by Clee, Adele
“He was my grandfather, though I confess to knowing nothing of the contract until Miss Hart made me aware of its existence.”
“I feared no one would come forward to relieve me of my burden.” Placing a steadying hand on the table, Mr Golding removed a leather notebook and doddered back to sit behind his oak desk. “I’m not sure your ancestors expected it either.”
Evan was about to tell the lawyer that he had no intention of honouring the contract. No court in the land would force a man to marry based on a privateer’s oath. But he was keen to learn more before dashing Miss Hart’s hopes.
“Now, let us begin.” Mr Golding opened the black book and flicked to the relevant page. “The first thing to consider is that you can both prove you’re related to my clients.”
“You want proof of our lineage?” Evan scoffed.
Again, Miss Hart touched his arm to bring an element of calm to the situation. “What sort of proof is required?”
Mr Golding consulted his notebook and then glanced at them over his spectacles. “Do you have the men’s letters of marque issued by the admiralty?”
“We do,” she replied. “We have both letters, but they’re locked away in a bank vault.”
The lie fell easily from Miss Hart’s lips. Like Evan, she wasn’t sure she could trust the lawyer and so proceeded with caution. It was a wise move, a wise move indeed.
“Ah.” Mr Golding examined the other notes written on the page. “Then you must both present the clues to the legacy left by your ancestors.”
Clues to the legacy? How in the devil’s name could he do that? The painting of Livingston Sloane was nought but a pile of ash in the grate.
“Present the clues?” the lady challenged. “Lucian Hart would not demand I reveal his secret correspondence.”
“Excellent. It says here that should you give the lawyer the clues, you shall forfeit any claim to the legacy.” Mr Golding ran his bony finger down the page. “Ah, I don’t need to see the clues. But I must ask you both a series of questions, and you must provide the answers.”
The process was more complicated than Evan had anticipated. Livingston Sloane’s instructions were precise and left no room for negotiation. Did that mean the treasure amounted to a vast sum?
“So, the first question is to Miss Hart.” Mr Golding glanced up from his notebook. “A pauper or prince, a knight or knave, who will you save?”
Evan glanced at Miss Hart, who beamed with confidence. “Why, I would save a pauper,” she said, quoting from the nine cryptic words written on the tiny parchment.
“Yes. Good.”
Evan’s pulse pounded in his throat when the elderly gentleman fixed him with a beady stare. “Now a question for you, Mr Sloane.”
Hell. Evan knew nothing about his ancestor’s clue, and could only assume it had something to do with the painting of Livingston Sloane.
“North, south, east or west, which direction suits me best?”
Good lord, it was like a line from a children’s rhyme. Evan couldn’t help but think their ancestors were mocking them from the grave. Still, with quiet confidence, he said, “The answer is north.”
“Excellent. Now back to you, Miss Hart. If you could travel anywhere in the world, my dear, where would you go?”
“While I have a fondness for the Highlands, sir, I believe I am supposed to say Egypt.”
Mr Golding consulted his notebook. “Egypt, yes. The land of the pharaohs.” He glanced at Evan. “Is there anything, sir, that might distract a man from a beautiful view?”
It took Evan a second to realise that was his question. Clearly, Mr Golding referred to the lush fields depicted in the painting. He thought for a moment.
Miss Hart turned to him. “You know the answer, Mr Sloane.”
“I do, Miss Hart.” All thanks to her. Had Fitchett not granted her permission to examine the painting, had she not suggested he had missed something from his sketch this morning, he would be clueless. “I believe the answer is a book. A book might distract a man from a beautiful view.” Yet when he looked at Miss Hart, nothing could drag his gaze away from her brilliant smile.
Mr Golding hummed with pleasure. “This is the point where I’m to ask for the author’s name.”
Miss Hart turned pale. “His name?”
Evan’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. “The writing was illegible. I couldn’t read the name of the book or its author.”
“Good. Good.” Mr Golding fiddled with his spectacles before reading from the notebook. “Then I can tell you it’s a poem by Thomas Gray.”
Thomas Gray?
Was that supposed to mean something? Was it another clue?
“Well, I’m pleased to say you both passed the test.” Mr Golding pushed to his feet, though Lord knows what he intended to do next. He reached for his walking stick and tottered to the veneer table. “No doubt you want to marry posthaste.”
“As to that,” Evan began, but Miss Hart tapped his arm and mouthed for him to wait.
“I presume you have the letter we’re to take to the archbishop,” she said.
Mr Golding bent over the table and inserted a key into a lock hidden at the back. The whirring of cogs preceded the opening of yet another secret drawer. “There are a few letters here for you, yes. I must say it’s been a mighty strain on my heart, keeping them here all this time. But my father made me swear to abide by the oath, and I’m not the sort of man to break a promise.”
Guilt flared, for Evan cared nothing about a pact made seventy years ago. Not when he was the one forced to make the ultimate sacrifice.
“I doubt our relatives expected two strangers to marry. And for what? So they might share a chest of pirate gold.”
Mr Golding retrieved the letters from the velvet-lined drawer and hobbled back to his seat. “Who can say what motivated the men to invent the complicated scheme. Though I remember my father saying Livingston Sloane despised his family and hoped one of his ancestors might inherit his moral character.”
“Moral character?” Evan scoffed but caught himself. Livingston Sloane was not the dastardly pirate he’d been told to loathe. The man had been permitted to hunt foreign vessels in the Mediterranean. Alas, many in society thought the term privateer was a polite name for pirate.
“Both your ancestors detested society’s hypocrisy. Livingston Sloane told my father that an honest man was worth more to the world than the richest prince.”
Pride filled Evan’s chest. He agreed with the statement wholeheartedly, and yet he was the only Sloane who did not value money and position above all else. But an honest man would not marry a stranger in the hope of finding treasure.
“I don’t believe our ancestors want us to marry,” he said. “I believe it is another test to determine our strength of character. To test the depth of our greed.”
Mr Golding pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “You must do what you feel is right, Mr Sloane, even if your choice proves unpopular. Unless I’m mistaken, that is the point your grandfather wished to make.”
“But what are we to do about our pressing problem?” Miss Hart sounded alarmed.
“Rest assured, I shall discover the identity of the devil who seeks to steal our grandfathers’ legacy.” Evan fought the urge to grab the lady’s hand and tell her she had nothing to fear. But he could not protect her night and day. She would return to Silver Street, and he would be five miles away in Little Chelsea.
“Having consulted the notes, I am obliged to offer you a choice.” Mr Golding pushed the clutter of papers aside and placed two sealed letters on the desk. “This is the letter you must choose if you fail to abide by the terms of the contract.” He pointed to the one with a sketch of a swallow perched on a dagger.
Something about the symbol often used by his ancestor roused a crippling sense of dread. Was Miss Hart the delicate creature teetering on the edge of disaster, the one left to fight the blackguard alone?
“Should you choose this option, you will both r
eceive the sum of a thousand pounds and may leave this office without further obligation. Of course, Miss Hart may wish to make a claim for compensation—recompense for the unpaid debt.”
“A thousand pounds?” Miss Hart repeated as if tempted to accept.
“Are you saying if we take the money, the debt to Lucian Hart will be considered unpaid?” Evan attempted to confirm.
Mr Golding’s pale lips thinned. “Yes, Mr Sloane. I shall record that Livingston Sloane’s descendant failed in his obligation to honour the vow.”
Hell’s teeth.
The words were like a sharp blade stabbing Evan’s conscience.
“However, should Miss Hart decide she cannot abide by the pact, then the letters remain sealed until two other descendants come forward to claim the right. Though it will be my nephew who deals with all future matters.”
As Evan had no intention of marrying or siring an heir, the contract would be void, the legacy lost. He found the thought unsettling.
Mr Golding directed their attention to the other letter, the one with a sketch of a heart wearing a princely crown. “Should you agree to marry and honour the contract, you will receive this letter along with permission for the archbishop to grant you a special licence. Though I must warn you. To satisfy the conditions stipulated by your ancestors, you must prove you hold some affection for each other. I have the right to deny your request, to stop proceedings.”
Miss Hart gasped. “Proof? What proof would you need?”
A faint blush crept across Mr Golding’s cheeks. He consulted the notebook twice to be sure. “You must seal the pact with a kiss, Miss Hart.”
Chapter 8
“A k-kiss?” Vivienne stuttered. “You want me to kiss Mr Sloane while you bear witness?” Her pulse thumped hard in her throat. Not that she hadn’t imagined kissing the gentleman—she had considered it twice during breakfast—but not while Mr Golding assessed their performance.
“I cannot believe Lucian Hart intended his relative to make a spectacle of herself in a lawyer’s office.” Mr Sloane gestured to the tatty black notebook on the desk. “Might I see the entry? Might I see where it states a sign of affection is necessary?”
Mr Golding folded the corner of the page, then closed the notebook and handed it to Mr Sloane. “Marriage is a serious affair. Sacrifices must be made when two people come together. This is a test of your mettle, so to speak.”
“My mettle?” Vivienne snorted. “Kissing a man I hardly know in front of a witness seems a cruel way to test one’s nerve.”
The wrinkles on Mr Golding’s forehead deepened. “But intimacy in marriage is key. Your ancestors married for love. It’s the sole reason Livingston Sloane left London. He refused to abide by his mother’s wishes and marry someone she deemed suitable.”
“But we’re not in love, and yet they expect us to marry.”
Mr Golding scratched his head. “Yes, there seems to be a certain hypocrisy here, but we must satisfy the conditions in order to proceed.”
Mr Sloane glanced up from the notebook. “How do you know that’s why Livingston Sloane left London when it’s the first I’ve heard on the subject?”
“That’s what my father told me.” Mr Golding gave a half shrug. “There must be a relative who can support the claim.”
Vivienne craned her neck to look at the notebook, but her attention drifted to Mr Sloane’s muscular thighs and the strong hands clasping the pages. Lord, the man exuded masculinity on every level. Yet those long, capable fingers had cradled her head with remarkable tenderness. There was so much she didn’t know about this man, and yet she would take his name and swear an oath she had no intention of keeping.
“Is Mr Golding correct?” The nervous tremble in her voice was impossible to disguise. “Are we required to prove we share an affection?” There was a definite attraction between them, no more than that.
Mr Sloane met her gaze. One look from those mesmerising green eyes sent a shiver shooting to her toes. “Mr Golding must decide if greed is our motive for marrying. He can only proceed if he believes there is an undeniable connection between us, one that may grow into something lasting.”
Heavens! He sounded remarkably calm, all things considered.
Mr Sloane stood and placed the notebook on Mr Golding’s cluttered desk. “Excuse us for a moment. I would like to speak to Miss Hart privately.”
“Of course. Take as long as you need. I’ve no clients today.”
Mr Sloane cupped Vivienne’s elbow as she stood. “We shall slip out onto the landing and return shortly.”
Vivienne let him guide her from the room. She waited for him to close Mr Golding’s door before saying, “This is ridiculous. I cannot possibly expect you to agree. The money doesn’t matter. It is easy to live modestly in the Highlands. But if you would consider me your client, and seek to discover the identity of the masked devil, I shall be forever grateful.”
She would pack a valise and leave for Scotland today if she thought the blackguard wouldn’t follow. Without knowing the intruder’s true intentions, it was impossible to make plans.
Still clutching her elbow, Mr Sloane drew her closer. “There’s one problem, Miss Hart. I’m uncomfortable with failure. I cannot have it known I broke my grandfather’s oath.”
“Oh. I see.” Vivienne frowned as he’d not cared a whit before. “Why the change of heart?”
“When reading the words written in that old book, I could almost hear my grandfather’s voice. It is impossible for me to walk away now. Trust me, my sudden loyalty to a man I’ve never met shocks me to my core.”
“What are you saying?”
He chuckled to himself. “I cannot believe these words are about to fall from my lips, but I think we should take the letter with the crowned heart. I think we should see this matter through to the end.”
Could he not speak plainly? Could he not make a declaration?
“You think we should marry?”
He laughed again. “Yes. Surely you hoped I would agree. What did you intend to do once we’d found the treasure and caught the man who shot Turton?”
Vivienne heard his question, but could barely form a rational thought. When making arrangements to visit his home, she had planned for every eventuality. Yet she had not expected to feel an instant attraction when he spoke, not expected to admire the man’s honesty or experience the fluttering inside whenever he paid her the slightest attention.
She’d thought they would marry and work on solving the clues, nothing more. Now she would have to kiss the gentleman. Surely he would feel something of her mild obsession when their mouths met.
“Once we’d dealt with our problem and found our legacy, I planned to leave London and return to the Highlands. Buchanan and Mrs McCready long to go home, and there is nothing to keep me here.”
“The Highlands? So far?” He pondered the information for longer than necessary. “If you marry me, Miss Hart, you will never bear legitimate children, never be free to marry a Scot who shares your love for wild adventures.”
A wave of sadness washed over her. She had not considered what she would lose if she married Evan Sloane. Ever since her mother had frightened her half to death with mumbled tales of threats and imminent danger, Vivienne had thought about nothing but the contract, nothing except for forming an alliance with the valiant agent of the Order.
“I’m too reckless to make any man a suitable wife.” She worked hard at being a wallflower. Holding her tongue and curbing her passions was the only way she could mingle in polite society.
“No one can predict what the future holds, Miss Hart.”
“Nothing is guaranteed,” she agreed. “My mother said it’s called the present for a reason, and so the gift of today is all we have.”
A sad sigh left his lips. “Mothers are infinitely wise, are they not?”
In the grave silence that followed, she could feel his pain. He must have spent his life wondering what his mother might look like, dreaming about the wealt
h of love she would have in her heart, feeling the crippling ache of her absence.
“Come, Mr Sloane. If we’re to marry, we must prove to Mr Golding that we might suit.” The longer she stood staring into his tortured eyes, the more she knew she had to pour every ounce of admiration she had for him into that one kiss.
The corners of his mouth curled in amusement. “Though I know you enjoy riding roughshod over me, Miss Hart, I wonder if I might take the lead when demonstrating our affection.”
“Of course.” At this present moment, she would do anything to distract his mind from painful memories of the past. “You should know I have only been kissed once, and that was on the cheek.”
“You speak of a father’s affection?”
Vivienne couldn’t help but laugh. “No, of William Campbell’s. I was sixteen, and it felt like being slapped with a wet fish.”
Mr Sloane’s laugh brightened his eyes. “Then I pray the second time proves more pleasurable.”
The last word rolled smoothly off his tongue. She’d heard tell of his skill with his mouth and hands, but suspected Mr Golding was not looking for the mechanical movements of a seducer.
“On second thoughts,” she said, “let me kiss you first. I will look terribly inexperienced. Then when you do whatever it is you do to make women fall at your feet, it will look more convincing.”
“Agreed.” He gestured to Mr Golding’s door. “Shall we?”
“Certainly.” She gave a confident nod, though her knees trembled.
When they entered the room, Mr Golding looked up from the notebook. “Have you arrived at a decision? If you need more time, you may come back tomorrow.”
“No, we have decided to abide by the contract and wish to marry.” Mr Sloane spoke as if he’d never had a doubt. “We will follow your instructions.”
“Excellent.” Mr Golding grinned. “That is excellent news.”
“You seem most pleased, sir,” Vivienne said, noting his merry countenance.
