Valiant: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 3

by Clee, Adele

  “You think me handsome?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Why lie? “Handsome and misguided. You’re the one who has been seduced, sir. Your head is spinning. You do not know what to make of me. You’re intrigued by my unconventional character, excited by the prospect of solving this case. The question is, how far will you go to seek answers?”

  Mr Sloane’s slow smile pinned her to the seat. The simple movement of the man’s mouth caused a sudden pulsing at the apex of her thighs. How was he able to caress every inch of her body with nothing more than a sweeping gaze?

  “You’re right, of course.” His buttery-smooth voice melted over her. “I am finding it difficult to determine your character. You possess the wicked mouth of a hellion, yet blush like a wallflower.”

  When one’s life hung in the balance, one had to adapt. “There is nothing wicked about the truth. Perhaps you’re used to hearing falsehoods, having ladies pander to your whims. We haven’t time for misunderstandings.”

  “Then let’s have nothing but honesty between us.”

  Vivienne nodded. “Agreed. Is there something you wish to say?”

  “Indeed.” He moistened his lips. The mere sight of his tongue made her stomach flip. “You’re a riddle, Miss Hart. You possess a man’s courage and a woman’s vulnerability. Logical comments follow illogical statements. Your mouth moves in a way I find annoying and alluring. I have nothing to prove, and yet I need to prove something to you. Why is that?”

  From Mr Sloane’s mouth, the truth was like opium. It brought a wave of euphoria, a rush of confidence. She could become addicted to his compliments and flattery. Never had a man found her mouth alluring. Later, when her mind dulled, she would be plagued by the fact he found her annoying, and another dose of the truth would be the only remedy to banish the doubts.

  “Perhaps you’ve never met a woman willing to hold you to account. If you wish to prove your skill in the bedchamber, know the only man I will bed is my husband.”

  Mischief danced in his verdant eyes. “You may have a change of heart.” Arrogance dripped from every word. “We can discuss marriage and seduction during dinner this evening. But for now, we have a busy day ahead of us. Write a note to your lawyer and arrange for us to meet with him today. Buchanan will ride into town and deliver the missive.”

  Being preoccupied with her lack of clothes this morning, she had not visited Buchanan or Mrs McCready. That said, Mrs McCready would have come to Vivienne’s bedchamber if she were well.

  “You’ve spoken to Buchanan?”

  “Yes, he’s taken a few stable hands to the site of the accident. He left a little after dawn and assured me he would have my carriage returned soon. He’s a competent fellow.” Mr Sloane poured coffee into her cup. “I presume you like the beverage.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “And what of Mrs McCready?”

  “She’s suffering from a terrible migraine and is still abed. The doctor said to expect as much, and she should rest for a few days.”

  While Mrs McCready enjoyed playing the poorly patient, Vivienne wondered if she had another motive for keeping to her bed. The woman’s nerves had been in tatters since learning an intruder had rummaged through her belongings. No doubt she felt safe sleeping beneath Mr Sloane’s roof. Or was she using her injury as an excuse for Vivienne to remain at Keel Hall?

  “While waiting for you to dress, I sketched this.” Mr Sloane removed a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her. “I haven’t mastered Hogarth’s realistic portraiture, but I’ve tried to record every memorable detail.”

  Vivienne scanned the sketch of Livingston Sloane’s portrait. The devilish gent sat by a window overlooking lush fields in the height of summer. To the right of the window hung a painting of a galleon at full sail. In his hand, Livingston held a compass.

  She glanced up and smiled. “It’s a fair attempt, sir.”

  “Only fair?”

  “More than fair considering it’s from memory.”

  “I tried to capture everything pertinent.” He leant closer, close enough for her to catch a whiff of his cologne. The sensual smell of cedarwood and frankincense spoke of a man confident in after-dark pursuits. “But there’s nothing of interest except for the compass in his hand.”

  Vivienne felt certain he had missed something. She closed her eyes and summoned the image of the painting. “Hmm. I recall there being a small table with a book resting on top.” She opened her eyes to find Mr Sloane staring at her mouth.

  He blinked and shook his head. “I once took a magnifying glass to the book but found it impossible to decipher a single word. As such, I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

  “Perhaps it’s not.” When Fitchett kindly let her study the painting, she had squinted at the book until her eyes hurt. “The needle on the compass pointed north, if I remember rightly.”

  “Yes. It pointed to the window. It must mean something because my grandfather held the instrument upside down.”

  Vivienne had made the same observation. A seafaring man relied on his compass the way he relied on the wind. “I agree. Livingston Sloane respected the instrument and would not have allowed the artist to make such a foolish mistake.”

  Mr Sloane relaxed back in the seat. His keen gaze drifted over her simple chignon and the complicated knot in her cravat, tied by his reluctant valet.

  “As we’ve agreed to speak honestly, Miss Hart,” he said, his eyes brighter than she had ever seen them before, “let me say I’m quite impressed by your logical deductions.”

  Vivienne’s heart lurched at the compliment. “I’m glad you can take me seriously when dressed in foppish attire.”

  “Oh, I’ll soon have you out of those clothes.” The gentleman caught himself and added, “You can change the moment we arrive in Silver Street. While my colleagues are all forward-thinking men, I would prefer they understood the gravity of our situation. Dressed like that, D’Angelo will think you’re an actress persuaded to play a prank.”

  “We’re to visit the office of the Order?” A wave of trepidation washed over her at the thought of meeting the intimidating men.

  “I must explain that I cannot take a case while working on this one.”

  Would his friends at the Order sway his decisions? Would she find herself pushed to the periphery, ousted from her role so his colleagues could assist? Had she placed her trust in a man who would discard her at the first opportunity?

  “And as we get closer to discovering the identity of the plague doctor, we might need their support,” he added. “Like Buchanan, they’re highly resourceful.”

  Well, at least he intended to include her. But his colleagues were bound to frown upon the stipulations in the contract. She wondered what they would advise when marriage was the only way to gain the third clue.

  Vivienne pushed to her feet, and Mr Sloane stood, too.

  “Then let us not waste time,” she said. “I presume you have another carriage and coachman.”

  “I do.” Mr Sloane glanced at the toast on her plate and the full cup of coffee. “Do you not want to finish your breakfast?”

  “No. We have a busy schedule.” Once they’d visited Silver Street and she had shown him the documents in her possession, they would make the next necessary call before advancing on the men of the Order. “And we do not need an appointment to visit Mr Golding.”

  “Mr Golding?”

  “The lawyer at Golding, Wicks & Sons.”

  Lucian Hart had hired Mr Golding to oversee all legal matters, though his elderly son now dealt with issues concerning the contract. Before Mr Sloane posed his next question, Vivienne knew the lawyer would be on the gentleman’s list of suspects.

  “So, Mr Golding knows about the clues and the treasure?” Mr Sloane asked, his smooth voice slathered in suspicion.

  Vivienne explained her family’s long-standing relationship with the firm. “Mr Golding knows of the legacy and the clauses we must sati
sfy to obtain our inheritance. That makes him a suspect. Greed consumes the best of men, does it not?”

  “Indeed. But Mr Golding must be in his dotage.”

  “He’ll soon turn seventy. His nephew, Mr Wicks, dealt with most clients but has been relegated to the role of clerk. And yes, before you say anything, we must add Mr Wicks to the list of potential villains, too.”

  “You’ve given the matter considerable thought,” he said with admiration. “Have you added anyone else to your list?”

  Vivienne had thought of nothing else since the night the intruder ransacked her home. “Two people. My father’s friend, Mr Ramsey. He was rather attentive to my mother during her final months and has developed a sudden interest in my welfare.”

  Mr Ramsey often arrived at her home without invitation. He’d asked personal questions about her financial affairs—merely out of concern, of course. Buchanan didn’t like the man and made his feelings known.

  “And the fourth person?” Mr Sloane asked, listening intently.

  Vivienne cleared her throat before broaching the delicate subject. “The fourth person is Charles Sloane, the current Viscount Leaton.” Before he voiced his objection, she added, “I believe Lady Boscobel’s eldest son would have known about the contract she destroyed. She must have forewarned him. Therefore, it stands to reason your relative is aware of what we might gain should we marry. And based on the fact your family believe Livingston Sloane is guilty of piracy, the lord might feel he has a right to claim what should be legally his.”

  Looking somewhat impressed, Mr Sloane said, “Miss Hart, should you ever tire of playing a wallflower, perhaps you might like to work as an enquiry agent.”

  “Are you mocking me, sir?”

  “Mocking you? Madam, you have me on the edge of my seat, hanging on your every word. Indeed, I am beginning to wonder why you need me.”

  It was easy to offer a few insightful comments. Not so easy to tackle a cunning villain alone. But perhaps the gentleman needed reminding why she’d sought him out.

  “I need you to marry me, sir, so we might obtain the last clue. I need your power and influence so we might catch the villain, so I might sleep easily at night, so I might travel the roads without being shot at by a lunatic in a plague mask.”

  “And you need money.”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  He smiled. “If they awarded titles for persistence, Miss Hart, you would be a duchess.”

  “I would make a terrible duchess, sir. I’m wild and unruly and say inappropriate things.” London life was not for her. It had taken a tremendous effort to loiter in the background, watching his every move. No, she was more at home roaming the Highlands. “But rest assured, once we’ve pledged our troth, you need never see me again.”

  Mr Sloane straightened. “Is that a promise?” His amused grin belied the regretful look in his eyes. “If so, let us make haste so I can be rid of you for good.”

  “You might miss me when I’m gone,” she teased.

  “I doubt I shall miss the antics of a wildcat.”

  So why did he sound unsure?

  Chapter 6

  “I cannot dig if you persist in standing so close, Miss Hart.” And the fact her shapely thighs filled Monsieur Lamont’s silk breeches played havoc with Evan’s concentration.

  There were many things a man might do with a woman while alone at the bottom of a secluded garden—scrambling about in the dirt wasn’t one of them. Evan contemplated pulling the lady behind the apple tree and kissing the last breath from her lungs. That would stop all ridiculous talk of marriage. He contemplated kissing her just to see her confidence falter, and to sate the damnable craving that hardened his cock whenever she opened her delectable mouth.

  “I am trying to prevent you from getting wet.” Miss Hart kept her cloak raised above their heads to shelter them from the chill wind and drizzling rain. “Heaven forbid you take ill and I’m left to face the blackguard alone.”

  “Yes, heaven forbid I no longer prove useful.” Evan plunged the shovel into the damp earth. The sudden thud as he hit something hollow brought instant relief. “It’s unwise to keep a wooden tea caddy buried in the ground. It’s likely to rot.”

  “It’s not in the ground but hidden inside a brass-mounted trunk. Your task isn’t over yet, I’m afraid. You must dig a much larger hole. Should I call Buchanan?”

  If she thought he’d surrender his shovel to a man twice his age, she was sorely mistaken.

  Evan dropped the tool and stripped to his shirtsleeves. “Take my coat and wait inside. There’s no point us both getting wet.”

  Miss Hart hesitated. “I’ll not leave you,” she said, ignorant to the fact the words struck a chord deep in his chest. She lowered her cloak and draped the damp garment around her shoulders before grabbing his coat. “And my need to remain here has nothing to do with distrust.”

  “You don’t fear I might steal what’s hidden in the trunk?” Evan gripped the shovel and continued digging, aware of the lady’s gaze lingering on his biceps.

  “I trust you to do what is right, Mr Sloane. Everything about our situation is difficult. I’ll not leave you to deal with any part of it alone.”

  Hellfire!

  Never had he encountered a more accomplished temptress. Miss Hart made sincerity as arousing as sin. One carefully constructed sentence had the power to reach deep down into his soul and stir hidden feelings. The old trunk wasn’t the only thing buried. When a man had no memory of his mother, he filled the gaping hole of loneliness with any rubble he could find.

  Evan continued working in silence. The beguiling woman behind him consumed his thoughts, not the need to uncover the chest.

  “That should suffice,” she said as he exposed the solid lid. “You should be able to slip the key into the lock and flick the catch.”

  Evan thrust the shovel into the dirt, leaving it upright. He brushed his hands and took the small iron key from Miss Hart’s cold fingers. His only thought was sucking life into the slender digits, not crouching and sweeping away the soil.

  The tarnished hinges creaked as he lifted the lid. “How long has the chest been buried here?”

  “Two years. After my father’s death, Lady Hollinshead persuaded my mother to move from Derbyshire to London. That’s when my mother told me about the contract.”

  Evan removed the box wrapped in a coarse linen grain sack. “Did she know I was Livingston Sloane’s only direct descendant?”

  “Mother knew your name, but didn’t urge me to find you until hours from meeting her maker.” Miss Hart gestured to the house. “We should go inside where it’s warm and dry. Rosemary has lit the fire in the drawing room.” She threw him a mischievous grin. “I shall let you look through the documents if you promise not to steal them.”

  He smiled. “Why would I steal them when you trust me with everything you hold dear?”

  Evan followed Miss Hart back to the house. The young maid took their outdoor garments, then brought the tea tray and a plate of Bath cakes to the drawing room. Once nestled into the worn wingback chairs, and having banished the cold from their bones, Miss Hart removed the mahogany chinoiserie tea caddy from the sack and held it on her lap. She unlocked the caddy with a tasselled key before glancing up at him.

  “First, let us put to rest any doubts concerning Livingston Sloane’s chosen profession.” The lady removed a folded letter, tatty around the edges and with slight foxing. “This is a letter of marque held by Lucian Hart, granting him permission to attack enemy vessels in the Mediterranean.”

  Evan took the letter, peeled back the folds and read it quickly.

  “And this is a letter giving Livingston Sloane the same rights.”

  Evan gripped the parchment. The sudden surge of emotion in his chest took him by surprise. He felt a close kinship to his deceased relative, the one he was supposed to despise. Hell, he’d taken enough beatings at school for defending the scoundrel—until he found the strength to fight back.


  “How have you come by this?” He absorbed the information on the page. Mild anger tainted Evan’s tone, anger aimed at Lady Boscobel, not Miss Hart. “Tell me my family knew nothing of its existence.”

  “I don’t know why your grandfather’s document is in this box. I don’t know why your great-grandmother disowned her son when he had legitimate cause to attack foreign ships.”

  Like the wind rattling the sash, Evan’s anger gained momentum. Indeed, he would visit the pompous oaf who had inherited the Leaton viscountcy, the distant cousin who must know something of the tales spun by Lady Boscobel, and then throttle the truth from his lying lips.

  “I can only presume your grandfather gave Lucian Hart the letter before he died,” Miss Hart added. “Both letters bear Lord Anson’s signature, who was the First Lord of the Admiralty. Whatever they were doing in the Mediterranean, it was of some naval importance.”

  Various questions bombarded Evan’s mind.

  Did Lady Boscobel believe her son had carried out acts of piracy? Based on the vile things she’d said about Livingston Sloane, she couldn’t have known the truth. So why had she kept the painting? Why had she refused to use the name Sloane?

  “And this is a copy of the letter instructing Mr Golding’s father to ensure the contract is legally binding. It’s signed by Lucian Hart and Livingston Sloane.”

  Evan gave an amused snort. Miss Hart’s persistence in wishing to marry him distracted from thoughts of his family’s antagonism. “Regardless of what Mr Golding says when we meet him today, the contract cannot be enforced.”

  “Perhaps not,” she agreed, much to his surprise.

  So why did he feel a pang of disappointment?

  “But you will see something of interest listed amongst the articles given to Mr Golding’s father.”

  Intrigued beyond measure, Evan took the letter and studied the contents. It seemed Mr Golding had taken receipt of various items of correspondence. One in particular leapt off the page.

  Letter for the archbishop. Approval for a special licence.