contract. She would visit Keel Hall tomorrow, after he’d had time alone to process the information.
“And what of my boots?” she said, noting their absence. A maid must have wiped the muddy footprints from the marble floor and mopped the puddle.
“They were in such a terrible state, miss, I fear they’re ruined. Mrs McCready tried her best to clean them, but the lining is soaked through. She has them in the carriage.”
In the carriage? “And pray, how I am supposed to walk across the gravel in my stocking feet?”
Fitchett stared blankly. “With the master’s permission, I shall carry you, miss.”
“Carry me?” Based on Fitchett’s stick-thin frame, he’d struggle to cover a few feet. And with him possessing only one good eye, she envisioned him tumbling down the front steps. “Never mind. I shall tread carefully.”
Fitchett glanced at Mr Sloane. “Sir, Dawson broke a lantern yesterday. Slivers of glass covered the gravel. A cut to the toe often ends in amputation.”
Mr Sloane arched a brow. “Have you been reading those morbid seafaring stories again, Fitchett?”
“Sir, there’s many a truth found in fictional tales.”
If they continued in this vein, Mr Sloane was likely to forget all about the small scroll in his hand. Everything depended upon him honouring the debt to Lucian Hart.
“Perhaps you’d allow me to summon a footman to carry the lady to the carriage, sir,” Fitchett said. “Carter is just finishing his supper and can—”
“Oh, for the love of God!” Mr Sloane slipped the scroll into his boot. “I shall carry Miss Hart to the carriage.”
Mother Mary! Panic rose to her throat, coupled with a shiver of delight. She was about to protest, but did she not need to foster a level of intimacy with the man she hoped to marry?
“I shall be fine, Mr Sloane,” she said with a lack of conviction.
Evidently, the man wanted rid of her quickly. Without a word of warning, he scooped her up into his muscular arms and strode towards the door.
Vivienne wrapped her arms around his neck and clung on for dear life. The musky scent of his cologne teased her nostrils, as did the smoky aroma of whisky on his breath. She resisted the urge to lay her head on his broad shoulder, to take comfort in the warmth of his body. A woman need fear nothing with Mr Sloane as her protector.
“I know you think me a terrible pest,” she said as he descended the mansion house steps as if she were as light as a child. “But I am very grateful for your assistance, sir.”
“Madam, the sooner I deposit you in the carriage, the sooner I can relax and enjoy the evening.”
Rain pelted their faces as they left the cover of the Grecian-inspired portico. “It must be rather lonely living in such a large house.”
“I manage perfectly well.” He threw her a dubious look. “I know your game, Miss Hart. While your approach to snagging a wealthy husband is original, your veiled attempts to sway my decision are less imaginative.”
“Given time, I could find more inventive methods of persuasion.” Her quick reply sounded rather salacious, far too out of character for a woman who hid behind marble pillars and watched him from afar.
Thankfully, Buchanan leant forward and opened the carriage door, saving her any embarrassment. The Scotsman tipped his grey felt cap to their host as a mark of respect.
“Just promise me one thing,” she said when Mr Sloane plonked her inside the vehicle. “Promise you’ll—”
“I’ll not take you as my wife, Miss Hart.” He slammed the door shut and instructed the coachman to move on.
Clawing desperation saw Vivienne yank down the window and thrust her head through the gap. The wind whipped her hair into her mouth. “Promise you’ll read the clue on the scroll!” she cried amid the distant rumble of thunder.
But Mr Sloane ignored her plea and strode towards the house. Despite one last effort to gain his attention, he did not glance back.
Chapter 3
“The gentleman is a stubborn mule.” Mrs McCready scowled at the window, though the carriage was already at Keel Hall’s main gate. The thin woman’s mouth rarely curled into a smile. Years spent battling the harsh Highland weather had left her with ruddy cheeks and a permanent frown.
“Och, the lad needs time.” As usual, Buchanan’s summary carried the measure of the situation. “The lass will have said enough to gain his interest.”
Vivienne prayed he was right. “Gentlemen like Mr Sloane are content to keep a mistress and have no need to take a bride. Hopefully, he’ll consider what I’ve said and be intrigued enough to grant me a second audience when I call tomorrow.”
“Well, he didna seem too happy when he dumped ye in the carriage,” Mrs McCready grumbled. “Though the butler’s plan worked well enough.”
“Plan? What plan?”
“To have Mr Sloane sweep ye up into his arms.”
Vivienne’s stomach grew hot at the memory. Any woman would relish the prospect of being he
ld in his strong embrace.
“Aye, the butler is desperate to see his master wed.” Buchanan chuckled as he twirled the ends of his grey moustache. “Though his motives are entirely selfish.”
“No doubt Fitchett longs for the day he can retire before midnight.” During her time spent lingering in the ladies’ retiring room, Vivienne discovered Mr Sloane’s penchant for entertaining guests until dawn.
“The butler fears being hit with another vase and losing the sight in his good eye,” Buchanan added.
“Hit with a vase? Is that why Fitchett wears an eye patch?”
“Aye, a woman in a devil of a temper threw a vase at Mr Sloane. He ducked just as the butler walked into the room.”
Mrs McCready gave a scornful snort. “Mr Fitchett said the master carries a heap of guilt and canna forgive himself. Though he canna be that sorry if he still hosts his wild parties.”
Vivienne silently contemplated her dilemma.
When a man lived with the freedom to do as he pleased, to entertain unscrupulous women, to fill his life with excitement and pleasure, what incentive was there to settle into the tedious humdrum of family life? Not that she expected anything from Evan Sloane other than proof of their marriage. After the deed, and after Mr Sloane had used his skills as an enquiry agent to capture the villain out for their blood, Vivienne would travel north and live out her days in the Highlands.
“Well, let’s hope he reconsiders before the miscreant who ransacked my house ventures to Little Chelsea.” The intruder had smashed drawers, ripped feather pillows, slashed paintings, pulled up boards. But he did not find the old mahogany tea chest buried in the garden.
Buchanan shrugged. “Yer mother—God rest her soul—said Lady Sloane destroyed all evidence relating to the contract. The scoundrel will find nothing of interest in the mansion house.”
Vivienne squirmed in the seat. Buchanan would rant and rave when he learnt she had left the priceless documents with Mr Sloane, but she kept no secrets from her mother’s companions.
“Apparently, the matron abandoned the Sloane name and preferred to call herself Lady Boscobel.” Vivienne paused. “And as for the scoundrel finding nothing in the house, I’ve given Mr Sloane the contract and the clue to our lost legacy.”
Buchanan gasped. “Blessed saints!” His cheeks ballooned and his grey eyes bulged. “Tell me I’ve misheard, lass. Tell me the damp air hasn’t dulled yer brain. Ah dinna ken what ye were thinking.”
“The gentleman is probably dancing around the bonfire,” Mrs McCready chimed, “singing his good fortune.”
Having spent his life believing his grandfather was a heartless pirate who plundered the high seas, a life tainted by the association, trust did not come easily to Mr Sloane. Especially considering the terrible time he’d had at school.
“If I expect him to abide by the contract, I have to show him I believe he is honourable.”
“But to give him yer only proof of his family’s debt, lass.”
Vivienne raised her chin. “I have faith in fate, in destiny, in the fact there is so much more to the gentleman than some would believe.”
She couldn’t explain why she trusted Mr Sloane. The certainty of it sat in the pit of her stomach, heavy as an anchor. The man had rescued a child abducted from the street and held prisoner in the slums of Whitechapel. That made him a hero in her eyes.
“And I need a reason to return to Keel Hall,” she continued, clutching the overhead strap when they bounced through a rut in the road.
“There’s no reason to return if he’s destroyed the evidence,” complained Mrs McCready, her expression unsurprisingly glum.
“You must trust me,” Vivienne implored. “Mr Sloane knew nothing of his grandfather’s work as a privateer, yet he kept Livingston Sloane’s portrait.” Had he kept it for the reason he’d stated? Did he really think of himself as a misfit? “Mr Sloane is a man who seeks the truth. I’m confident all will be well.”
Buchanan’s moustache twitched as he smiled. “There’s logic to yer madness, lass. I’ll give yer that. Happen yer mother would be mighty proud.”
The mention of Vivienne’s mother brought a rush of emotion to her throat. The stricken silence that followed carried the gravity of her loss. The last words her mother uttered as she clung to life in her sickbed was for Vivienne to find Evan Sloane. Evan Sloane would honour the contract and keep her safe. Evan Sloane would be her protector.
They all sat in thoughtful contemplation, shivering and staring as rain pelted the windowpanes, their minds conjuring their own morbid memories of the past.
They might have sat quietly until they reached Silver Street, had the sharp crack not pierced the night air and dragged them from their reverie. The coachman’s keen cry followed. The commotion must have spooked the horses, for the carriage rocked violently as the terrified bays bolted forward.
“Damn the devil to Hades!” Buchanan rubbed mist off the window and pressed his nose to the glass. “What evil is this?”
Fear sent Vivienne’s heart slamming into her ribs. Why did she sense the coachman’s issue had nothing to do with the heart-stopping thunderclap? What if someone had followed them from town to Little Chelsea? Someone who wanted to ensure she never found the third clue.
Buchanan shot back from the window. “Quick. Crouch down, lass.” In a state of panic, he tugged her cloak. “That was gunfire, nae a thunderbolt.”
Mrs McCready yelped. “I knew we should have—”
Another shot rang out. The sound of splintering wood suggested the lead ball had hit a wheel spoke. Everything happened so quickly then. The carriage careened left, abandoning the muddy dirt track for the sprawling fields of Little Chelsea. It hurtled over the uneven ground at breakneck speed, throwing them off their seats.
“Cover yer heads!” Buchanan yelled.
“Saints and demons! Stop, you mad beasts!” The coachman’s curses brought some comfort, for at least the poor man wasn’t dead.
The carriage slowed and lost speed, but the rush of relief came all too soon. The vehicle bounced into a ditch, the violent impact snapping the axle and launching them into the air.
Mrs McCready and Buchanan banged heads as the carriage tilted and overturned. The windowpane exploded as it hit a rock on the ground, sending shards of glass flying into Mr Sloane’s plush cab. Vivienne felt the trickle of blood at her temple before noticing the pain. But it was Buchanan’s odd comment that brought bile to her throat, that left her trembling to the tips of her toes.
“Hush, lass, the plague doctor is on the trail. Where there’s a plague doctor, death follows.”
* * *
Legs crossed at the ankles, Evan sat in the wingback chair closest to the hearth, watching the amber flames flicker in the grate. A little over an hour had passed since Miss Hart thrust the tiny scroll into his palm and pleaded with him to read the script—the clue. The clue to what? Pirate treasure? A long lost legacy?
He snorted.
When it came to imaginative plans to snare a husband, Miss Hart deserved a medal of merit. Yet there were many flaws in her tale. If they needed to marry to discover the final clue, surely their lives wouldn’t be in danger until after the event. And he’d known nothing of the contract before this evening. So how had the villain discovered the secret?
But what of this confounding contract?
Livingston Sloane must have known it would never stand up to the scrutiny of the law courts. Perhaps he had meant to appease his rescuer. A way to repay the debt without parting with hard-earned funds. And typical of a scoundrel like Livingston Sloane, he’d left his descendants to deal with the problem.
And yet Evan couldn’t help but smile when he recalled Miss Hart’s earnest explanation.
You’re contractually obliged to marry me, Mr Sloane.
Had she expected him to nod and race to the archbishop for a licence? Surely while spying, she’d discovered he wasn’t the sort to make a lifelong commitment. Nor was he willing to trade his sanity
and freedom for a pot of pirate gold.
So why couldn’t he shake the damn woman from his mind?
Why could he think of nothing but the scroll tucked inside his boot?
I’m placing my trust in you, sir.
Oh, Miss Hart knew how to stir emotion in a man’s chest. She knew exactly what to say to rouse his interest.
A light rap on the door drew Evan from his reverie. “Enter.”
Fitchett appeared. “Sir, I came to see if you required supper.”
Evan arched a brow. “No, you came to see if I’d read the scroll. I’m sure Miss Hart’s attendants explained the reason for her visit.”
“They’re convinced the lady is in danger, sir.”
“Miss Hart is a danger to herself. A young unmarried woman should know better than to call at the house of a man who entertains courtesans. What is it you want me to do, Fitchett? Marry the chit?” Give up endless nights of pleasure for a woman who was most certainly deranged? Definitely not. “And before you ask again, I have no intention of solving her imagined mystery.”
Fitchett inclined his head. “Forgive my insolence, sir. It’s just one cannot help but believe there is some truth to the lady’s claim. It’s a ten-mile round trip, so I know we shouldn’t expect Turton back yet, but I cannot shake the feeling something is dreadfully wrong.”
Evan glanced at the mantel clock and felt a niggle of apprehension. “Have a stable hand saddle my horse, and fetch my hat and greatcoat. If Turton fails to return within the next half an hour, I shall ride into town.”
Fitchett’s shoulders sagged in relief. “A wise decision, sir.”
“How long do you intend to make me pay, Fitchett?” Evan referred to the reason the poor man had lost the sight in his left eye. An accident for which Evan was entirely to blame.
“Pay, sir?”
“How many times will you play the guilt card to force my hand?” Evan would do anything to turn back time and save his butler from the savage temper of a madwoman—and Fitchett damn well knew it.
