by Clee, Adele
She smiled, though sadness lingered in her brown eyes. “I’ve enjoyed every second of our adventure.”
He hoped this was the first of many. “Some devil may still attempt to scupper our plans.”
“Do you not think we should tell Buchanan?” she whispered.
“Buchanan is no fool,” came his cryptic reply, for he did not wish to lie. “Come, let’s hurry while the night is clear. The moon is out and will cast a modicum of light, although Mrs Elkin said to expect a storm.”
She arched a teasing brow. “Later, we should play a game of questions. I shall pick the winning card, then knock on your door, soaked to the skin, and demand to know what you really thought of me the night we met.”
He touched her again, stroking her cheek in such a way the servants would know they were lovers. “Let me save some time. I found you as fascinating then as I do now.”
Her eyes brightened. “I find you equally fascinating.”
“Me, or a certain part of my anatomy?”
“Everything about you.” And there it was—the sudden flash of desire—the sign that said one kiss would lead to a night of rampant passion.
Hell.
The wait would be the death of him.
“Let me come to your room tonight.” Never had he sounded so desperate. “There’s something important we need to discuss in the privacy of your bedchamber.” He was already imagining her thighs clamped around his hips, their sweat-soaked bodies writhing in pleasure.
“If you mean to seduce me, Mr Sloane, you must do better than that.”
Being a man who embraced a challenge, he lowered his head. “Let me tell you a secret, something I’ve longed to tell you all day. Let me whisper the words as I make you come, Vivienne.”
Her sigh was more a hum of anticipation.
She stepped back and grinned. “Then let us return to the lake and get this business over with. I’m keen to release you from this heavy burden.”
The mere mention of release played havoc with his imagination. “I’ll dig three feet, that’s all. If we find nothing, we shall resume our search tomorrow.”
At this rate, they’d be staying a week at Highwood.
A week of nightly visits to her bedchamber.
A week of pure bliss.
Yet he knew the devil would appear tonight.
They hurried to the lake, their breathless pants and obvious excitement hinting at the amorous interlude to come. Once there, Evan lit the lantern and studied the painted scene on the fan.
“Tell me where to dig,” he said, for he had lost interest in this particular adventure. Playing Livingston Sloane’s game had become tiresome. But it would be over soon.
Vivienne picked up a twig and dragged it over the damp grass. “X marks the spot. Dig here. Shall I hold your coat?”
“It’s too darn cold. Just keep the lantern aloft.”
She did as instructed, though her chattering teeth and intense gaze made it hard to focus.
“All this exercise will wear you out.” Evidently, she was tired of this game, too, and sought more thrilling entertainment. “Your biceps look like they might burst through the seams of your coat.”
“Have no fear,” he said, throwing a spadeful of soil to join the mound on his right, “nothing will keep me from your bed. Later, you can massage my aching limbs—all of them.”
The sudden thud of the shovel hitting something other than earth drew a shocked gasp from Vivienne’s lips. It reminded him of the day in her garden when discovering the truth about his grandfather consumed his thoughts. Now, his love for this woman informed every thought and deed.
Vivienne crouched over the hole in the ground, moving the lantern this way and that, attempting to gain a better view. “It sounds like you’ve hit a box, but all I can see is a sack. Quickly, Evan. Use your hands to haul it out.”
Evan thrust the shovel into the ground next to the pile of soil. Between them, they wiped away the loose earth to reveal a box wrapped in a coarse linen grain sack.
“It’s identical to the one covering Lucian Hart’s tea chest.” Evan brushed his hands and sat back on the grass before removing the box from the sack.
Vivienne held the lantern while he examined the tea chest similar to the one in which Lucian had stored his letters. “There’s a key in the lock.”
He turned the key, his heart thumping hard in his chest as he anticipated finding hidden treasure inside. A velvet pouch full of rubies. Rare gold doubloons. Disappointment struck when he lifted the lid and his gaze settled on white fur.
“It’s rabbit skin,” he said, confused until he pulled the item out of the box. “Livingston wrapped his letters in rabbit skin.”
“Oh!” Vivienne dropped down beside him and placed the lantern on the ground. “Rabbits are a symbol of good luck.”
“It’s fair to say luck played no part in any of this. We’ve been hunting for treasure worth a king’s ransom and found a pile of grubby letters. And were it not for your keen insight, we might never have found the tea chest.”
She shrugged and held out her hand. “Having gone to all this trouble, we may as well read them.”
He agreed. “It will be proof Livingston wasn’t a pirate. But why we had to follow clues when he could have left them with Golding is anyone’s guess.”
They sat silently on the cold, damp grass, reading the letters, although some parts were illegible.
Vivienne tapped his arm to get his attention. “This one is from Lord Anson, thanking Livingston for risking his life. It seems he single-handily boarded a French vessel and stole back Government secrets. I wonder if that’s when my grandfather came to his rescue.”
“These are more letters confirming Livingston served the Crown.”
“It’s the truth alluded to in Gray’s poem. How might a man be remembered, as a pirate or a loyal servant to his country?”
Still, the heavy weight of disappointment anchored him to the ground. He peeled back the folds of another letter, read the first few lines before his mouth dropped open.
“Hellfire!”
Vivienne came up on her knees, panicked. “What is it?”
Evan covered his mouth with his hand while he reread the damning words. “Now I know why Livingston had us chasing our tails. He needed to make sure this letter didn’t fall into the wrong hands. He needed to know whoever found it could be trusted.”
“Evan, will you tell me what it says before my heart gives out.”
He swallowed numerous times before finding his voice. “My grandfather discovered the name of the traitor who sold Government secrets to the French. It’s a list of dates and locations where the transactions took place. The name of the French spy who moved in society and his English counterpart.” Evan glanced at the back of the letter, at the blank paper devoid of an address or wax stamp. “It’s a letter written to Lord Anson, but never sent.”
“Do you recognise the name of the traitor?” She clutched her hand to her chest. “Please. Tell me it’s not my grandfather.”
“It’s not your grandfather. Like you, Lucian Hart was honest and loyal to a fault.” Releasing a weary sigh, he glanced at the name again. “Should this information be made known, there’s no telling—”
Sensing a presence behind him, Evan stopped abruptly and glanced over his shoulder. A figure moved out from the small group of trees, out of the shadows. Moonlight glinted on the barrel of the pistol he held aimed at their heads.
“Which is why you’re going to give me that letter,” the devil in the plague mask said. The click of the hammer pierced the night air. “Don’t force me to shoot Miss Hart.”
Chapter 18
The figure stood swamped in a black greatcoat. A wide-brimmed hat pulled low over a plague-doctor mask. From his height and build, from the arrogant clip in his tone—a self-assurance born to all aristocrats when held over the font and anointed with holy water—Evan knew the devil was Charles Sloane.
“’Ere, put the letters in the b
ox, place it on the floor and step away.” Charles attempted to alter his accent, but a long stint in the workhouse couldn’t rid this man of his breeding.
“You may as well take off the mask, Charles. No doubt, it’s hard to breathe.” Evan glanced at Vivienne and whispered, “Don’t be afraid. Just do as I say.” He took the small tea chest and opened the lid. “Place the letters inside.”
Her hands trembled as she folded the letters and quickly placed them in the chest. “If we give you the box, what then?” she said. “You’ve one shot in that pistol, and you might miss your target.”
“Then I shall be sure to aim at you, Miss Hart. Sloane won’t give chase. He won’t leave you to die alone.”
Though his tone lacked conviction, Vivienne clutched her cloak to her chest and failed to suppress a whimper.
“Remove the mask, Charles.” Evan kept his temper. “I cannot take you seriously while staring at that ridiculous white beak.” And he wanted to look the blackguard in the eyes when he broke his nose and knocked him on his arse.
As expected, the comment roused the viscount’s ire. “You should damn well take me seriously.” He jabbed the pistol in Evan’s direction. “I’ll not hesitate to shoot.”
Evan doubted Charles Sloane had ever taken a life. Agents of the Order thought twice before shooting murderous blackguards. A coddled fop was unlikely to pull the trigger. Still, Evan could not risk losing Vivienne.
“There’s a reason Livingston buried the incriminating letter in a box beneath this tree. He could not betray his brother. Just as Miss Hart has always known about the contract, you’ve always known the letter naming your grandfather Cecil Sloane as a traitor was hidden somewhere on this estate.”
Charles threw his hat to the ground and tugged off the mask that made him look like a sideshow clown, not a man intent on murder. The burning question was, how had the devil come by the mask?
“My father made me swear an oath to find that damn document, to make sure it never saw the light of day, to destroy the lies written by a pirate to gain his mother’s sympathy.”
His mother’s sympathy?
Past events became clearer.
Lady Sloane reverted to her maiden name to distance herself from Cecil, not Livingston. She must have known Livingston served the Crown, must have begged him to keep his brother’s secret. It certainly explained why Evan owned Highwood, why he had inherited the lion’s share of her fortune.
“You were right when you said Lady Boscobel wanted to divide the family. But it had nothing to do with Livingston. She wished to separate the son who served the Crown from the son who turned traitor.”
Charles took a step forward, his agitation evident. “Livingston lied, lied, I tell you. My grandfather inherited the viscountcy from his uncle. Why in blazes would he want to betray his country?”
Evan recalled the vast sums of money listed in the letter. “If we examine the Leaton estate accounts, we can prove whether Cecil was innocent or guilty. He was already married when he inherited the crumbling seat in Cheltenham. So where did he get the money to restore the property to its former glory?”
“Lady Boscobel-Sloane gave her support,” Charles snapped.
The fool. He’d said exactly what Evan hoped. “Excellent. Then there will be a record of the transaction amongst the accounts.”
Panic flashed in the viscount’s eyes. “Just give me the damn box. What does it matter now?”
If it didn’t matter, Charles wouldn’t be waving his pistol.
“There are other letters naming your grandfather,” Evan lied, “though we’ve yet to find them. Shoot either of us, and the agents of the Order are instructed to search for the hidden documents. What will you do, Charles, slaughter every one of them? Become a murderer as well as the grandson of a traitor? Is it not better to lower the pistol and accept we cannot change the past?”
Like a cornered animal, Charles Sloane bared his teeth and growled his frustration. “You know how it works. One word of this and I shall be shunned from society.”
“That depends on the man. Even the grandson of a pirate can command respect.”
Charles snorted. “Give me the damn box.”
Evan considered all that had happened since this adventure began. Why had Livingston constructed a mysterious game of secrets? What was his objective, his goal? Vengeance? No, he chose not to send the letter incriminating his brother. And why sign a contract and expect strangers to marry? Evidently, he trusted Lucian Hart to raise respectable offspring.
Kindred souls in heart and deed.
Livingston Sloane’s blood flowed in Evan’s veins. The man standing opposite was also his kin. It was up to Evan to decide if they remained estranged, or if he could do something to heal the rift. Charles Sloane was not to blame for his grandfather’s choices. Evan had spent years coming to the same conclusion about his own fate.
However, Charles was responsible for aiming a pistol at their heads.
“I’m keeping the box, Charles, but shall give you the letter incriminating your grandfather, on the condition you answer my questions. The first being, where did you get that mask?”
“The mask? Does it matter?”
“It matters.”
Charles shrugged. “A gentleman by the name of Ramsey came to see me. He had information to sell. He’s the one who told me you were following clues to a chest of pirate treasure.”
Damn Wicks and his drunken mouth.
Damn Bonnie and her loose morals.
Vivienne muttered her condemnation. “Mr Ramsey gave you the mask because he knew we’d been shot at by a plague doctor.”
“He sold me the mask given to him by his informant, said it would be the perfect disguise.”
“Bonnie!” Vivienne huffed. “Someone needs to teach that woman a lesson.” She directed her annoyance at Charles Sloane. “I suppose you followed us here from London.”
Charles hesitated. “I—I knew Livingston’s clues would lead you to Highwood. I’m staying locally at—”
“The coaching inn in Potton,” Evan declared. “This is a small village, Charles. My steward received word you were in the area.”
While Charles cursed, Vivienne looked aghast. “You knew he was here yet didn’t tell me.”
“Bradmore wasn’t completely certain.” Evan had carried the guilt of it all day. “But I didn’t want you pulling a pocket pistol from your thigh belt and getting yourself killed. You should be pleased. My first thought was to lock you in your bedchamber.”
He’d rather suffer an argument than lose her.
“Surely you suspected someone would follow us here, Vivienne. Someone determined to steal our treasure. And we did find treasure. To Charles, the letter is worth a king’s ransom.”
“My mind has been so consumed with solving the clues, I’ve thought of little else.”
Had she not thought of their heated kisses and passionate romps? Had she not thought these feelings they shared ran deeper than mere admiration?
“We wouldn’t be standing here had you not made your intelligent deductions. Charles would have gone to his grave, knowing one day someone would stumble on the truth.”
Charles gave a mocking snort. “If you were expecting me to make an appearance, why dig in the dark? Why not arm yourself and lie in wait?”
Because Evan was tired of playing games—unless it was one of questions and commands, he would never tire of that—tired of racing about like a Bedlamite.
“I have a blade in my boot and could hit you between the eyes before you took aim. But Buchanan would likely shoot you first.”
Evan gestured to a point beyond Charles’ shoulder.
The Scot stepped out from the trees. “Aye, just say the word, and I’ll put a lead ball between his brows.”
“But I don’t need to pull a blade, Charles. And Buchanan doesn’t need to fire his pistol. No, I estimate in three seconds you’ll be on the ground, injured and disarmed.”
It took two seconds for Evan’s
words to penetrate his cousin’s brain. Then the fellow jumped in fright. Too late. For the last few minutes, D’Angelo had been moving stealthily towards them.
D’Angelo moved like a panther in the darkness, fiercely sleek, determined and deadly. His black eyes held a vicious hunger, a need to savage every man who posed a threat. He pounced. A few swift punches and Charles lay bleeding on the ground, D’Angelo hovering over him brandishing the pistol.
“Am I to shoot him, Sloane? We could weigh him down and throw him in the lake, let him rot there until he’s but a slimy bag of bones.”
Playing along with D’Angelo proved entertaining. “I cannot murder my own cousin. And if Livingston Sloane wanted vengeance, he would have named the traitor.”
“Please!” Charles wiped blood off his nose and held up his hands in surrender. “I came for the letter. Just the letter. I cannot cope with the stress, the worry.”
D’Angelo kicked the lord. “The last thing you need is this coxcomb spreading gossip about your grandfather, or jumping out of the shrubbery and threatening the woman you love.”
Vivienne inhaled sharply.
Evan felt the heat of her gaze moving tirelessly over his person. Now was not the time to drop to his knees and surrender to these confounding emotions.
“Let me kill him.” D’Angelo’s growl was almost feral. Make no mistake. If D’Angelo wanted this man dead, a battalion of trained soldiers couldn’t stop him. “Let me end this so you may live your life in peace. No one will find his body. We will spread gossip, say he’s obsessed with an opera singer and followed her to the Continent.”
“Aye, let me shoot him,” Buchanan said, playing his part in this little charade. “The hounds here look like they might rip a man to pieces and gorge on the remains.”
Despite D’Angelo’s ferocious glare, Vivienne was intelligent enough to know both men were bluffing. Still, she decided to even the odds and play along.
“Can you not see the viscount merely wishes to save his family name? As you said, he is not responsible for his grandfather’s misdeeds. Can you not show mercy?”
