by Clee, Adele
“Were it not for the yellow stains and faded ink, I might be inclined to think you wrote this, Miss Hart. It seems our ancestors went to great lengths to remove any obstacles to a potential marriage.”
Miss Hart looked quite pleased with herself as she sat in Lamont’s flamboyant clothes, clutching her precious box. “Are you not curious to know why?”
“Curious to the point of madness.” Particularly when the person who approved the licence must have influence with the archbishop. “Every passing hour brings a new riveting revelation.” Indeed, Miss Hart had swept into his life and knocked him off his feet.
“Oh, we’ve only just begun, Mr Sloane. Wait until the masked devil discovers we’ve visited Mr Golding together.” The lady’s expression darkened, and she shivered visibly. “He is watching our every move and has been for weeks.”
“Then we need to gain ground if we hope to catch him.” He gathered the papers and handed them back to Miss Hart. “We will take the tea caddy with us. Change into something more appropriate and pack a valise. I’ve already asked Buchanan to gather clothes for Mrs McCready.” And to bring the plague mask left by the intruder.
“Pack?”
“You cannot remain here. You and your servants will remove to Keel Hall.” It was the only way he could guarantee her safety. “No doubt we will have a lot to discuss, and I cannot make the trip to town whenever I need to ask a question.”
After a silent deliberation, she said, “You’re right. Few people venture to the wilds of Little Chelsea, and considering the fact we shall soon be married, your suggestion makes perfect sense.” She locked the letters away, clutched the casket to her chest and stood. “What shall I do with Monsieur Lamont’s clothes?”
Evan stood, too. “Leave them here, or throw them on the bonfire. I doubt the poor will want them.”
Before she left the room to slip out of Lamont’s fancy breeches, he couldn’t resist one last look at her tempting thighs. Miss Hart had a body made for sin. Lust throbbed in his loins as he considered every delectable curve. Ironically, she had everything he’d imagined wanting in a wife—strength, courage, a voracious appetite for adventure, a total disregard for propriety. One thing was certain. Miss Hart posed a greater threat to his sanity than the masked fiend.
* * *
For the second time this morning, Vivienne found herself alone in a carriage with Mr Sloane. His commanding presence filled the small space, as did the alluring smell of his cologne. The urge to press her nose to his neck and inhale the exotic scent left her shuffling in the seat. But it was the undercurrent of tension in the air, the strange spark of electricity, that held her in its grip and made it hard to breathe.
The ride to West Smithfield wasn’t particularly bumpy, yet her stomach flipped like a skilled acrobat. Staring out of the window served as a distraction but did little to settle her racing pulse. She felt the heat of Mr Sloane’s penetrating stare despite having her nose pressed to the glass.
It all became too much.
“I’m surprised you let Buchanan ride atop the box.” She forced herself to look at him, and her insides fluttered all over again. “I thought you’d insist on a chaperone. What if I did something disreputable and tried to force you to marry me?”
The gentleman moistened his lips. “We’re in a closed carriage, Miss Hart. Should we wish to partake in anything illicit, there is no one here to bear witness.”
Vivienne sucked in a sharp breath to halt the rising blush. “As most men insist on marrying a virgin, it would be unwise to do anything scandalous in a carriage with you, sir.” And certainly not with Buchanan in earshot.
“I’m not most men, Miss Hart.”
No. He was vastly superior on many levels.
“While I’m confident you’re chaste,” he said in a sensual drawl, “I would prefer my wife had experience in the bedchamber.”
The devil enjoyed teasing her, but she was used to bantering with Highlanders. “Bedding a virgin who happens to be your wife might prove highly satisfying.”
“Fondling innocents is not my forte.”
“You surprise me. Surely a man who values honesty would prefer to feel the true touch of a woman’s lips. A passionate kiss must be better than one feigned for pleasure.”
Mr Sloane laughed. “You want to marry me to gain our ancestors’ treasure. What is there to feel from your lips but desperation and greed?”
The comment stung. The sudden constriction of her throat came as a shock. Water welled in her eyes. Heavens, she couldn’t let the gentleman see her sobbing into her handkerchief, but he’d noticed something was amiss.
“I apologise if I’ve upset you.” He’d softened his tone. “We agreed to speak honestly, Miss Hart. If there is another reason you wish to marry me, then simply say so.”
How could she speak? What could she say? Though blunt in delivery, his words rang with truth—not the whole truth. Yes, she needed to marry him to stop the murderous blackguard, to gain financial security. But she wanted to kiss him, had admired him for weeks. She wanted to feel locked in his strong embrace.
“You want the truth, sir?”
“I deserve the truth, madam.”
Vivienne stayed her tears and raised her chin. “My reasons for wanting to abide by the contract stem from desperation, not greed. But I like you, Mr Sloane.” Her skin tingled just being in his presence. “I’m drawn to the elements of your character that fit so perfectly with mine.”
His searing stare fixed her to the seat.
She would give anything to know his thoughts.
“While our kin shared a love for the sea,” she said, “we share a love for adventure. We both long to escape the humdrum of daily life, long to feel the wind whipping our hair. As a woman, my situation is more complicated. I must strive to provide for myself. Marriage to any man brings a loss of liberty.”
“Not if you married me,” he said, though seemed surprised he’d made the comment. “I believe we should appreciate people for who they are, not try to forge them into someone of our own making.”
Mr Sloane was one of those rare men who shared her views.
“Which leads me back to my earlier point. You have many fine qualities to recommend you, sir. But most important of all, you accept my unconventional character.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m far from accepting. I insisted you change out of Monsieur Lamont’s ridiculous clothes.”
“Only out of concern for me.”
His heated gaze journeyed over her blue pelisse, lingered in shocking places. “And because a lady in breeches appeals to my rakish nature. I cannot concentrate on the case when eye-level with your shapely thighs, madam.”
Vivienne’s heart pounded under his visceral invasion. Mr Sloane had a way of making a woman feel like a wicked temptress. Thoughts of kissing him entered her head, as did the notion of him stroking his large hands over the thighs he so admired.
“However, I must confess to being somewhat curious.” His rich voice raised her pulse another notch.
“Curious? About what?”
“Whether your lips taste of innocence. Whether you would struggle under the weight of experience. Or would the wild woman who rides bareback in the darkness take command of the reins?”
She might struggle at first, but Mr Sloane would tempt a saint to sin.
“There’s only one way to know, sir.”
Mr Sloane rubbed his sculpted jaw as he scanned her body. “Are you saying you want me to haul you onto my lap, Miss Hart, and plunder your mouth in true pirate fashion?”
Oh, he made debauchery sound so inviting. Yet she wasn’t about to surrender just yet. “No, Mr Sloane, I’m saying you will have to wait until our wedding night to find out.”
Chapter 7
According to Miss Hart, the offices of Golding, Wicks & Sons occupied an entire townhouse in Long Lane, West Smithfield. Evan had been so captivated by his conversation with the lady seated opposite, he’d not considered the invariable problems they wou
ld encounter upon reaching their destination.
Being the third day in September, the first day of the infamous Bartholomew Fair, Evan’s carriage came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of Holborn Hill and didn’t budge.
“What’s causing the delay?” Miss Hart gazed out of the window at the hordes of people heading towards Smithfield.
“It’s the Bartholomew Fair. Every cloth merchant in the country has descended on the capital to set up stalls and sell their wares. I’m afraid we may have to walk the short distance to Long Lane.”
“Walk through this rowdy rabble?” Miss Hart clutched her chest. “Then let’s make haste before every cutpurse from the rookeries hones in on their prey.”
Bartholomew Fair was a playground for the debauched and provided a host of opportunities for every crook from Southwark to Shoreditch. “If we’re to walk, you must hold on to me, Miss Hart. Promise not to let go.”
“I’ve heard terrible tales about the fair. I shall cling to you like a leech. Indeed, you will have to prise me from your arm once we reach Mr Golding’s office.”
Even when nervous, Miss Hart proved amusing company. And to think he’d presumed she would be tedious, a dullard, a bore. As with most men, the fault lay with him for not looking beyond the beauties vying for attention, for not appreciating those wallflowers who sat with their hands clasped in their laps, wilting from boredom.
Evan opened the carriage door and vaulted to the ground. He told Buchanan to follow discreetly behind until they reached the lawyer’s office, instructed his coachman to turn right onto Shoe Lane and wait there.
“Take my arm, Miss Hart.” Evan clasped her elbow and assisted her descent.
The lady didn’t need to be told twice. As soon as her feet hit the pavement, she hugged his arm as if they were lovers who couldn’t bear to be parted.
They bustled through the excited crowd, amid the din of hawkers flogging their wares and the raucous laughter of those huddled around a puppetry booth. Although Evan noted a few shady characters lingering in doorways, they arrived in Long Lane without incident.
“Mr Golding’s office is opposite the Old Red Crow,” Miss Hart said.
Like the coffee-houses and alehouses along the row, the tavern proved popular with cloth merchants and those seeking boisterous entertainment. It was only a matter of time before a fight broke out amongst the drunken revellers.
“I assume Buchanan accompanies you when you visit your lawyer?” Evan experienced unease at the thought of Miss Hart wandering these streets alone. Not that it was any concern of his, but still.
“He does, yes, though Lady Hollinshead was kind enough to lend me the use of her carriage the last time I visited.”
Yes, he recalled seeing Miss Hart in the company of the countess. Surely a lady of great social standing would have found a suitor for the daughter of her closest friend. Lady Hollinshead knew enough eligible gentlemen to fill Miss Hart’s dance card. Yet Evan had never seen his wallflower grace a ballroom floor.
“Does Lady Hollinshead know why you came to visit Mr Golding?” he said, directing her across the busy thoroughfare. As an agent of the Order, the smallest things roused his suspicions.
“Of course not. While she has been more than kind since my mother died, I trust no one but you with the sensitive information.”
The swirling heat in his chest seemed to occur whenever Miss Hart vocalised her faith in him. While women fawned over his handsome features, praised his prowess in the bedchamber, none had commented on his character.
“Perhaps your mother confided in her closest friend.”
“Not when the mere mention of hidden treasure would cause untold problems. You’ve seen the lengths people go to in the name of greed. Besides, Lady Hollinshead would have mentioned it. She noticed my preoccupation with you.” Miss Hart brought him to an abrupt halt in front of a neglected townhouse and gazed at the facade. “This is the place.”
Evan was curious to know how she had explained her interest in him. “Did you tell Lady Hollinshead you wished to marry me?”
Miss Hart looked up at him and raised a shapely brow. “I told her I’d heard you were a wild, adventurous sort. She agreed and said you were unsuitable company for an innocent. She will expire from apoplexy when she learns of our impending marriage.”
“Had I a mind to encourage your fantasies, I might agree.” But oh, how he admired her tenacity. “Now, let us harass Mr Golding until he gives us what we want.”
Namely, the last clue without Evan sacrificing his bachelorhood.
“You could strap the lawyer to the rack, crank the handle and stretch him a foot and still he will not give you the answers you seek.”
“I can be extremely persuasive, Miss Hart.”
“Then prepare yourself for a great disappointment.” She pushed open the black paint-chipped door and slipped inside. “He insists on abiding by a set of written rules.”
Evan followed her into the stark hall with its faded blue wallpaper and cracked floor tiles. “Are you sure this is the right place?” Based on the shabby surroundings, he could not imagine anyone hiring the lawyer to present a case. “Do they have many clients?”
“I have no notion.” She mounted the narrow staircase without gripping the dirty handrail. “Perhaps things were different seventy years ago. Perhaps our ancestors chose Mr Golding’s father for a reason unbeknown.”
In retrospect, slovenly men were easier to manipulate. They lacked determination, were not as rigid when it came to rules. Hopefully, Mr Golding conducted business in the same slipshod way he treated his premises.
“We shall knock on Mr Wicks’ office,” Miss Hart whispered when Evan joined her on the first-floor landing. She moved to the door at the end of the corridor. “Mr Golding deals with clients, whereas his nephew fulfils the role of clerk.”
Evan suspected the younger man resented his lowly position in the firm. “Might you permit me to speak on our behalf?”
Miss Hart smiled. “By all means, take the lead.”
He inclined his head to her before knocking on the door three times.
The scraping of chair legs on the boards preceded the scuffle of footsteps and the incessant mumblings of a man who had nothing better to do than talk to himself. Mr Wicks yanked open the door and hit them with his brandy breath.
Excellent. The fool was half-cut at midday and probably didn’t give a damn about rules and regulations. Evan would have the third clue in his possession before the mantel clock chimed the hour.
“Ah, Mr Wicks.” Evan removed a calling card from his coat pocket and gave it to the bewildered gentleman sporting red eyes and a pitiful neckcloth. “I’m Evan Sloane, and you know Miss Hart. We wish to speak to Mr Golding as a matter of urgency.”
The clerk gripped the card between trembling fingers and blinked numerous times in an effort to concentrate on the small script. “He’s with a c-client at present.”
“Then inform him we’re here,” Evan snapped. “Tell him we’ll wait.” It grated that this imbecile held a position when there were many good men out of work, struggling to feed their families.
“Shloane. Shloane.” Mr Wicks swayed as he glanced up at Evan. “Is this about the c-contract?”
“Inform Mr Golding we’re here,” Evan reiterated. He would not deal with a drunken lackey. “Else I shall knock his damn door myself.”
From his room halfway down the hall, Mr Golding must have heard the commotion. A man with wisps of white hair combed over his pate poked his head around the jamb. He took one look at Miss Hart, gasped and retreated inside. Suddenly the door to Mr Golding’s office swung open, and he ushered a woman dressed in widows’ weeds out onto the landing.
“There must be something you can do,” the young woman implored.
Mr Golding clutched the brass handle of his walking stick and stared over the round spectacles perched on his nose. “As I said, you’ve no grounds to contest the will as you were not legally wed. A bigamist has duped you, madam
.”
“But how am I supposed to feed my child?”
Evan couldn’t bear to watch the exchange. Slipping his hand into his coat pocket and retrieving three sovereigns, he strode forward and thrust the coins into the widow’s hand. “I’m afraid it’s all I have with me, but you’re welcome to it.”
Astonished, the woman raised her black veil and gazed at the gold coins. “Thank you, sir.”
With mild embarrassment, Mr Golding said, “Come back tomorrow, Mrs Davies, and I shall see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Mr Golding,” she said and hurried on her way before the man changed his mind.
The lawyer waited until Mrs Davies was out of earshot before turning to his sotted nephew. “Get back into that office and don’t come out for the rest of the day.” He glared at Mr Wicks until the man shuffled back into his den and closed the door. “Forgive my nephew. He’s not been the same since his mother died.”
It was strange how a simple comment altered one’s perception. Suddenly, a drunken lout became a fellow tortured by unbearable pain. It was a lesson on how not to make assumptions without knowing the facts.
“Now, if you would both care to follow me.” Mr Golding gestured to his office.
Miss Hart appeared at Evan’s side and touched his arm. “What a kind gesture, Mr Sloane.”
“I have a weakness for mothers down on their luck.”
“Indeed.”
Evan found he rather liked the glint of admiration in Miss Hart’s brown eyes. It cleansed his soul in a way nothing else could. Equally, the act of giving had a way of lifting a man’s spirits.
They followed Mr Golding into the cluttered office. Evan waited for Miss Hart to sit and then dropped into the seat next to her.
“We’re here to discuss the matter of the contract made between Lucian Hart and Livingston Sloane,” Evan said. “Miss Hart tells me our ancestors hired your firm to deal with all legal proceedings in relation to the matter.”
“That’s correct.” Mr Golding hobbled to the old veneer side table. He retrieved a key from his waistcoat pocket and opened a secret compartment concealed by the faded marquetry. “As you’re here with Miss Hart, I must assume you’re a direct descendant of Livingston Sloane.”
