by Clee, Adele
“Do it now,” she breathed upon sensing his sudden hesitance.
He pushed past her maidenhead with one hard thrust.
She gasped, took a few seconds to catch her breath before reassuring him all was well and urging him to continue.
He might have spent time lavishing her breasts, frolicking and feasting, but the intensity of their passion, the urgency for release, had him rocking into her like a lovesick buck.
Vivienne Hart made him feel like a virgin.
She did not lie there demanding pleasure. She hugged every inch of his body, kissed the bulging muscles in his arms, stroked him, looked deep into his eyes as she took every hard thrust. She made him feel like a king amongst men, made him feel worshipped and adored.
Then she did something else new and novel—she cupped his cheek as she found her release, touched him tenderly as she milked his manhood and squeezed him tight. Hell, he managed to withdraw in time, but he wanted to fill this woman with his seed, pour everything of himself into her, leave her soaked, dripping with the evidence of his devotion.
Chapter 14
Howarth’s Mathematical, Optical and Nautical Instruments shop employed two staff. One middle-aged man, dressed impeccably in black and sporting a sturdy pair of spectacles, demonstrated how to use an octant and sighting telescope to his customer. Behind another oak counter, a young fellow with fashionable side-whiskers had numerous quizzing glasses displayed on a velvet-lined tray. Thankfully, the elegant lady inspecting the objects decided she would consult her husband and return forthwith.
After placing the items back inside the glass cabinet behind him, the fellow addressed them directly. “Good morning. May I be of assistance?”
Vivienne chuckled to herself. She wondered what the man knew of magnetism. Could he explain how Evan Sloane compelled her with his indeterminable force? How he wielded an invisible power that left her aching for his touch, longing to join him in bed?
Evan stepped closer to the counter, and she took a moment to admire his magnificent form. “We wish to speak to Mr Howarth,” he said, unaware of her silent appraisal. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”
The man’s expression turned apologetic. “I’m afraid he’s occupied, making a pair of spectacles for a client who is to arrive shortly. If you would care to come back this afternoon, I can schedule an appointment.”
Vivienne gave a discreet cough. “Might you tell him we are worried about a friend? Tell him Mr Sloane and Miss Hart are here at Mr Golding’s behest.”
Evan presented his calling card. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
The assistant appeared disturbed. A scan of Mr Sloane’s card had him hurrying through the door at the end of the counter. He returned with a look of surprise and an invitation for them to join Mr Howarth in his private workshop.
One would expect the workshop of a maker of optical instruments to be full of tools for grinding and turning lenses, with measuring sticks and scientific apparatus. But they were shown into a dark, sumptuous room lit by candlelight, a room filled with curiosities and old tomes, a room carrying the smell of herbs and aromatic oils which grew more potent as they passed the display of unusual glass bottles.
An elderly gentleman, the age of Mr Golding, pushed out of a worn leather chair behind a cluttered desk. “Sloane and Hart. Good heavens. I never thought I’d see the day.” He wiped his hands on his black apron and brushed a swathe of silver hair from his brow. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited?”
“Seventy years?” Vivienne suggested.
Mr Howarth laughed. “Not quite, my dear, but my father knew Livingston Sloane and Lucian Hart and left me with the task of safeguarding the treasure.”
“Treasure?” Evan inhaled deeply and then glanced at the glass tubes in the rack on the desk. “Please tell me our ancestors weren’t opium dealers.”
“Opium? Lord, no.” Mr Howarth’s eye’s glinted with recognition. “Ah, you can smell milk of the poppy. I’m an apothecary by trade, Mr Sloane, but I swore an oath to continue my father’s legacy, and so Mr Jameson and Mr Austin deal with all matters of mathematics and optics.”
Vivienne frowned. “Your assistant said you were making a pair of spectacles.”
“Howarth is a trusted name when it comes to optical equipment and the like, Miss Hart. We must give the illusion I am skilled with a lens.” He leaned closer and tapped his nose. “And though I imagine your ancestors have you darting this way and that, you’re not here to purchase a compass.”
“What do you know of the contract made between Livingston Sloane and Lucian Hart?” Evan spoke in the suspicious manner of a Bow Street constable. Evidently, he wished to draw information from Mr Howarth, not tell him their most guarded secrets.
“A direct descendant of Livingston Sloane is obliged to marry a direct descendant of Lucian Hart. It is a debt owed after Lucian risked his life to save his enemy.”
“His enemy?” Vivienne didn’t hide her shock. She glanced at Evan Sloane, the man who’d made her body sing with pleasure. “I thought they were firm friends.”
Mr Howarth nodded. “They were, after the incident that almost cost Livingston his life.”
“Do you know why they were enemies?” Vivienne wondered if it might be pertinent to the case.
“Perhaps enemy is too strong a word. They were rivals, rivals seeking the same goal until they both realised serving their country was all that truly mattered.” He shrugged. “That’s what my father told me. He said the men discovered a shared hatred for the aristocracy, for the hypocrisy rife in high society.”
Evan’s deep exhalation carried his frustration. “We agreed to abide by the contract. We followed a set of instructions written by our ancestors but relayed through Mr Golding. But now the gentleman is presumed missing, his office ransacked. I confess he expected something sinister to occur, which is why he wrote a letter and insisted we come to you.”
Mr Howarth’s expression turned grave. “Greed is a plague. A blight that scourges the hearts of men. Your ancestors believed only worthy beneficiaries should inherit. Not everyone agrees.”
Vivienne wondered again about Charles Sloane. Resentment radiated from every fibre of his being. Had he not alluded to the unfairness of Evan inheriting indirectly from Lady Boscobel?
“Do you know who would wish to harm Mr Golding?” He seemed like such a sweet man. Whatever wickedness had befallen him had to stem from his knowledge of the contract. “Do you know who might wish to harm us?”
Mr Howarth suddenly stepped forward and gripped her hand. Evan looked ready to grab him by the throat and throttle him, but the gentleman’s concerned mutterings eased the tension.
“Be wary of everyone, my dear, everyone. This is a test of loyalty. A test of integrity. A test that will push you both to the limits of your sanity.”
She might have thought the man overly dramatic had it not been for the devil in the plague mask. The fact the villain had not shot at them again or found another means to attack them proved worrying.
“Everyone knows Livingston amassed a personal fortune. Everyone knows he left nothing but land in his will. It’s a matter of public record, available to read for the price of a shilling.”
“How is it you know so much about my grandfather?” Evan said in the quizzing tone of an enquiry agent. “How did your father know Livingston Sloane? Be trusted by him to keep something so important?”
Mr Howarth shrugged. “I seem to recall they met by chance in a tavern. Both had parents who tried to force them in certain directions. But Livingston helped my father finance his first optical instrument shop. Helped Golding’s father, too. Yes, Livingston Sloane believed all men might rise to greatness if given a helping hand.”
Vivienne stole a glance at Evan Sloane. Chin raised and wearing a satisfied grin, he appeared rather proud of his grandfather. The excited flutter in her chest had nothing to do with Livingston’s benevolence. She cared only about easing Mr Sloane’s pain.
&nb
sp; Mr Howarth took a moment to study Evan Sloane, too. “I met your grandfather a couple of times as a boy. You have inherited his confident bearing. The question is, have you inherited his generous heart?”
On the subject of hearts—and the fact Evan Sloane had captured hers—it was time to press on with their investigation and discuss their wedding.
“Mr Golding said he must witness our marriage before we can receive the clues to finding our legacy. We cannot proceed until we find him.” Vivienne withdrew the sealed letter from her reticule and handed it to Mr Howarth. “Should anything untoward happen, Mr Golding urged us to give you this note.”
Taking the letter between bony fingers, the gentleman hurried to the lamp on his desk and examined the seal. He took hold of the quizzing glass dangling from a gold chain around his neck and studied the red wax.
“Yes, this bears the correct mark.” He broke the wax and peeled back the folds, the lines between his brows deepening as he read.
“Does the note reveal anything of Golding’s fears?” Evan asked.
“I’m afraid not. Rest assured, there are a few places where I might look for him.”
“Assuming he has not met a tragic end.”
“Just so. Just so.” A weary sigh left the man’s lips. “Well, I am instructed to inform you there has been a change of plan. There is no need for you to marry, and it seems pointless if Golding cannot bear witness. No. We will proceed as if the deed has been done.”
No need to marry?
No need to marry!
Vivienne clutched her hand to her chest. It took tremendous effort not to stumble back in shock. No need to marry? My, she felt the pain of those words like a stab to the stomach. She had got used to the idea of waking next to Evan Sloane each morning—if only for a short while.
“Pointless?” Anger and disbelief warred in Evan’s clipped tone. “But if we do not marry, I cannot honour my grandfather’s debt. I cannot … I cannot—” He broke off, his wide eyes searching her face, gauging her reaction.
Mr Howarth looked almost apologetic. “On that, I cannot comment. I am simply instructed to give you your wedding gifts.”
“Do you not want to check Golding’s office, confirm we speak the truth?”
“The fact you’ve asked the question tells me I can trust you, Mr Sloane.”
Mr Howarth folded the letter. He dangled the end over the lit candle in the brass stick on his desk. Like the prospect of becoming Mr Sloane’s wife, the paper disintegrated, shrivelling to nothing but blackened ash.
Mr Howarth dropped the remnants on the floor and stamped violently to extinguish the flame. Then he reached into the mouth of a skull positioned on a plinth and removed a key. The key belonged to a trunk on the far side of the room, and the man returned to present Vivienne with a fan.
“A fan?” Disappointment marred her tone.
Of what use was it to their investigation?
She spread it with a sharp snap, fanned her face before stopping to examine it in detail. The sticks looked to be ivory, the painted scenes small vignettes, each one depicting the theme of love and courtship. It smelt old and musty. Lord knows why Lucian Hart had left her such a gift.
“And I have something for you, Mr Sloane.” Mr Howarth enlisted Evan’s help to lift a large painting of fruit off the wall. “I trust you’ve brought your carriage.”
Evan appeared equally crestfallen. “I often wonder what goes through an artist’s mind when he paints mundane objects.”
“One must read the symbolism,” she said. “Fruit might represent fertility or the decay that comes with age. A pineapple might signify wealth, an apple the sins of the flesh.”
Her cheeks grew hot as she recalled just how sinful they had been last night. Though was it a sin to show him how much she cared?
Mr Sloane smiled. “Then I might commission a painting of an apple cart.”
“While this is all very interesting,” Mr Howarth interjected, “the wedding gift lies beneath the painting of fruit. Might I suggest you attend to the matter in the privacy of your home?”
She met Evan’s eyes. Their silent exchange held the same burning excitement—an eagerness to find another clue.
Mr Howarth removed his apron and draped it over the desk chair. “Now, I suppose I should get myself over to Long Lane and see what Bonnie has to say about my friend’s disappearance.”
“Bonnie?” Mr Sloane spoke first, though Vivienne was about to ask the same question.
“She runs the Old Red Crow. The woman knows the comings and goings of all those living in the lane.” He blew out the candle in the stick and the one in the lamp. “Is there anything else I might help you with?”
“You have Mr Sloane’s card,” Vivienne said. “Please let us know the moment you find Mr Golding.” Alive hopefully. Not that they needed him to witness a wedding, but she hoped he had not met a tragic end on their account.
The gentleman took his coat and hat off the stand and ushered them out of the workshop that looked more like a necromancer’s spell room. They’d barely stepped out onto the pavement when he bid them a good day and hurried along Oxford Street.
Noticing them standing outside, Buchanan climbed down from atop the carriage and crossed the road. “Let me help with that, laddie, lest ye drop it on yer toes.”
“Buchanan, I’m a man of thirty, not a laddie of ten.”
Vivienne pursed her lips. “It’s an endearment. It means he likes you.”
“Aye, I mean nae offence, sir.” Buchanan took hold of the painting. “I thought the shop sold compasses, nae paintings of fruit.”
Vivienne glanced at Evan, feeling torn between her loyalty to Buchanan and the man who was her lover, not her husband. “It’s a gift for Mr Sloane. A gift from his grandfather.” Though it pained her, she was economical with the truth. She did not mention the hidden clue or the fan she’d thrust into her reticule.
“I’d have thought a seafaring man would have given ye a painting of a ship battling a violent storm, nae a basket of fruit.”
“One must look for the symbolism, Buchanan.” Evan grinned at her as he took hold of her arm and helped her cross the busy thoroughfare. After Buchanan had placed the picture inside the carriage, Evan said, “Might I ask you to do something?”
“Aye, sir. I’m here to help.”
“Did you see the gentleman who left the shop with us?”
“Aye. The elderly man in the burgundy coat.”
“I need you to follow him, see what he does when he reaches Long Lane. A man of his age won’t walk to West Smithfield. Take a hackney and visit the Old Red Crow. Find out what you can about Bonnie, the proprietress. We shall reconvene at Keel Hall.”
Mr Sloane went to thrust coins into Buchanan’s hand, but the Scot refused. “I’ve money to pay for ale and the fare. I’d best be off if I mean to catch him.” And with that, Buchanan pulled his greatcoat across his chest and hurried along the road.
“Hart Street, Turton.” Evan helped Vivienne into the carriage. The second he closed the door and settled in his seat, he mentioned the topic she was hoping to avoid. “Vivienne, about last night. I—I assumed we would marry. I wouldn’t have seduced you had I known … known—”
She laughed, though as ridiculous as it was, a large part of her felt deeply saddened. “While I have no wish to diminish your masculine pride, sir, you were equally seduced. What happened last night stemmed from a mutual attraction. And I certainly have no regrets. Though it sounds as if you do.”
He reached over the gilt picture frame—a barrier wedged between them—and grasped her hand. “I regret nothing.”
She snatched her hand away. Touching him added to her confusion. “Then there is nothing more to say on the matter.” Thankfully, it was but a five-minute drive to Hart Street. Once there, the conversation would turn to the case, not the chaos of emotions whirling around in her chest.
“We will discuss this latest development once we’re home,” he said, watching her constant
ly.
“Keel Hall is your home, not mine. It is foolish to pretend otherwise.”
“Damn it, Vivienne. It’s not my fault Golding instructed Howarth to give us these gifts without proof of a wedding. It is not my fault our ancestors made the pact.”
He was right. They were both mere pawns in a game. “No, it is not your fault, but let’s focus on the case and forget about this confounding attraction that exists between us.”
“Forget?” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Forget the way it felt to be inside you? Forget the way you urged me to drive harder, deeper? Forget the fact I have never felt so connected to a woman?”
“Yes.”
The carriage jerked to a halt outside the townhouse belonging to Lucius Daventry, used as the premises of the Order. Silence enveloped them like a thick shroud, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. They remained silent as they alighted, remained silent when they entered the house and found the other agents seated in the drawing room.
They were not silent enough.
“Evidently, you’ve encountered a problem.” Mr D’Angelo spoke with keen discernment. “If this melancholic mood is an insight into married life, I thank the devil for my bachelorhood.”
Mr Daventry lowered his newspaper and glanced at the painting Mr Sloane had placed against the wall. “Is there a reason you’ve bought a picture of a fruit basket?”
“That’s what married men do.” Mr D’Angelo’s Italian brown eyes glinted with amusement. “They turn into old maids. Next, you’ll find he’s swapped his brandy for fruit punch, his stallion for a lame donkey.”
Mr Cole shook his head. “You have a pessimistic view of marriage, D’Angelo.”
“I have a pessimistic view of life, Cole. Still, when a man buys a painting of—”
“He didn’t buy the painting.” Vivienne couldn’t bear all this talk of marriage. “Mr Howarth gave us the wedding gifts left by our grandfathers. The fruit basket is merely hiding a clue to our legacy.”
