by Clee, Adele
The butler bowed gracefully. “For as long as my impudence serves your best interests, sir. Consequently, in light of Miss Hart’s warning, might I suggest carrying a loaded pistol if you plan on venturing to town.”
“As an agent of the Order, I am always adequately equipped.”
“Of course, sir.”
Fitchett left the room to attend to his duties.
Well, if Evan was going to give Miss Hart’s warning any credence, he may as well read the clue to finding their grandfathers’ supposed legacy. Considering she saw fit to trust him, did he not owe the woman the respect of reading the note?
Reaching into his boot, he removed the small scroll. Energy pulsed in his fingers. His heart raced as he slowly unravelled the piece of parchment. When working for the Order, one learnt to use one’s intuition, to listen to one’s inner guide. These strange physical reactions might convince a man this was part of his maker’s plan.
The clue amounted to nine cryptic words.
A temple for a pauper of Egypt’s icy bones.
Evan read it numerous times. Egypt? Surely Miss Hart didn’t expect him to journey thousands of miles in the hope of searching desert tombs. Still, the lady was right about one thing. Reading the clue had fired his curiosity. Excitement thrummed in his veins at the prospect of solving the mystery. Indeed, he found himself suddenly more than interested to hear Miss Hart’s opinion, more than keen to discover what the hell had happened to his clue.
The chime of the mantel clock dulled his enthusiasm.
Turton should have returned by now. Had a fallen tree blocked the road? Had the torrential downpour left the muddy thoroughfare impassable? A chill ran down Evan’s back. What if Miss Hart’s suspicions were correct and a devious devil sought to stop them finding this supposed treasure?
Evan shot to his feet, though didn’t wait to tug the bell pull. He strode into the hall and was about to shout for Fitchett when the man came hurrying forward, clutching Evan’s hat and greatcoat.
“I fear there’s no time to lose, sir.” Fitchett helped Evan into his coat. “Something is amiss. I can feel it in my bones.”
The sick feeling in Evan’s gut said his butler was right.
Chapter 4
A man needed a raven’s keen sight when scouring the darkness. With so few houses situated along the muddy lane leading to town, and with the moon obscured by dense black storm clouds, there was no light to illuminate Evan’s way.
The driving rain forced him to wipe his eyes every thirty seconds, to steer his horse around broken branches being whipped about by the brisk wind.
How was a man to focus when guilt sat like a stone in his throat?
Turton was more than capable of driving in harsh conditions. But had Evan not ejected Miss Hart so abruptly, he wouldn’t be out combing the road through Little Chelsea.
“Turton!” Evan cried through the roaring gale while scanning the adjacent fields, silently bemoaning his fate.
Damnation!
Perhaps Miss Hart had discovered Turton’s grandfather served on Livingston Sloane’s ship. While Mrs McCready warmed a meat pie and made him a hot toddy for the journey home, Miss Hart was probably quizzing the coachman about his pirate ancestor. Meanwhile, Evan was soaked to the skin, cold to his bones and taking a mighty thrashing from his conscience.
Damn the woman.
She was intent on turning his ordered world upside down.
Salvation came in the form of an approaching rider. If the gentleman had travelled from town, he would have passed a carriage stuck in a quagmire, would have noticed something untoward on the road. Any information would prove useful at this point.
But as the horse drew closer, Evan knew it to be one of his Cleveland bays. Seated on the muscular beast, which had cost him the best part of a hundred and fifty guineas, was a woman riding bareback and astride.
“Sir! Stop!” Miss Hart waved frantically while clutching the reins with one hand. The wind whipped her loose hair about her face, sent her cloak billowing over the horse’s back and croup. She looked every bit a wild Amazonian charging into battle.
The sudden stirring in Evan’s loins proved more shocking than discovering the lady had bunched her skirts to her thighs and rode in her stocking feet.
“Where the hell are your boots?” he said as they brought their horses crashing to a halt in the road. His temper stemmed from his unwelcome arousal, not his mounting frustration. “Madam, I can almost see your thighs.”
It seemed Miss Hart had the ability to turn a rake into a prude.
“Oh, Mr Sloane, thank goodness.” Her breathless pants sent puffs of white mist into the air. “Hurry. Your coachman has been shot in the arm, and your carriage is overturned in a field.”
“What the blazes!”
She gripped the bay with her slender thighs and turned the horse around. “Follow me, sir. I’ve left Buchanan tending your coachman’s wound.”
“Your servant allowed you to ride alone in the dark?”
“Buchanan knows I ride like the devil, and someone had to fetch help.”
For a reason unbeknown he found that comment arousing, too. Hell’s teeth. Miss Hart was a temptress in the guise of a blasted wallflower.
“Come, Mr Sloane. Come quickly.”
Oh, he was one teasing comment away from spilling himself in his breeches. In his current state, he feared following this conundrum of a woman lest he suffer an embarrassing accident.
“Remember, she means to marry you,” he muttered to himself, which dampened his ardour considerably. “Lead the way, Miss Hart.”
She barely gave him time to finish the sentence before bolting off into the blackness, but he easily caught up.
“Where did you learn to ride?” he called as their horses cantered side by side along the muddy track. She had complete command of the powerful animal, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she would take the same masterful approach in bed.
“My father taught me when we lived in Derbyshire,” she replied against the biting wind. “But I learnt to ride properly when visiting my mother’s family in the Highlands.”
“You’ve ridden bareback before?”
She laughed. “Many times. Highland terrain requires one to have better control of one’s mount.”
Perhaps she enjoyed feeling something solid between her legs.
Cursed saints! If he didn’t calm his rampant thoughts, he’d be begging the chit to marry him just to satisfy his curiosity.
“Do Highlanders ride without footwear?”
“Not when the cold nips the toes. My only concern was to fetch help quickly, and I struggled to find my boots amid the chaos.”
The comment drew his mind back to the more important matter of the wreckage and Turton’s wound. “What happened to Turton? I doubt you were set upon by bandits, not on this road.”
“Buchanan said a plague doctor fired the shots, though he had hit his head when he made the strange comment.” Miss Hart’s attention drifted to the fields on her left. “We’re almost at the site of the accident. I’m sure Buchanan will give you an account of what happened.”
Evan followed Miss Hart to the overturned carriage. Someone had released the team of bays from their harness and secured their reins to the rail around the driver’s box seat. There was no sign of Turton or the lady’s Scottish servants.
“Buchanan dragged your coachman behind the vehicle to tend to his injuries,” Miss Hart said as if party to Evan’s thoughts. “The poor man was thrown from his seat when the carriage tipped, and I fear he may have broken his ankle.”
Evan dismounted. It occurred to him that without the luxury of stirrups to aid her descent, Miss Hart would need his assistance. Yet in true bluestocking-come-hellion fashion, the lady leant forward, gripped the horse by the withers and mane and slipped down to the ground.
“There,” was all she said, brushing her hands and giving a satisfied grin.
Women usually used erotic means to gain his attention, y
et Miss Hart’s competent manner held him spellbound.
“Come, Mr Sloane.” She tiptoed over the wet grass and beckoned him to follow. “You should assess Buchanan’s work while I attend to Mrs McCready.”
Evan hurried to the brawny Scot who was pouring whisky from a hip flask over the wound in Turton’s upper arm. Turton lay on top of his greatcoat, a red plaid blanket draped over his legs. Blood soaked the shorn sleeve of his shirt. Thankfully, he was conscious.
“I hear someone shot my coachman.”
The Scot pushed to his feet. He was almost as tall as Evan—half an inch shorter than six-foot-three—and his strong, muscular frame belied his age. Judging by the creases around his eyes and his grey beard, Evan guessed Buchanan had seen sixty summers.
“Aye, I managed to dig out the ball and stitch the wound. I think the injury to the ankle is just a wee sprain, but I’ve made a splint from the damaged wheel spoke and strapped it with material torn from Miss Hart’s petticoat.”
You’ll come to admire their talents in the coming weeks.
The lady’s earlier comment drifted through Evan’s mind, as did a vision of her inadequate undergarments. “You’re a resourceful man, Mr Buchanan.” A quick inspection of the man’s fine wool coat and quality riding boots suggested he was not a servant.
“Call me Buchanan. Only men of the cloth call me mister.”
“Then I thank you, Buchanan, for taking good care of my coachman.” Evan crouched beside Turton and examined his injuries. He doubted a surgeon could have done a better job. “Might you explain briefly what happened on the road?”
Turton grimaced in pain. “The bandit … he must have followed us from Keel Hall, sir. He had … had two loaded pistols. I can’t rightly say what happened after the f-first shot.”
“Don’t trouble yourself now. We can discuss it tomorrow when you’ve rested.” Evan stood and faced Buchanan. “Miss Hart mentioned a plague doctor. Though when the mind is consumed with fear, one is often mistaken.”
“I saw the devil astride a black stallion fifty yards away. He wore a caped coat and a tricorn, hid his face with a white mask.”
Was this a failed attempt at highway robbery, then? The person had an exceptional aim if they hit a moving target while on horseback. And the mask must have hindered his vision.
“Where is he now?”
“The lass fired a warning shot from her pocket pistol, and he disappeared into the night.”
It seemed the lass was as brave as she was reckless.
“So the mask had an extended beak, like the ones once worn by physicians treating victims of the disease?” The ones worn to masquerade balls by weak men who enjoyed intimidating young women. Was it the shooter’s intention to frighten Miss Hart? Was Turton’s injury a case of the person firing blindly in the blackness?
“Aye, sir.”
“And you determined that from such a distance in the dark?”
“When the devil fired, I glimpsed the mask as the charge ignited.” Buchanan glanced at Miss Hart, who was kneeling on the wet grass, examining the Scottish woman’s head. He shuffled closer to Evan and lowered his voice. “The intruder, the one who ransacked the lass’ home.” The man spoke as if Evan knew of the incident.
“Yes, what of it?”
“He left a mask at the scene, though I couldna tell the lass for fear she’d never sleep soundly again. I took it and hid it in my room.”
“A plague mask?”
“Aye.”
Then Miss Hart’s fears had merit. Someone was willing to go to great lengths to terrify the woman. “And did the intruder steal anything?”
“The lass is canny enough nae to leave prized possessions where some devil might find them. And she owns nothing of value save for the documents passed down from her grandfather.”
As Evan suspected, money was Miss Hart’s motive for wanting to marry him and obtain the third clue. So why had she not readily accepted his offer of compensation? Maybe she believed their legacy was worth a king’s ransom.
“Logic suggests the shooter had no intention of killing anyone, that his motive was to scare Miss Hart into abandoning her plan to have me honour the contract.” A pang of doubt said Evan was wrong in his assumption, and so he took a few seconds to consider what he’d learnt so far. “Or, the devil wants to scare us into marrying and solving the mystery of the missing legacy so he might steal it from under our noses.”
“Aye, I’m inclined to agree with yer second theory.”
Yes, the second explanation sounded more plausible.
A host of questions bombarded Evan’s mind. Indeed, he would need to interview Miss Hart and gather a list of suspects. Who knew about the contract? Who had the skill and cunning to commit a crime? The person had followed Miss Hart to Keel Hall, unperturbed by the storm, and waited patiently for her to leave. Would he have approached the carriage if Miss Hart hadn’t shot at him in the dark?
No, the villain was orchestrating events to suit his purpose, biding his time. Plotting. Planning.
Evan’s pulse soared at the prospect of working this case. He would have to meet with Lucius Daventry, the master of the Order, and explain the situation.
But then another thought struck him.
With the carriage overturned in the field, the villain knew someone would return to Keel Hall for help. Which meant while they were conversing over his coachman’s injured body, the miscreant could be inside Evan’s house, ripping the place apart.
Damnation!
He’d left the blasted contract on the sofa in the drawing room. And Fitchett would fight to the death to stop the thieving blackguard.
“We must return to the house at once.” Evan spoke loud enough for Miss Hart to hear. He crouched beside Turton. “I’ll lift you onto my horse and take you home. Are you able to manage the short journey?”
Turton winced in pain but nodded.
Buchanan swigged from his hip flask before bending down and pressing the lip of the vessel to Turton’s mouth. “Down this, laddie, and we’ll soon have ye tucked into yer bed.”
Miss Hart approached. “Mrs McCready took a bump to the head but can ride with assistance. Buchanan will need to ride with her. We can lead the other two bays back to Keel Hall.”
Buchanan muttered something in Gaelic under his breath.
“It’s your head she hit, Buchanan,” Miss Hart said as if used to their petty quarrels. “It’s only right you take responsibility.” The lady touched Evan’s arm, leant closer and whispered, “Mrs McCready is a terrible patient, and likes to find something to complain about.”
As if on cue, the woman with the dour face began lamenting her fate. “Och, we should have waited. Should have visited the hall at a reasonable hour like normal folk.”
“Well, we cannot waste time here.” Evan decided a woman with Miss Hart’s fortitude could handle the truth. “The villain may be using the opportunity to ransack my house.”
“Ransack your house?” Miss Hart’s captivating brown eyes widened. “Blessed saints. Then we must hurry. Please tell me the clue is still in your boot. And what of the contract?”
Evan was annoyed at himself for not taking the threat seriously. “The clue is in my boot.” He’d slipped it back inside his Hessian before shrugging into his greatcoat. “But I left the contract in plain sight.”
While Miss Hart’s pretty mouth fell open, Mrs McCready whined, “Did I nae say it was a mistake to trust him?”
Miss Hart closed her mouth and fixed her determined gaze upon his person. “It matters not. Mr Sloane has seen and read the contract. As an honourable man, he will do what is right.”
Why did she seem so sure of his character? How was it a lady he had never spoken to until tonight had such faith in him? And why did he find the notion so damnably arousing?
“To anyone else the contract is worthless,” she added.
Evan begged to disagree. “Unless we’re looking for two villains who intend to pose as us. Either way, now is not the
time to ponder the possibilities. My fears may be unfounded, which would render this a pointless conversation.”
“Then let us make haste, sir. We can discuss our plan once we’ve assessed the situation at Keel Hall.”
Miss Hart liked using words like our and we. Usually, any hint of possessiveness had Evan darting for the hills, and yet he couldn’t help but feel he had an ally in this fascinating woman. That didn’t mean he had any intention of marrying her. Hell no! He’d seen what losing a loved one had done to his father. The man had been but an empty vessel going through the motions. A sad remnant of his former self, waiting to die.
Still, as Evan watched the lady ride the Cleveland bay back to Keel Hall, with her shapely calves on show, he decided he liked Miss Hart. Indeed, there was something wild and spirited about her, something he admired, something he longed to tame.
* * *
Chaos erupted when Evan barged into his house carrying Turton. “Fitchett! We need help! Mrs Thorne!” Thank heavens he’d only had to walk a short way, for the man was heavier than expected.
Fitchett appeared, almost tripping over his polished shoes as he hurried through the dimly lit hall. He summoned two footmen to carry Turton to the servants’ quarters, then rang for the housekeeper to attend to Miss Hart’s companions.
“Send a groom to Chelsea.” Evan paused to catch his breath. “To the physician who lives opposite the Botanic Gardens on Paradise Row. Tell him we need assistance now, tonight.” He turned his attention to his housekeeper. “And Mrs Thorne, have the maids prepare rooms for our guests.”
“Yes, sir,” the flustered servants said in unison.
Mrs Thorne, a woman of middling years who had served his father and liked to fuss and dote, sent a maid to heat some water and then escorted Buchanan and Mrs McCready upstairs.
Miss Hart had hurried into the drawing room within seconds of entering the house, desperate to see if the devil in the hideous mask had stolen her precious contract.
