It was one hell of a storm. Lightning lit the night sky in a blinding burst of white. The angry grumble of thunder followed seconds later while raindrops the size of small pebbles pelted the windowpanes in Evan Sloane’s drawing room.
The raging tempest stirred his restless spirit. A man with the blood of a pirate flowing through his veins welcomed life’s trials and tribulations. Was that not the reason his friends called him Valiant? Did he not live by the Sloane family motto? He who braves the storm emerges stronger.
Still, the sudden thud echoing through the hall came as an unwelcome intrusion. The persistent caller hammered the door knocker against the plate as if afraid a lightning bolt might strike him down dead.
What fool ventured outdoors in a thunderstorm? With Evan’s mansion house situated amid the sprawling fields of Little Chelsea, perhaps the sound of clashing clouds had spooked some poor devil’s horse.
Then another thought struck him—one infinitely more alarming.
Had his stalker, Miss Hart, braved the inclement weather to demand an audience? The wallflower had prised herself from the ballroom wall to follow Evan about town. Whenever he glanced over his shoulder, be it in the circulating library, the theatre or Gunter’s, Miss Hart was there spying.
Had she heard of his pirate heritage and found it all rather fascinating? He’d spotted her loitering in Hart Street, staring at the house belonging to the Order. Perhaps her ancestor once owned the land. Perhaps the fact Evan’s pursuer shared a name with his place of business was one of those uncanny twists of fate.
Amid a thunderclap that shook the heavens, Evan could not determine the butler’s mumbled comments. But it came as no surprise when the knock on the drawing room door brought the somewhat agitated servant.
“You look like a man with something to confess, Fitchett.”
“Sir, I fear you’ll think me a dreadful disappointment, or worse, dismiss me without a reference.”
A man with an eye patch and a jagged scar cutting through his bushy white brow should fear nothing except for losing his sight.
“Dismiss you? Not unless you’ve disobeyed orders and Miss Hart is dripping water onto my marble floor.”
The pest would stop at nothing to gain his attention. “Did I not give explicit instructions the woman must never cross my threshold?”
“But the lady might perish in such terrible—”
“How is that my concern? If she persists in wandering the countryside in the dead of night, she must suffer the consequences.” Evan spoke loud enough for Miss Hart to hear. “I pray she brought a chaperone.”
Evan entertained actresses and widows. Never unmarried chits skilled in harassment. Miss Hart was fortunate he lived in the wilds of Little Chelsea, away from the prying eyes of those in the ton who enjoyed casting aspersions. Still, perhaps he would play the dissolute rake when he put the woman in her place.
“The lady arrived with two attendants, sir.” Fitchett lowered his voice. “Both of Scottish descent.”
Miss Hart could have arrived with the vicar; she was still a reckless fool. Time spent conversing with potted ferns must have dulled the wallflower’s brain.
“Her companions, they’re soaked to the skin, sir. Might I be permitted to show them to the servants’ quarters so they may take a hot meal and dry their clothes?”
Evan raised a reprimanding brow in reply.
“Sir, the lady begs for a moment of your time. Surely you don’t expect me to throw her out into the storm.”
“Fitchett, while I allow you a certain freedom of speech based on your unfortunate accident, do not overstep the mark.”
Fitchett pursed his lips. He bowed, yet couldn’t help but say, “No man wants a lady’s death on his conscience, sir. I shall not sleep tonight for worrying.”
Hellfire!
The butler knew how to find the chink in Evan’s armour.
Evan breathed a weary sigh. Maybe Miss Hart’s audacious manner had worked to his advantage. It was time to put an end to the woman’s meddling. Time to get rid of her for good.
“Would it ease your anxiety if I let her warm her hands by the fire, offer her a sip of sherry?” He would give Miss Hart one of his famous concoctions—rum, whisky and a dash of sugar syrup.
Fitchett slapped his hand to his heart and bowed again. “Sir, I could rest my aching bones with nary a care in the world.”
“Then show the lady in.” Into Lucifer’s lair.
Evan smiled to himself as he tugged his shirt from his breeches and shook his brown locks