Valiant: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 3

by Clee, Adele

  “Mercy?”

  “Please!” Charles howled.

  “Very well. I’ll give you the letter naming Cecil as the traitor.” Regardless of their estrangement, tarnishing the Sloane name would result in repercussions for Evan, too. “But I will keep the rest. I intend to erase the stain from Livingston Sloane’s name and prove he served the Crown. And Charles will help if he wants me to hold my tongue.”

  Charles clutched his broken nose. “I’ll do anything, anything you say if you let me burn that letter, if you help me find the other incriminating documents.”

  Evan tutted. Did this coward not have an ounce of sense?

  “There are no other documents, Charles. Not to my knowledge. I was playing for time. Now, come inside and let Buchanan fix your nose. You must have been out here for hours and could do with a stiff brandy.”

  D’Angelo offered his hand and hauled Charles to his feet. “I’ll keep the pistol.” He grabbed the lord firmly by the arm. “Let me escort you to the house, tell you what happens to those who cross the gentlemen of the Order.”

  Buchanan followed behind, telling the viscount what Highlanders do to the ballocks of men who betray their kin.

  Clutching the box under his arm, Evan turned to Vivienne and slipped his free arm around her waist. She came to him, melding her body to his as if it were as natural as taking a breath.

  “Am I forgiven for not mentioning my suspicions regarding Charles?”

  “We agreed to be honest.”

  “While I doubted Charles had the strength of mind to pull the trigger, I feared you might fire a pistol and force his hand. It was a selfish decision on my part. Selfish because I don’t want to lose you.”

  Her mouth curved into a smile. “When we play our game of questions in my bedchamber later, I might demand to know why.”

  He bent his head and claimed her cold lips, warming them quickly, thoroughly, with the same skill he’d employed in Golding’s office.

  “As I’m likely to lose the game, I shall have to tell you my darkest secrets, my deepest fears.” He would say the words he had not uttered to another living soul.

  “I think an honest conversation is needed.”

  “And a little game of forfeits. Maybe the odd command or two.”

  Touch me. Thrust harder.

  They kissed until their pulses soared, until their bodies ached to join.

  “Are you disappointed?” He whispered against her mouth. “Disappointed about finding letters, not gold or jewels?”

  “No.” The word was a resigned sigh. “As we said, this has never been about money. It’s been about us.”

  It had stopped being about money and duty the moment their mouths met in Golding’s office. “I need to talk to Charles and escort him back to the coaching inn in Potton. Then I’ll wash and change and come to your chamber.”

  She cupped his cheek. “I’ll be waiting.”

  Hands clasped tightly, they walked back to the house.

  They entered the hall to the sound of Charles Sloane’s pained groans emanating from the study.

  “Stop yer damn complaining,” came Buchanan’s frustrated roar. “I need to click the bone into place and yer whining like a wee lassie.”

  “Perhaps I should knock the devil unconscious,” D’Angelo teased.

  Evan came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs and handed Vivienne the small chest. “I have the letter for Charles, but keep this in your bedchamber.” He turned the key in the lock, then slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. “You can’t open it without me. And now I have every reason to prowl the corridors at night.”

  She glanced left and right before coming up on her toes and kissing him in the reckless way he’d come to love. “Don’t be long.”

  “Love, keep kissing me like that and I shan’t go at all.”

  * * *

  “Och, there’s dirt all over yer pretty dress, and grass stains on the knees.” Mrs McCready put her hand to her brow and almost expired. “Thank the Lord yer mother isn’t alive to see ye looking like this.”

  “I can dress myself, Mrs McCready.”

  Vivienne was used to her fretting, but the woman insisted on dragging a thick nightgown over Vivienne’s head. Were it not for Mrs McCready’s unwavering loyalty, the fusspot would feel the sharp edge of Vivienne’s tongue.

  “Do ye want to end up in bed with a fever? What lass in her right mind goes walking in the cold at this late hour? I’ll put an extra blanket on the bed. That should help warm yer bones.”

  If there was one thing Vivienne could guarantee, it’s that she would not be cold tonight. The heat of Evan Sloane’s bare skin was enough to stoke her inner flames.

  “I’ll keep the fire going for a while, lass. Get into bed and drink yer toddy.”

  Anyone would think Vivienne was a child, not a grown woman involved in an illicit affair. Besides, she had downed the drink before undressing, all in the hope of getting rid of Mrs McCready quickly. Perhaps she should go in search of Evan’s room, for the woman had ears like a hawk.

  “I’ve drained the last drop. The glass is empty.” Vivienne climbed into bed, desperate to be rid of her companion. “And I plan to settle beneath the covers and sleep until ten tomorrow.” She imagined being thoroughly exhausted after issuing Evan with a host of erotic commands.

  “Then let me nip downstairs and get you another restorative. I lost yer mother to a fever, and I’ll nae do the same again.”

  Vivienne suppressed a sigh, her annoyance subsiding. How could she be angry when Mrs McCready acted out of love?

  “Very well. I’ll take your medicine if it will make you happy.”

  The instant Mrs McCready hurried from the room, Vivienne’s thoughts turned to Evan Sloane. Excitement and fear mingled together to cause all sorts of odd reactions. The wait for him to come to her room, the anticipation of their lovemaking, left her body trembling.

  She shuffled lower in the bed and drew the blankets over her shoulders.

  Maybe it was fear, fear of the case being over, fear of losing someone she loved, that made her stomach roil. Maybe it was the stresses of the day that made her lids feel so heavy.

  Mrs McCready returned with a root decoction, a bitter-tasting tonic mixed with milk and spices. “Finish this, then I’ll leave ye to sleep.”

  Vivienne sipped the tonic, for she’d cast up her accounts if she drained the teacup quickly. Mrs McCready took to fussing, draping Vivienne’s cloak around the chair by the fire, moving back and forth to the window, tugging down the sash even though the window was closed, rearranging the curtains to keep out the draught—then peeping out again.

  The restorative served as a relaxant.

  The more Vivienne watched the woman, the more her eyelids grew heavy. Mrs McCready approached the bed and stared intently. She took hold of Vivienne’s wrist and checked her pulse. Then she muttered her frustration and pulled back the blankets.

  “Come, lass, I fear that drink is having some strange effect. Let’s get something on yer feet.” She grabbed Vivienne’s ankles and thrust on a pair of satin slippers. “Take my hands now, and let’s have a wee walk about the room.”

  It took three attempts to stand. The floor rolled like waves, affecting her balance. Her limbs were heavy, as if she’d been swimming against the tide for hours and had only just managed to scramble back to shore.

  “Och, I put too many logs on the fire. Yer body feels like a furnace. There’s nothing to do but take a wee walk around the garden.”

  Thinking and processing the woman’s words proved difficult now. Vivienne let Mrs McCready wrap her in a cloak, but was too confused to ask what had happened to the tea chest full of letters, for it was no longer on top of the dressing table.

  “We’ll take the servants’ stairs. Nae point in troubling anyone.”

  They passed a footman in the corridor running adjacent to the kitchen. Vivienne could barely keep track of the conversation, but the servant went about his business as if it were norma
l to find a woman staggering below stairs in her nightgown.

  They left the house without a lantern. Cold air curled around her lower limbs as they ambled towards the shrubbery where Mrs McCready picked up a valise.

  She wanted to tell Mrs McCready that she couldn’t walk another step, wanted to flop down on the grass and sleep for an eternity. She wanted to ask why they were creeping about, why they’d turned left and were heading towards the road. But forming the words proved an impossible feat.

  “Come, lass, we’re nearly there. Just a few more steps and all will be well again. I promise ye that.”

  But Vivienne sagged, too tired to do anything but rest her weary head.

  Mrs McCready took to complaining until a man in a greatcoat appeared. He helped drag Vivienne to a carriage parked on the dark road.

  The carriage door flew open, and Vivienne heard familiar voices before closing her eyes and falling into a dark abyss.

  Chapter 19

  “I would suggest we sit in the drawing room until dawn and finish my best bottle of brandy, but—”

  “There is a certain lady in the house who commands your attention,” D’Angelo said. “You were like an automaton going through the motions tonight, mending bridges with your cousin while your thoughts were elsewhere. It’s as I suspected. You’re in love with Miss Hart.”

  Guilt flared. Evan didn’t want to leave D’Angelo to tackle his demons alone. And he could feel his friend distancing himself, moving further away, disappearing into the darkness. It reminded him of how Cole had been when life seemed hopeless. But while Cole had sought to destroy no one but himself, D’Angelo was likely to bring about an apocalypse.

  “I believe so. I’ve never felt this way about a woman, but then Vivienne is unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” Evan draped his arm around D’Angelo’s shoulder. “Come, let’s have a quick nightcap, and you can tell me why your knuckles were bruised before you punched my cousin.”

  D’Angelo winced as he formed a fist and examined the cuts and purple marks. “It’s nothing. Go to bed. No doubt Miss Hart is frantically awaiting your return, and you know we’ll not stop at one drink.”

  Evan might have dragged his friend to the drawing room, but he’d been gone for almost two hours and the invisible thread binding him to Vivienne was already stretched thin. The need to see her, talk to her, to have her hands roam wildly over his body, proved too powerful to ignore.

  “You’ll stay tonight?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Now the matter of my grandfather’s legacy is solved, let me help you with your case. Stay tonight. We’ll go riding in the morning and can discuss whatever mischief you’re making.”

  D’Angelo made no reply, but the sudden chime of the longcase clock filled the silence. Each toll sounded like an ominous warning—a sign Evan should save his friend from walking a dangerous path.

  “I admire what you did tonight,” D’Angelo eventually said. “You brought the Sloane family together when you could have wrought untold havoc, had your vengeance.”

  Love changed a man—made him more forgiving.

  “Why should Charles pay for his grandfather’s mistake? We work to protect the innocent. I’d be a hypocrite to act differently.”

  “Innocent? The lord pointed a pistol at Miss Hart.”

  “You know of my skill with a dagger. If I thought he had any intention of hurting her, I’d have buried a blade between his brows long before you appeared from the shadows.”

  Buchanan entered the hall, rubbing his hands together to chase away the cold. “Och, yer housekeeper was right about the storm. The heavens are weeping tonight.” He removed his felt cap and patted his mop of grey hair. “Well, laddie, do we nae deserve a drink to warm our bones?”

  D’Angelo laughed. “Laddie? I may be the youngest here, Buchanan, but I pray to God you’re referring to Sloane.”

  “It’s an endearment,” Evan said. “It means he likes me.”

  D’Angelo patted Evan on the back. “Well, laddie, go and speak to Miss Hart about the letters while I help Buchanan empty your crystal decanters. I’m sure he has many tales of Highland lasses to keep me entertained.”

  Buchanan shrugged out of his greatcoat and hung it on the coat stand. “I’ve stories that will make yer hair curl.” Buchanan followed D’Angelo to the drawing room. “Let me tell ye about Marion. Och, when she grabs yer by the bahookies ye canna shake her off. Claws like a wildcat.”

  Evan heard D’Angelo’s hoots of laughter above stairs. Thank the Lord for Buchanan. Shame Evan didn’t feel the same way about the whiny Mrs McCready. Indeed, he wondered if the woman would be stuck to the adjoining wall, her ears pricked and honed.

  Perhaps it was best to visit Vivienne while still fully clothed, give her the directions to his room and have her come there. The old crone was likely to do something to spoil their plans.

  He knocked lightly on Vivienne’s door, whispered her name, but braced himself to face the devil’s spawn keeping guard next door.

  Vivienne didn’t answer. It was almost eleven. Maybe both women were asleep in bed. Still, he turned the doorknob and slipped into the dimly lit room.

  The fire had burned to nought but glowing embers. The candle in the lamp was but a stub. An ache in his gut told him something was wrong before he glanced at the unmade bed, before he strode to the armoire and found it empty. Despite a thorough search of the room, he could not find the tea chest containing his grandfather’s letters. But he found a glass of milky liquid, some sort of tonic or restorative. One sip revealed a sickly concoction of milk and spices and something else, bitter like bark tea, bitter to hide the taste of laudanum.

  Panic rose to his throat.

  If this were a case, he might assume the worst, believe Vivienne had lied and manipulated events, believe she’d read something to make her steal the chest and disappear into the night.

  His innate trust in her said otherwise. No. This amounted to something other than a lover’s betrayal.

  He hurried to Mrs McCready’s door and hammered loudly before barging into the room. It was empty, too.

  Hoping Vivienne had taken the chest and crept to his apartment, he sprinted to the west wing. No. No sign of the woman who must have left the house, who must have been taken against her will.

  “D’Angelo! Buchanan!” Evan raced downstairs. He skidded across the hall and burst into the drawing room.

  Both men looked at him, the laughter in their eyes dying.

  “What is it?” D’Angelo was on his feet.

  Evan could barely catch his breath. It was as if his heart were being crushed in a vice, crushed and squeezed until his chest was so tight he might pass out.

  “It’s Vivienne,” he managed to say. “She’s not in her room. Her clothes are gone, along with the tea chest. Gone. I have a terrible feeling. A coldness in my bones.”

  Buchanan jumped up from the chair. “Have ye checked with Mrs McCready?”

  “She’s not in her room.” Evan dragged his hand down his face. “Charles couldn’t have returned to the house, not without passing us on the road.”

  “No, Charles seemed sincere when he agreed to help you clear your grandfather’s name. Trust me. Like a bloodhound, I can sniff out deceit.”

  The need for action burned in Evan’s veins. He should charge out into the night, search the lanes, the fields, the mausoleums, everywhere, but he knew he had to focus on thinking logically.

  While Buchanan went to inspect Mrs McCready’s room, Evan summoned the butler and had him call every member of staff to the hall.

  “I have reason to believe Miss Hart has been abducted from the house. I want to know if anyone saw her this evening, saw anything untoward.”

  “Yes, sir.” The butler bowed and left to attend to the task.

  “Let’s examine the facts,” D’Angelo said. He was always calm and composed when dealing with other people’s problems, more a wild, bloodthirsty predator when dealing with his own. “What reason would an
yone have for kidnapping Miss Hart? It cannot be another love interest for the woman is a wallflower.”

  “She is not a wallflower.”

  “You told Cole she was a wallflower and a pest.”

  Evan huffed. “That was before I knew her.”

  “So, she may have another suitor.”

  “No! This isn’t helping.”

  D’Angelo began pacing, for he always thought best when walking. “Let’s assume Charles wasn’t the only person following you. Someone else came for the treasure, perhaps expecting to find a chest full of gold. So why burden themselves with a hostage?”

  Evan tried to focus through the mental chaos. “No one entered the house. There are too many rooms, too many servants. Attempting to locate the chest would have posed a risk of discovery.”

  “Then the answer is obvious.” D’Angelo stopped pacing. “Mrs McCready stole the chest and somehow persuaded Miss Hart to leave.” D’Angelo paused. “Or it happened the other way around.”

  “You know damn well Vivienne has not left of her own accord.” Evan’s faith in her was steadfast. “Mrs McCready has taken her, but they won’t get far on foot.”

  Buchanan returned, quickly followed by the butler and a footman.

  “James has something important to tell you, sir. He saw Miss Hart with her companion over an hour ago.”

  “Describe exactly what happened. Leave nothing out.”

  The footman nodded. “I passed them near the kitchen, sir. The lady’s companion said her mistress was unwell and they were taking a turn about the garden.”

  “Did you not think it odd?” Evan couldn’t hide his frustration.

  “The lady looked unwell, sir. Her companion said she was likely to cast up her accounts and so I left them to their walk.” James’ face twisted in panic. “Sir, I mentioned it to Flora, and she agreed to check on Miss Hart when the lady came back from her walk.”

  Evan assured the footman it was not his fault and dismissed the servants. He turned to Buchanan, “Miss Hart is an excellent judge of character. Why would she speak of Mrs McCready’s loyalty when the woman is a cunning devil?”