Valiant: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 3

by Clee, Adele

“No, sir, though his first note said not to expect him back until morning.”

  That was another odd thing. Howarth must have left London in his search for Golding. Thankfully, Vivienne confirmed it was Buchanan who’d written the note, else Evan might have suspected the masked rider was somehow involved.

  “And what of Mrs McCready?”

  “Gone for a long walk in the garden, sir. She complained about supper, about the house being dusty, about the fact she should be in Silver Street, not stuck in the devil’s lair.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, then.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Mrs McCready can be rather dramatic,” Vivienne said as soon as Fitchett left the room and closed the door.

  “While Buchanan’s talents are obvious, I struggle to see why you entertain the grouch.”

  “Mrs McCready is loyal to a fault. She served as my mother’s companion for years and loved her dearly. Her moods stem from her longing to go home, that’s all.”

  “Back to the Highlands?”

  “Yes.”

  And Vivienne would accompany the woman once this was all over, unless he persuaded her to stay. Perhaps their inheritance was worth a small fortune, enough for her to remain in town.

  Holding that thought, Evan resumed his study of the painting, peering through the looking glass, moving it back and forth to sharpen his focus. He noticed a couple sitting under a tree amid the sprawling fields and did not recall seeing them in the original painting.

  “Might I look at the fan again?” He took the proffered fan and considered the vignettes. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Vivienne immediately closed the book. “What have you found?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, everything leads to Highwood, my country estate.” Evan pointed to the vignette on the fan. “The house in the background is identical to the old Elizabethan mansion. And it’s northeast of here.”

  “Why would it lead there?”

  “Highwood was a wedding gift to Daniel Sloane and Jane Boscobel. When Livingston’s older brother Cecil inherited the viscountcy and the Leaton estates, Lady Boscobel decreed Highwood would go to Livingston’s heir—my father.”

  Vivienne thought for a moment. “Presumably, that’s why Charles Sloane is annoyed. He believes it should have gone to the eldest son.”

  According to Charles Sloane, a pirate’s offspring didn’t deserve to own anything. “Highwood was not entailed, so Lady Boscobel could do as she pleased.”

  They both stared at the painting, lost in thought.

  “Something doesn’t make sense.” Vivienne glanced at the sash window before continuing. “Lady Boscobel’s actions suggest she loved Livingston despite his nefarious antics. Yet she refused to acknowledge the contract, told Lucian Hart she had disowned her son.”

  Evan grew up wondering if the mother and son had shared a bond. Livingston and his wife, Maria, had returned to Highwood weeks before both dying of a fever. And Lady Boscobel had welcomed them, had agreed to raise their son. Why?

  “Wealthy people seek to protect their assets. Perhaps she didn’t want Lucian Hart thinking he could make a claim on the estate. But Livingston is buried in a mausoleum there.”

  “A churchyard in the country?”

  “Not quite. He’s buried on the estate. The fact Thomas Gray’s poem is about death leads me to think we should make the forty-mile journey to Bedfordshire.”

  Vivienne glanced twice at the window, though the curtains were drawn. “I cannot shake the sense we’re being watched. I had the same feeling when we entered Mr Howarth’s shop, and again when we left the office of the Order.”

  Evan gripped her hand and squeezed it gently. His pulse raced. “I’ve felt the same for days, but you’re safe here.” He leant closer and pressed a reassuring kiss on her lips. He longed to touch her, touch her anywhere, touch her everywhere. “No one will hurt you while I’ve breath in my lungs.”

  She stared at his mouth, inching closer as if drawn by his magnetic pull. “But soon I must leave here, Evan.”

  “Let’s not think about that now. We’ve the gift of today. Despite what you said, I cannot forget how good you make me feel, Vivienne, how good we are together.”

  His words inflamed her. She reached for him, her hands sliding wildly over his chest, around his neck, her fingers tugging at his hair. Then she kissed him in a maddening way that had them pushing aside the painting, had him seizing her around the waist, crushing her to his chest.

  They were on their knees, locked together, their tongues deep in each other’s mouths, mating in a fierce frenzy, as if time were precious and they hadn’t a second to lose.

  Hell, he’d never been so aroused.

  Every muscle in his body was as hard as his cock. He gripped her buttocks, massaging in such a way as to tease her sex. Damn, he yearned to push inside her, craved that first thrust.

  She tore her mouth away, fixing him with hungry brown eyes. “I need you, Evan. I need you now. Do you understand?”

  He understood. She needed to feel full with him, needed to satisfy the insatiable ache, needed to feel this invisible yet tangible thing that existed between them, this thing he couldn’t explain.

  “We must be quick.”

  “Just hurry.”

  He sat on the floor, his back against the sofa, his placket open, his cock a rod of iron. Vivienne gathered her skirts to her waist and came to sit astride him as he instructed. She sank down so slowly he almost flooded her with his seed.

  Her head fell back. Her mouth fell open.

  He’d already fallen, fallen hard days ago.

  “Show me how well you ride, love—gallop, canter, you choose.”

  “Let’s start with a teasing trot.” She came up on her knees, moaned as she sheathed him to the root.

  He didn’t care how she rode him. He reached under her skirts, found the sensitive nub, caressed, teased and tormented until she convulsed around him, crying out in ecstasy.

  With some urgency, he pulled out of her body, came by his own hand.

  They sat there, breathless. Yet he knew from the look in her glazed eyes she would want him again before the night was through. He wanted her, too. He wanted to do everything, walk, talk until the early hours, play games, solve cases, probe her body, her mind.

  A sudden knock on the door had him wiping his hand on his shirt in a panic, left them both hurrying to straighten their clothes and look reasonably presentable.

  “Enter,” he called, aware the scent of sated lust hung in the air.

  Fitchett appeared. “Forgive me, sir, but it’s a matter of the utmost urgency. You asked to be informed when I heard from Mr Buchanan.”

  “Has he returned?”

  “No, sir. A boy arrived in a hackney. He brought a note.” Fitchett stepped forward with the salver. “Buchanan paid the boy’s return fare.”

  Evan took the note and read it quickly. “We need to head to town.”

  Vivienne gasped. “Tonight? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, we’re to meet Buchanan in Lambeth, south side of Walcot Square. It appears he’s found Golding and Wicks.”

  Chapter 16

  Walcot Square consisted of two rows of terrace houses facing a communal green, though Vivienne wondered why it was considered a square when it resembled a triangle.

  “You’re certain both men are in the house?” Evan addressed Buchanan in a hushed voice, despite the fact they stood hidden in the shadows.

  “Aye. I met both men when I escorted Miss Hart to the office a few weeks ago. It’s them. Golding answered the door to the fellow in the burgundy coat. He went inside, left two hours later. Then Wicks left and took off towards Kennington Road.”

  “But he came back,” Vivienne confirmed.

  “Aye, stumbling about the street and singing a country ballad. Golding ushered him inside and slammed the door. That was about an hour ago.”

  Vivienne glanced at Evan, though it was difficult to concentrate when remembering
the wanton way she’d claimed his body. Indeed, she would rather be astride him in front of a roaring fire than standing in the dark on a cold, damp night.

  “So,” she said with a shrug. “What’s the plan?”

  With his mouth curled in a wicked grin, Evan looked like Lucifer’s prodigy. “We’ll hammer on the door until someone answers. One’s past seventy, the other a drunken lout, I doubt they’ll run.” He looked at Buchanan. “You’ll remain with us.”

  “I canna wait to hear why the canny old devil lied.”

  “Mr Golding hasn’t exactly lied, Buchanan. He might be hiding here in fear of his life.”

  “You must be cold, Buchanan, and I’m desperate to get home to my bed.” Something in Evan’s tone hinted there was space for her there, too. “Let’s get this over with.”

  They strode across the square, opened the wrought-iron gate of Number 8, and mounted the five stone steps. Evan banged the black door with his clenched fist, raised the brass knocker and slammed it against the plate. No one came.

  Vivienne inhaled. “Someone is home. I can smell stewed cabbage.”

  “Och, the devil just peered through the gap in the curtains.”

  Evan knocked again.

  They heard the scuffle of feet, raised voices and barked orders, before Mr Golding called, “Wait! Wait! I’m coming!” He opened the door and craned his neck to look over Evan’s shoulder. “Hurry. Come inside before every fortune hunter in London knows you’re here.”

  He ushered them in quickly, closed the door and slid the bolt across.

  Vivienne followed the lawyer into the front room. “We’ve been so worried. Out of our minds wondering what happened.” She sat in the chair closest to the hearth as directed, glad of an opportunity to warm her hands, though the thought left her picturing Evan Sloane’s muscular chest. “We feared you’d met a grisly end.”

  “Forgive me, my dear.” Mr Golding gestured to the sofa, and the old thing creaked when Buchanan and Evan dropped into the seat. “We had no option but to leave Long Lane.”

  “I gave you my card,” Evan snapped. “You could have let us know you were safe. Had we not gone to visit Howarth, we would still be wandering aimlessly in the dark.”

  Mr Golding’s weary sigh carried the weight of a seventy-year burden. He sat in the wingback chair opposite Vivienne and shook his head.

  “You must understand. My father swore to follow the instructions set by Livingston Sloane and Lucian Hart. I swore to repay my father’s debt and do the same. My loyalty is to them first and foremost. It was a condition I remove myself from Long Lane, so you couldn’t find me.”

  Evan’s jaw firmed. “Our ancestors underestimated our talents.”

  “I don’t suppose Livingston considered the fact his grandson would be an enquiry agent. Not when your father was raised by one of society’s grand matrons.”

  “Like Livingston Sloane, I do what I please. I do not bow to society’s hypocritical demands.”

  “A philosophy that would have made him proud.”

  Evan’s mood altered—his annoyance replaced by a sad introspection. Vivienne thought she knew why.

  “It’s strange we should feel deeply connected to men we’ve never met.” She considered her mother’s serene temperament, her father’s need for praise. “I share Mr Sloane’s loathing of rigid rules. A trait I must have inherited from my grandfather.”

  Evan managed a smile. “I imagine he would be equally proud, Miss Hart.”

  “All the more reason to continue playing their game.”

  “To prove we have their mettle?”

  “Yes.”

  Buchanan sat forward and glared at Mr Golding. “So, was the office ransacked before ye left or after?”

  A blush tainted Mr Golding’s wrinkled cheeks. He winced. “I’m afraid my aim was to make you fear the worst. We made the mess, you see, made it appear—”

  “Why?” Evan demanded. “For what possible reason?”

  Again, Mr Golding looked pained. “To make it difficult for you to marry. To see if you had the gumption, the initiative, a deep-rooted desire to abide by the contract and follow the clues.”

  Evan muttered something damning beneath his breath. “My newfound respect for my grandfather diminishes by the second.”

  “They’re testing us, Mr Sloane. Making sure we’ve inherited their wisdom, their integrity, before we inherit their wealth. What the eyes do not see, the heart cannot follow. From beyond the grave, they’re creating facades, putting up barriers, dangling bait, all to see if we’re worthy.”

  Evan’s smirk spoke of contempt. “Did they not stop to consider the fact you might have been killed by the masked intruder, by the devil shooting at you in the dark?”

  He had a valid point—but the comment roused her suspicions.

  Was it not Mr Wicks who purchased the masks?

  The odd groaning noise came from Mr Golding, not the old sofa. “You were never in any real danger, not from the masked figure.”

  Not in any danger?

  Suddenly everything fell into place.

  Vivienne gritted her teeth, recalling how terrified she’d been when the carriage overturned in the field. “Your nephew purchased the plague masks from Mrs Mulligan’s costume shop. He followed me to Keel Hall because it was your idea I go there.” Her temper flared. “Mr Sloane is right. I could have been killed in that accident just so you could follow instructions.”

  “Forgive me,” Mr Golding pleaded. “The drunken fool was supposed to fire into the air, not at the coachman.”

  “You! You destroyed the painting of Livingston Sloane!” With a face like thunder, Evan shot to his feet.

  “No, no, no. I took the painting for safekeeping, threw some old bits of wood into the fire to make it seem as if someone wanted to steal your legacy.” Mr Golding started shaking. “Please. Please. If you will just calm your tempers and listen. Please. I doubt my heart can take any more stress.”

  “Stress!” Evan spat. “My life has been an utter nightmare since learning of the contract.”

  A sharp pang in Vivienne’s chest made her catch her breath. It had been far from a nightmare. She’d had the most wonderful time of her life.

  Evan suddenly caught himself. His eyes locked with hers.

  She tore her gaze from his, pressed her lips together to halt her tears.

  “Let me tell you everything,” Mr Golding pleaded, oblivious to her inner torment. “Then you may continue as planned.”

  Evan dropped into the seat. She could feel him watching her, staring, but she focused on Mr Golding. “Let me save you the trouble. You told me to go to Keel Hall and discuss the contract with Mr Sloane. You and your nephew followed me there. Being a gentleman, you knew Mr Sloane would insist his coachman take me home. Then, while your nephew shot at us, you entered Keel Hall and took the painting.”

  “Yes. I’m ashamed to say that is how it happened.”

  “Yet you couldn’t have known we would have an accident, or that Mr Sloane would ride to our rescue. How would you have taken the painting otherwise?”

  Mr Golding dragged his hand down his face. “We surveyed the house, knew the window was often left open, knew to wait until the coast was clear. I had terrible trouble climbing under the raised sash and had to give the jarvey three sovereigns for his help.”

  Vivienne had no sympathy.

  “How did you know where to find the painting?”

  “You told me the butler let you into the drawing room to examine the painting of Livingston Sloane.”

  Heavens! She had told him that.

  “You must understand, my dear, when you first came to me with the contract, my heart leapt at the prospect of helping you secure the legacy. I feared Sloane and Hart’s scheme would die with me, and it would have all been for nothing.”

  “You wished to ensure I played my part,” Evan said coldly. “That’s why you took the painting. As the grandson of a pirate, you knew I would never let anyone steal my bount
y.”

  “I had to bring you together. I had to make sure you found the treasure, else I would have tossed and turned in my grave for all eternity.”

  It was Buchanan’s turn to lose his temper. “So one of ye devil’s broke into the house in Silver Street, made a hell of a mess and left a plague mask to frighten the lass to death.”

  An icy chill ran down Vivienne’s spine.

  She’d spent sleepless nights waiting for the devil to return.

  Fear had taken her to Mr Golding’s office.

  Desperation had taken her to Keel Hall.

  Mr Golding cradled his head in his hands. “The intruder was the impetus needed to give Miss Hart the courage to visit Mr Sloane.”

  Buchanan muttered in Gaelic. “The sooner I get the lass out of this miserable place and back to the Highlands, the better.”

  The thought of sitting amongst the heather, of paddling her feet in the burn, seemed so appealing. Tears welled. Sad, that her heart would always belong to the man who might have been her husband.

  “Then let us solve these clues, Buchanan, so you can take me home.”

  “Aye, lass.”

  An awkward silence ensued, made more difficult as she battled her emotions.

  “Don’t think for one moment you’re safe now.” The lawyer’s grave comment cut through the stillness. “You must take every precaution. Greed lives in the hearts of men. Find the treasure and then return to me in Long Lane.”

  “And why should we trust a word you say?” Evan said bluntly. “Your nephew spends a lot of time at the Old Red Crow, and not just to fill himself with ale. Why not call him in and ask him about his relationship with Bonnie?”

  “Because he’s three sheets to the wind and of no use to anyone. But he visits Bonnie to drown his sorrows. Who am I to deny his quest for peace?”

  The comment must have resonated because Evan paused for thought.

  “Mr Ramsey is an old family friend who knew my father.” The mere mention of the man made Vivienne’s skin crawl. “He also visits Bonnie, and pesters me weekly, insinuating my life would greatly improve if I were his wife. His debts are mounting, as is his need to find the means to pay. Now tell me that is a coincidence, Mr Golding.”