Valiant: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 3

by Clee, Adele

  “I admit to feeling some relief, Miss Hart. One cannot help but think the intruder who ransacked my office was looking for a clue to locating your legacy. In all honesty, I long to be free of the burden.”

  Mr Sloane’s gaze shot in Vivienne’s direction before settling on the lawyer. “Someone broke into your office?”

  “Yes. Almost two weeks ago now.”

  “I’d been to visit Mr Golding.” She’d come to persuade him to let her have a peek at the final clue. “It was the day Lady Hollinshead loaned me her carriage. The incident occurred late that night.”

  “Did the devil steal anything?”

  “Not that I’m aware.” Mr Golding gestured to the pile of papers on the desk. “Though I’m still checking the files.”

  “Be sure to inform me if you find something amiss.” Mr Sloane removed a card from his coat pocket and placed it on the desk. “You may contact me at the Order’s office in Hart Street.”

  “There’s nothing worth stealing here, Mr Sloane, except for your ancestors’ letters.” The lawyer turned his attention to Vivienne. “Hart Street. What a coincidence.”

  “Hart is a relatively common name, sir, but I prefer to believe in fate, not coincidence.”

  Mr Golding nodded and then consulted his notes. “Well, I suppose we should proceed with the erm, the erm …”

  “Kiss,” Mr Sloane finished.

  The tension in the air was palpable. That said, Mr Golding seemed the most perturbed. “Let’s get the matter over with so we may progress to the next part. Erm, try to pretend I’m not here. Pretend this is your wedding day. Yes, yes, a chaste kiss with some measure of feeling will suffice.”

  Vivienne faced Mr Sloane. “There isn’t much room. Shall we stand behind the chairs?”

  Mr Sloane seemed to find something amusing. “We have all the room we need.” He reached for her hand and pulled her close. “Relax. A kiss is nothing more than a physical expression of admiration.”

  “Yes.” Lord! Her stomach twisted into knots.

  “Begin when you’re ready,” Mr Golding instructed.

  “Well, Miss Hart, it’s time to satisfy my burning curiosity.” Mr Sloane’s sensual voice had her heart thundering in her chest. “Time for you to convince me why we should marry.”

  Vivienne mustered every ounce of courage she possessed. How could she make the kiss memorable when he had locked lips with a host of skilled women? While Mr Sloane had experienced more than his share of carnal pleasure, had anyone ever kissed him like they cared? A man who had never known a mother’s love deserved to feel genuine tenderness.

  Vivienne looked up into the emerald pools that made her knees weak. Without family, with no one to love him, he must feel dreadfully lonely.

  She tugged off her glove, reached up and cupped his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered, stroking her thumb gently back and forth.

  He closed his eyes briefly. “For what?”

  “For understanding I’m not like other women.”

  “You’re unlike any woman I’ve ever met.”

  Vivienne smiled. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  “It was meant as such.”

  Heat swirled in her stomach. “Lower your head, Mr Sloane, else I shall be forced to tug on your expertly knotted cravat.”

  “I rather like the idea of you ruffling my clothes, Miss Hart.”

  Brazenly, she tugged his starched neckcloth. “Then be prepared to be crumpled,” she teased, though her confidence abandoned her the second he bent his head.

  His warm mouth met hers, the mere brush of his lips turning her insides molten. She felt instantly connected, desperately drawn to him in ways she couldn’t explain—drawn to taste the man whose honey-smooth voice made her damp between the thighs.

  His magnetic pull was so strong she wound her arms around his neck, melting into him, moving her mouth in the slow, melding motion that proved highly addictive. Somehow he coaxed her lips apart. Kissed her open-mouthed. Somehow he fired an urgency deep in her core. Stole the breath from her lungs.

  Vivienne pulled away, panting, desperate for more. “Is that … that enough to satisfy Mr Golding?”

  Hunger burned in Mr Sloane’s hypnotic green eyes. “Perhaps we might be more persuasive.”

  Mr Sloane did not bother consulting the lawyer mumbling in the background. Instead, he coiled his arm around her waist like the devil’s tail, a means of drawing an innocent maiden into his inner sanctum, tempting her to sin, sin, sin again. His lips captured hers in a scorching embrace, searing her with his mark, branding her, ruining her for mortal men. Not that she could ever imagine kissing someone else like this—with raw, unbridled lust.

  The first strokes of his tongue set her body ablaze. But he withdrew the pleasure, left her mouth empty, so empty she ached for the return of the wicked organ. Longed for it. Craved it. Yet he continued kissing her, continued rolling his hips against hers in a primal dance that left her sex feeling just as empty, just as deprived. And then he slipped his tongue deep into her mouth, so deep she couldn’t help but moan, moan as he drove her wild with every erotic plunge, moan as he fondled every wet corner.

  Lord have mercy!

  The need to hike her skirts to her waist, to have him wedged between her thighs, proved maddening. It didn’t help that beneath his burning passion she sensed the chill of loneliness. A loneliness she felt compelled to ease.

  Mr Golding cleared his throat. “Yes, that should suffice.”

  But Mr Sloane did not release her from this carnal claiming.

  The lawyer banged on the desk. “I’m perfectly satisfied, sir.” He raised his voice. “Mr Sloane! I can find no objection to your marriage!”

  Like a bucket of ice-cold water, the last word doused passion’s flames. Mr Sloane dragged his lips from hers, yet his heated gaze held her captive. A slow smile tugged at his mouth. Oh, he appeared more than pleased with himself.

  “Did you hear me?” Mr Golding croaked. “I said I am perfectly satisfied, sir.”

  “That makes two of us, Golding.” Mr Sloane withdrew his arm from Vivienne’s waist, though she feared she would struggle to stand unaided. “It’s clear we have no issue conveying our affection.”

  Mr Golding dabbed his brow with his handkerchief. “No. No issue at all.”

  Vivienne’s cheeks burned. Merciful Lord! Like a serpent tempting her to sin, desire slithered through her veins, coiled heavy and low in her loins. The need to grab Mr Sloane’s cravat again and devour his wicked mouth left her breathless. Oh, she was out of her depth with this gentleman. So out of her depth, she would likely drown.

  “Thank heavens you agreed to marry.” Mr Golding seemed rather embarrassed. “Now, I suggest we hasten to the next part.”

  How could she proceed when lust held her in a tight grip? “I presume we’re allowed to open the letter bearing the heart emblem?” The huskiness in her voice spoke of barely suppressed desire. Drat. She was related to a great explorer, surely she was equipped to navigate uncharted territory.

  Mr Golding consulted his notes. “Yes, now you may break the seal and read the message.” The lawyer gestured for her to proceed.

  “Please, you open it, Mr Sloane.” With trembling fingers, she would struggle to break the seal. “I believe I have had enough excitement for one day.”

  Mr Sloane’s arrogant smirk did little to calm her racing pulse, for he looked every bit the confident seducer. He took the letter, tore the parchment around the seal to keep the wax stamp intact, then he peeled back the folds.

  The slight arch of his brow spoke of confusion. “Here we have another clue, or riddle, though I have no notion what it means.” He studied the words on the page before reciting, “What the eyes do not see, the heart cannot follow.”

  While Vivienne repeated the sentence silently, Mr Golding took to mumbling it aloud.

  “Perhaps it speaks of what I have just witnessed,” the lawyer mused. “A physical attraction is the first step to any affair of
the heart. If one notes the potential before them, love will blossom.”

  Mr Sloane snorted his dismissal. “I’m inclined to think it has something to do with the painting of Livingston Sloane. When I examined the book on the table, it was impossible to determine the author’s name, yet you were instructed to give us that information.”

  Vivienne agreed. “Yes, the clue is the book. We couldn’t follow it before because we were scrambling around in the dark. Now we have clarity we must look closely at the poems of Thomas Gray.”

  Mr Sloane cast her a sidelong glance and nodded in agreement. “Let us move to the matter of our wedding.” He motioned to the parchment in his hand. “As this is potentially a clue to finding our legacy, I trust I can keep it.”

  “Yes, as you’ve agreed to abide by the contract, you may keep it.” Mr Golding handed Mr Sloane a final letter. “You’re to present this at Doctors’ Commons. It’s addressed to the archbishop, though his proctor will probably deal with the matter. There should be no trouble securing a special licence.”

  Vivienne’s stomach roiled. She knew she had to marry Evan Sloane, but it suddenly seemed so real, so unnerving. Would he seek to solve the case quickly so they might go their separate ways? Would he expect more heated kisses?

  “And once you’ve witnessed the ceremony,” she said, “what then?”

  “Then I am instructed to present you with your wedding gifts.”

  The slam of the front door followed the sudden thud of footsteps on the stairs. Mr Golding’s eyes widened, and his bottom lip trembled. “Pay it no mind. It is just my nephew going about his errands.”

  If it was just his nephew, why did his complexion turn ashen? Why did the green vein in his temple bulge? Why did he jump up from his chair like a sprightly lad and dart to the door?

  “Are you sure it’s your nephew?” Mr Sloane suspected something was dreadfully amiss, too.

  Mr Golding opened the door a fraction and peered out into the hall. He muttered to himself and hurried back to his desk. “In the coming days, you’ll not know who to trust. I fear someone knows of your legacy and wishes to rob you of your inheritance.”

  The swift change in the lawyer’s countenance proved alarming.

  “Take this note.” Mr Golding dipped his nib into the inkwell. He wrote a few hasty lines, sprinkled pounce from a pot over the wet ink, and shook off the excess. “Should I meet my end before I’m able to see this task through, you’re to give this to Mr Howarth.” He mouthed the man’s name.

  “Mr Howarth?” Vivienne had never heard of the gentleman.

  “Hush. Yes, he’s an optician and an instrument maker.” Mr Golding lit the candle in the brass stick on the desk. He melted red wax over the folds and stamped his seal. “You’ll find him on the corner of Newman Street and Oxford Street. He will only see you if the seal is intact. And place any information relating to the wedding ceremony in my hand, not my nephew’s.”

  Then, before they could question the lawyer’s reasoning, he thrust the note into Vivienne’s hand and ushered them out of the door.

  Chapter 9

  Evan left Mr Golding’s office feeling perplexed. Despite his refusal to marry, he had accepted Miss Hart’s proposal, had agreed to abide by the ridiculous contract. Even more ridiculous were the questions and rhymes written in the tatty black notebook. Beyond the grave, their grandfathers must be laughing at their expense.

  But more bewildering than the fact Evan would soon be married, was his reaction to kissing Miss Hart. Oh, he had kissed plenty of women. Never had he felt such an intense ache, such a desperation to cover a woman’s body and thrust deep. Never had innocence been so damnably appealing. Indeed, he was still dazed by the experience, still compelled by the incessant thrum of lust.

  “Are you in shock, sir?” Miss Hart said as they navigated the boisterous crowd gathered in Long Lane. “You’ve not said a word since Mr Golding shoved us out onto the landing.”

  No, he was too busy tamping down the flames of desire, too preoccupied by Mr Golding’s odd reaction. “If we’re to marry, Miss Hart, you must call me Evan.”

  “Then having shared a heated kiss, you should call me Vivienne.”

  Vivienne. Vivienne Hart.

  He felt as if he’d known the name since the dawn of time. Was that why the collective sound of vowels and consonants stirred such longing in his chest?

  “But you didn’t answer my question,” she added. “I did warn you. Marriage to me is the only way to claim our legacy. Now is not the time to discuss our expectations, but I have one stipulation if we’re to wed.”

  Curiosity burned. “Have no fear, I shall not demand my conjugal rights.” His comment lacked conviction for he could think of nothing but bedding Vivienne Hart. “And you will have your own bedchamber at Keel Hall if that is your concern.”

  Miss Hart gripped his arm as they jostled past the insistent pastry seller, around the drunken oaf sprawled in the gutter, and across the busy thoroughfare. “I presumed those were a given. No, all I ask is you do not entertain your paramour while married to me.”

  Evan almost choked. “Madam, we shall be married until one of us is six feet under. Surely you’re not asking I remain celibate for the rest of my God-given days.”

  “Of course not. I simply ask that you do not conduct affairs while we are living together as man and wife.”

  “Miss Hart, I may hold wild parties and partake in amorous liaisons, but I am not a cold-hearted libertine. I would not disrespect our union by having another woman in the house.” Nor would he seek entertainment elsewhere.

  He felt the heat of her searching gaze.

  “Yes, I almost forgot your pledge. You vowed to do everything possible to fall in love with your wife.”

  The comment caught him off guard. More so, because he had made the oath knowing he would never marry. But he would be this lady’s husband in a matter of weeks, less if the archbishop granted them a licence. Would their marriage be a means to an end or a grand love affair?

  “That does not apply to me, of course,” she added, missing the point entirely. “Ours is an arrangement made partly for profit.”

  It most certainly applied to her. The question was, would he keep the oath? And even if he made every effort to nurture romantic feelings, what’s to say she—

  “Miss Hart?” A gentleman aged sixty with wiry white hair and sagging jowls stumbled into their path. He seemed embarrassed to be seen amid the horde of rowdy revellers. “Miss H-Hart, it is you. How w-wonderful to see you out at the fair,” he lied. The gentleman glanced nervously at Evan, waiting for the lady to make the introduction.

  Miss Hart gripped Evan’s arm a little tighter. “Mr Ramsey, you’re looking well. Are you here to purchase silk or to enjoy the sideshows?”

  “I thought to take advantage of the break in the weather, my dear, stretch the old legs.” Again, he cast a surreptitious glance at Evan.

  “Allow me to introduce Mr Sloane.” She hesitated, clearly not knowing how to explain their connection. “Mr Sloane, this is Mr Ramsey, a family friend.”

  So this was the man Miss Hart had listed as a suspect. Judging by the size of his paunch and the fact walking left him breathless, he was definitely not the masked rider. Perhaps he had an accomplice. Either way, Evan wanted to ensure Mr Ramsey knew the nature of his relationship with Miss Hart.

  Evan inclined his head. “What Miss Hart failed to add is that I am her betrothed.”

  “B-betrothed?” Mr Ramsey’s eyes widened in shock, coupled with a faint flicker of horror. “Betrothed? But this is the first I’ve heard. You must have made the decision rather suddenly.” He forced a smile. “Betrothed, by Gad! Well, I suppose I must congratulate you both on your upcoming nuptials. I trust Mr Buchanan has given him the once over.” His watery laugh trickled to nothing.

  Miss Hart glanced up at Evan with beaming admiration, purely for Mr Ramsey’s benefit, of course. “Buchanan is not my keeper, sir, but he is more than thrilled with my choi
ce. As am I. There is no finer gentleman in all of London.”

  An awkward silence ensued.

  Not that Evan cared. He was busy trying to determine why his heart skipped a beat upon hearing Miss Hart’s praise. Why he wanted to believe the comment reflected her true feelings.

  “Is there something of particular interest to you in Long Lane, Mr Ramsey?” Evan kept all hint of suspicion from his voice. Strange to meet a man on Miss Hart’s list of suspects a hundred yards from Mr Golding’s office, and within minutes of them leaving the lawyer, too.

  “I’m to meet a friend at the tavern and then we’re to watch a bare-knuckle prizefight at some point this afternoon.”

  Ramsey’s rapid blinking said that was another lie.

  “If it’s entertainment you seek, those working the puppetry booth have turned a tragedy such as a plague into a comedic farce.” Evan watched Mr Ramsey’s facial expression with hawk-like intensity. “They’ve dressed the puppets in black cloaks and beaked masks.”

  Mr Ramsey swallowed deeply. “As I say, I’m to meet a friend, and he’s determined to drink himself silly and shout at the brawlers.” With a sudden urgency, he doffed his hat to Miss Hart. “Well, I best be off. I shall call to take tea with you on Friday, my dear. Better not keep Jeremiah waiting.”

  Evan watched the gentleman scuttle away through the crowd.

  “You distrust him, don’t you?” Miss Hart laid her palm gently on Evan’s chest to gain his attention. The tenderness of her touch made his heart swell. It occurred to him that the more they grew accustomed to the idea of marriage, the more intimate their gestures became.

  “He’s meeting someone in the tavern, but not for the reason he explained.”

  “Perhaps we should walk to the tavern and see who enters.”

  “It’s better to gather evidence before confronting the man. I’ll ask D’Angelo to investigate Mr Ramsey’s background.” With the streets brimming with pickpockets, Evan refrained from pulling out his watch and inspecting the time. “Besides, we’re due in Hart Street. We meet on Wednesdays for Daventry’s briefing.”