and took to wandering the room, examining the portraits in ornate gilt frames.
“This man has a devilish twinkle in his eye,” Jessica said, studying the image of a bearded gentleman situated to the left of the marble fireplace.
“Perhaps because he was the most mischievous scoundrel you’d ever wish to meet,” Sloane said, striding into the room. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue tailcoat and black trousers. As always, he’d tied his hair in a queue. “A canny old devil was Livingston Sloane.”
“Forgive the intrusion.” Finlay came to his feet and crossed the room. He lowered his voice. “I could think of no other place where Miss Draper would be safe.”
“You should have sent word,” Sloane whispered through gritted teeth while still maintaining his smile. “Violet was about to wrap her plump lips around my—”
“And who is this pretty lady, sir?” Jessica asked.
Sloane craned his neck. “My great-grandmother. Lady Jane Boscobel. Now you see from whom I inherited my dashing good looks.”
“Oh, is there a portrait of your mother?”
Sloane’s feigned smile slipped. “I’m afraid not.”
In the awkward silence that followed, one could almost hear a child’s mournful cries. To never know one’s mother left lasting scars. Sloane never mentioned it, of course. There was nothing more revolting to society than a man expounding human frailty.
The sound of giggling in the hall preceded the crunch of carriage wheels on the drive.
“Pay them no mind,” Sloane said. “My guests are leaving.”
Sophia threw Finlay a covert glare. “We should have rested the horses and arrived at a more respectable time.”
“When a gentleman lives alone, no hour is respectable,” Sloane teased.
“There is much to explain,” Finlay said, hoping his friend would realise it was impossible to speak in front of Jessica. “But we would like to remain here for a few days.”
Sloane inclined his head. He strode over to the bell pull and yanked twice.
“Do you believe in mermaids, Miss Draper?” Sloane said in the honey-smooth voice that usually left women drooling. “Are they a creature of myth and fable, do you suppose? Or can you imagine a world like ours deep beneath the sea where one needs fins, not lower limbs?”
Jessica’s blue eyes flashed with excitement. “I believe there is much about the world we don’t know. One would be unwise to rule out the possibility.”
It was a logical reply, not that of a woman who struggled to define the past from the present, fantasy from reality.
“My grandfather claimed to have seen one once. The statues in the garden depict sea gods as mermen. There’s something about them I find captivating. Perhaps you might make a study of their form so we may discuss the matter at length.”
Jessica’s pleading gaze shot to her sister.
Being intelligent enough to know Sloane’s suggestion was a ploy for privacy, Sophia said, “If your footman directs us to the garden, we might examine its delights.”
A knock on the door brought the housekeeper, not the footman.
“Ah, Mrs Brogan, escort my guests upstairs and find suitable rooms, after which they would like a tour of the gardens.” He glanced at Jessica and offered a smile. “We shall discuss your findings over breakfast.”
The low, throaty tone of Evan Sloane’s voice stirred something primal in most women. Thankfully, his sense of honour meant he wouldn’t touch Jessica even if she straddled him naked.
Sophia stood and made to leave. “We shall see you both at breakfast.”
Something in her eyes—a hint of trepidation—forced Finlay to capture her elbow and whisper, “All will be well, I assure you.”
A faint smile touched Sophia’s lips. “Yes. I’m sure it will.” She looked at Sloane. “Thank you, Mr Sloane. We are forever in your debt.”
“Cole is in my debt, my lady, and I intend to make him pay.”
Sophia gave a light laugh before linking arms with Jessica and leading her sister out into the hall. The moment Mrs Brogan closed the door, Sloane released a curious hum.
“So, you’re still in love with Sophia Adair. It’s not shocking news, but one couldn’t help but notice your outward display of affection.”
Finlay silently groaned.
He pasted an arrogant smirk. “As a client and an old family friend, it is my duty to allay her fears.”
“Indeed. Just as it is your duty to stroke your thumb over the sensitive skin at her elbow.” Sloane slapped Finlay on the back. “Come. You look as if you need one of my famous concoctions. A good old wily whistle will soothe your tired limbs.”
“Soothe my limbs and leave me comatose.” The wily whistle consisted of