by Clee, Adele
Miss Hart inhaled sharply. “Will you tell them we’re to marry?”
“Of course. They’re my friends and my colleagues.” And he trusted the men implicitly. “We will need their help as the case progresses.”
Villains behaved recklessly when cornered. The wild shot fired by the masked rider had served as a distraction. But instinct said, at some point soon, they would find themselves staring down the barrel of a pistol.
* * *
“Forgive me. I must have something wrong with my ears.” D’Angelo shuffled to the edge of his seat in the drawing room. The man had spent the last thirty seconds gawping. “Did you mention the word marriage?”
Evan gripped the back of Miss Hart’s chair as he stood behind, scanning the men’s shocked faces. “Miss Hart and I are to marry as soon as possible.” He almost heard the clamour of questions forming in their minds. “And no, we were not found in a compromising clinch, nor am I deep in debt or under the influence of opium.”
“But you’re not in love,” Daventry stated, for he did not mince words.
“No, we are not in love, sir,” Miss Hart replied. “And if we knew of another way to solve our problem, we would not take such drastic action.”
All four men stared.
“So let me understand the situation.” Cole rubbed his bearded jaw and narrowed his gaze. “You say your grandfathers made a contract whereby Miss Hart can force you to marry her.”
“Not force,” she said, mildly affronted. “Mr Sloane has a choice.”
“It doesn’t sound as if you’ve given him a choice,” Noah Ashwood added.
Miss Hart shook her head. “Lord Hawkridge,” she began, deferring to Ashwood’s title, unaware he despised the fact he had inherited a baronetcy. “Like Mr Sloane, I had no intention of marrying anyone. Rest assured, once we have satisfied the conditions of the contract and claimed our lost legacy, I shall leave London and never bother Mr Sloane again.”
“But he will be obliged to care for you financially,” Cole said, his expression as dark as Satan’s sanctum. “Knowing Sloane, he will be forever obliged to act as your protector. Evidently, he has the most to lose in this improper arrangement.”
Rarely did Evan’s colleagues annoy him, yet he couldn’t help but jump to Miss Hart’s defence. “It is not her fault my grandfather made the pact. She’s been terrified by a masked intruder, shot at by the same devil who forced my carriage off the road. And while she is a capable woman, she cannot solve these problems alone.”
Again, the room plunged into silence.
Evan caught D’Angelo’s grin. “What is so amusing?”
“Nothing. I thought I detected a hint of admiration in your voice.”
Evan flashed his friend an irate glare. The devil loved nothing more than to tease him. But then D’Angelo had witnessed the murder of his parents when he was just a boy, and so used amusement to mask his permanent pain.
“I admire any woman who thinks logically during trying situations.” Though Evan rarely encountered one amid the widows and courtesans of the ton.
“And so you must marry to obtain a clue to a legacy. A legacy that might amount to nothing more than worthless trinkets.” Daventry snorted. “Why bother? It’s not as if you need the money. Take the thousand pounds offered by this Golding fellow and be done with it.”
Daventry often made provoking statements to uncover the truth.
“You’re missing the point. There is another factor to consider.”
“You speak of this masked devil. Surely there’s a way to stop him without making a lifelong commitment to a woman you hardly know.”
Miss Hart flinched at Daventry’s blunt reply, heightening Evan’s frustration.
“I speak of the fact my grandfather was a privateer, not a pirate. The fact I’ve been lied to my whole life.” He had been made to feel like an outcast, a misfit. Perhaps that’s why he admired Miss Hart. He’d been made to feel inadequate, too, hence his valiant attempts to save the innocent, to approach everything he did with skill and finesse. “I intend to ensure people know the truth.”
D’Angelo leant forward in his seat, his hands braced on his broad thighs. “And what of you, Miss Hart? Despite his heritage, there are women in the ton who would cut off an ear to marry Sloane. Most find it impossible to resist him. What if you make a dreadful mistake and accidentally fall in love with your husband? What if the decision to marry brings a lifetime of regret?”
Miss Hart cleared her throat. “You’re right, Mr D’Angelo, your colleague has a way of stirring excitement in one’s chest. I expect the more time I spend in his company, the more I will grow to like him.”
Evan gripped the top rail of her chair as a rush of euphoria swept through him. Why did it matter what this particular woman thought? Why did he care for her good opinion?
“You’re remarkably honest, madam,” D’Angelo countered.
“Falsehoods are for fools, sir.”
Pride filled Evan’s chest. Few women would withstand the scrutiny of these men. Indeed, he touched her shoulder in a gesture of reassurance. “Honesty is an excellent foundation for marriage. Would you not agree?”
A smile tugged on Ashwood’s lips. “So it would seem.”
“And as for regret, Mr D’Angelo,” Miss Hart said. “Those who count their losses live in a constant state of disappointment. I’m more inclined to count my blessings, and shall be forever grateful to Mr Sloane.”
A darkness passed over D’Angelo’s features. Miss Hart’s words struck a chord. He had spent his life reflecting on his losses, using every form of pleasure to numb the pain.
Daventry spoke, breaking the silence. “Well, as you’re intent on marrying, and we cannot persuade you otherwise, there must be a way we can help you find this masked fiend.”
At the prospect of assisting in a dangerous venture, D’Angelo dragged himself from his melancholic mood. “Now we have overcome our initial shock, explain all that has happened so far.”
With considerable input from Miss Hart, Evan gave a detailed account of recent events.
“You had to kiss the lady in front of the lawyer?” Cole’s frown deepened. “Did you research his background before agreeing to his farcical demands?”
“Golding is acting on behalf of our grandfathers,” Evan reassured. “Of that, there is no doubt.”
D’Angelo grinned. “So you had no issue convincing him of your mutual affection?”
Evan firmed his jaw. “No. No issue.”
“I think my lack of experience helped,” Miss Hart said, “coupled with Mr Sloane’s skill in that department. Mr Golding seemed more than pleased.”
Evan inwardly groaned. D’Angelo would make jests about this until the end of his days. “And so now we need to marry and have Mr Golding bear witness.”
“What happens then?” Ashwood asked.
“I assume our wedding gifts will provide the clues to finding our legacy. In the meantime, we intend to investigate all suspects. Namely, Mr Wicks, Mr Ramsey, Charles Sloane and Lady Hollinshead.”
Evan knew the last name on the list would prove unpopular with Miss Hart, but he did not expect her to gasp and jump up from the chair in open challenge.
“Why have you added the countess to the list?”
“Because it’s likely she knew about the contract, and you used her carriage to visit Mr Golding on the day the intruder broke into the lawyer’s office. She persuaded your mother to move to town. She’s visited Silver Street and knows when no one is home.”
Miss Hart shook her head. “What motive would she have for wishing to steal our legacy? Surely you don’t believe she rode through the fields of Little Chelsea wearing a plague mask?”
“Why not? Perhaps you’re not the only woman to don breeches or ride astride.”
“I might have been killed in the carriage accident.” She touched Evan’s chest lightly as she made her plea—an action that captured the notice of Evan’s colleagues. “The countess swore an oath to
protect me. As my mother lay groaning in her sickbed, the countess gripped her hand and promised to give me the life I deserve. Every ball gown I’ve worn since belongs to her. She has been nothing but generous and kind.”
Evan might have offered an opposing opinion, but the comment about the ball gowns tugged at his heart. He scanned Miss Hart’s plain blue pelisse, worn for warmth not style, observed the simple poke bonnet fixed with new lilac ribbon and a sprig of lavender. When he considered the state of her furnishings at home, it was evident the lady hoped their legacy amounted to a king’s ransom. While Evan had inherited a vast sum from his father, who had inherited his wealth from Lady Boscobel, Miss Hart had been less fortunate.
Daventry coughed to gain their attention. “Miss Hart, good people commit terrible crimes when pushed to the brink.”
Evan touched her upper arm, for he saw the war between logic and loyalty raging in her dark eyes. “Ask yourself why you haven’t told the countess about the contract. You have a host of exceptional qualities, so why did she not round up eligible men to fill your dance card? Why did she leave you alone in the ballroom with those deemed unpopular?”
Tears brimmed as she looked into Evan’s eyes, but she dashed them away. “You know how reckless I can be. I kept to the shadows because I did not wish to embarrass the countess. But you’re right, she did not encourage me to do anything other than watch the merriment from my chair.”
“Then like the rest of society, she is blind to what truly matters.”
What currently mattered to him was making Vivienne Hart smile. He wanted to hear her laugh so hard her ribs ached, to see tears of joy. He wanted to draw a deep moan from her lips as she found her release. He wanted to buy her the finest silk gown, drape rubies around her throat, have every man see what he’d seen when she stood before him in a damp dress and muddy stockings.
Vivienne!
The urge to kiss away her feelings of inadequacy burned. This woman had pushed through his blockade to cause untold havoc with his conscience.
“Should I consider everyone a villain?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion. “Who can I trust?”
He squeezed her arm gently. “You can trust me, Vivienne.”
She gasped upon hearing her given name fall from his lips. Wait until she heard him pant her name as he thrust into her willing body. The kiss had awakened her hidden passions, stirred a craving she would need to satisfy. And a woman need not feel ashamed about making love to her husband.
“You can trust all those who work for the Order,” Daventry added. “Cole will find out what he can about Mr Ramsey. D’Angelo will investigate the lawyer and his nephew.”
“But I’m working on the widow Emery’s case,” D’Angelo countered.
A man claiming to be a wealthy merchant had duped the widow. He had paid for a clock worth two hundred pounds by cheque and vanished after taking delivery. It was a simple case of fraud, and the widow was unlikely to receive recompense, yet D’Angelo seemed overly keen to trace the merchant.
Daventry glanced at D’Angelo. “I’ve no issue with you working both cases.”
“Perhaps I might use my newly inherited title to learn more about the countess,” Ashwood said. He turned to Miss Hart. “I shall be discreet and respectful of the lady’s position. The countess will know nothing of my enquiries into her background.”
Miss Hart gave a solemn nod.
“Sloane, that leaves you to visit Doctors’ Commons, to question Charles Sloane and anyone else you feel is pertinent to the case.” Daventry only had to raise a brow, and Sloane knew what the man meant. Buchanan and Mrs McCready could be considered suspects, too.
“And what of me, sir?” Miss Hart spoke as if she were an appointed member of the Order.
Daventry smiled. “According to Sloane, you have a keen eye for observation, Miss Hart. Might I suggest you use your talents to discover why Mr Golding mentioned the poem by Thomas Gray? It is, without doubt, another clue to finding your legacy.”
Abandoning her solemn mood, Miss Hart clapped her hands with excitement. “If I’ve time, I shall visit the circulating library today.”
“I have a few poems by Gray,” Ashwood said, “and shall have a footman deliver them to your home, Miss Hart. Gray is known as one of the Graveyard Poets. It might be relevant.”
Having failed to mention the lady was removing to Keel Hall, Evan braced himself for more sly grins and twitching brows.
“Most relevant, my lord. Please have your footman deliver them to Mr Sloane’s abode. I’m to reside there until we catch the masked fiend.”
The men swapped amused glances but said nothing other than to probe Miss Hart for information about Mr Ramsey and Mr Golding.
Daventry took a moment to pull Evan aside and gave an inconspicuous nod in Miss Hart’s direction. “She’s far from your usual choice of companion. Original. Spirited. A confusing package of contradictions. You realise you’re out of your depth with this one.”
“Out of my depth?” Evan snorted. He had been drowning for days. “Since meeting her, I’ve barely surfaced for air.”
Chapter 10
Producing a letter signed by a deceased First Lord of the Admiralty caused a stir at Doctors’ Commons. It took three days for the admiralty to confirm it was legitimate, for the proctor to consult the archbishop and for them to summon Mr Sloane to collect the special licence.
And while Vivienne’s examination of Thomas Gray’s poems failed to reveal any answers regarding their legacy, other problems brought a halt to the investigation and their wedding plans.
No one at Charles Sloane’s house in Bloomsbury Square would reveal their master’s direction. After some poking into his distant cousin’s affairs, Mr Sloane discovered the man kept a mistress in Guilford Street near the Foundling Hospital, though she was currently out of town.
Buchanan’s visit to Mr Golding’s office raised concerns. Twice, he’d arrived to discuss the lawyer’s need to attend the wedding, only to find the office locked. The tea seller next door confessed he’d not seen Mr Golding or his nephew for two days.
To complicate matters further, Vivienne found she liked living at Keel Hall. She liked sharing cosy suppers with Mr Sloane, liked their long strolls in the garden, their late-night card games. And although she had woken to the alluring scent of his cologne this morning, he had not visited her bedchamber. Nor had they shared another scintillating kiss.
“So, we have a long day ahead of us.” Vivienne watched him eat breakfast, knowing he must have entered her room during the night, wondering why. “Visiting Mr Golding must be a priority.”
Mr Sloane dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “We’re to visit a costume shop in Holborn after calling on Golding. As I explained last night, the villain bought two identical masks. Hopefully, the shopkeeper will remember the purchase.”
During a game of Question and Command, he revealed the intruder had left a plague mask in Vivienne’s home. The strange calling card was a means to frighten and intimidate. To prevent her from making an alliance with the gentleman who’d consumed her thoughts ever since their passionate encounter.
“I don’t know why Buchanan kept it a secret.”
“He said he didn’t wish to cause you distress.”
She gave a half shrug. “Forewarned is forearmed, is it not?”
“Indeed, though I am just as guilty of keeping it from you.”
“Why is that?”
He fell silent as he studied her face. “A man should protect a woman in his care. Fear is not the emotion I want to see swimming in your eyes, Vivienne.”
Her heart skipped a beat whenever he uttered her given name. Her pulse soared at the mere allusion to something illicit. “Perhaps we should play another game of Question and Command this evening. So I might discover what other secrets you’re keeping.”
“You were lucky last night.” He cast a sinful smile. “Perhaps I shall be the one asking the probing questions tonight.”
“I have n
othing to hide.” Except for her growing attraction to him.
“Then you won’t mind telling me your wildest fantasy.”
A thrum of anticipation coursed through her. She enjoyed the teasing banter, enjoyed every second she spent in his company. The thought of returning to her lonely existence in Silver Street filled her with dread. But finding their legacy was all that mattered. All romantic notions were merely fancy.
“Then finish your breakfast and let’s be on our way. The sooner we accomplish today’s tasks, the sooner we can return home.” And based on the problems of the last few days, things were unlikely to go as planned.
* * *
“Something’s wrong.” Vivienne wiped dirt from the downstairs window of Mr Golding’s townhouse and peered inside. “This is his home and his business premises. He said nothing about leaving town.”
“Based on his odd manner the other day, I think it’s wise to pick the lock and search the house.” Mr Sloane rooted around in his coat pocket and retrieved a ring of unique shaped keys. “Step closer. I need you to hide what I’m doing in case someone alerts the constable.”
Vivienne shuffled closer. “If the constable comes, we can say we’re concerned for the gentleman’s welfare.”
Mr Sloane slipped one key into the lock. “Come closer. Drape your arm around my shoulder and pretend you’re whispering lewd words in my ear.”
“Sir, I wouldn’t know a lewd word if it bit me on the buttock.”
Vivienne ran her hand over his broad shoulder, and moved so close his arm brushed against her breasts as he fiddled with the keys.
Mr Sloane cast her a sidelong glance. “How can I concentrate on picking the lock when all I can think about is nibbling your derriere, when all I can feel is the soft curve of your breast?”
Heavens!
The agreement to speak honestly often brought an unwelcome blush to her cheeks.
“You’re the one who asked me to play the fawning mistress.”
“Continue in this vein, Miss Hart, and I’m likely to make you my mistress before I make you my wife.”
