enemy vessels in the Mediterranean.”
Evan took the letter, peeled back the folds and read it quickly.
“And this is a letter giving Livingston Sloane the same rights.”
Evan gripped the parchment. The sudden surge of emotion in his chest took him by surprise. He felt a close kinship to his deceased relative, the one he was supposed to despise. Hell, he’d taken enough beatings at school for defending the scoundrel—until he found the strength to fight back.
“How have you come by this?” He absorbed the information on the page. Mild anger tainted Evan’s tone, anger aimed at Lady Boscobel, not Miss Hart. “Tell me my family knew nothing of its existence.”
“I don’t know why your grandfather’s document is in this box. I don’t know why your great-grandmother disowned her son when he had legitimate cause to attack foreign ships.”
Like the wind rattling the sash, Evan’s anger gained momentum. Indeed, he would visit the pompous oaf who had inherited the Leaton viscountcy, the distant cousin who must know something of the tales spun by Lady Boscobel, and then throttle the truth from his lying lips.
“I can only presume your grandfather gave Lucian Hart the letter before he died,” Miss Hart added. “Both letters bear Lord Anson’s signature, who was the First Lord of the Admiralty. Whatever they were doing in the Mediterranean, it was of some naval importance.”
Various questions bombarded Evan’s mind.
Did Lady Boscobel believe her son had carried out acts of piracy? Based on the vile things she’d said about Livingston Sloane, she couldn’t have known the truth. So why had she kept the painting? Why had she refused to use the name Sloane?
“And this is a copy of the letter instructing Mr Golding’s father to ensure the contract is legally binding. It’s signed by Lucian Hart and Livingston Sloane.”
Evan gave an amused snort. Miss Hart’s persistence in wishing to marry him distracted from thoughts of his family’s antagonism. “Regardless of what Mr Golding says when we meet him today, the contract cannot be enforced.”
“Perhaps not,” she agreed, much to his surprise.
So why did he feel a pang of disappointment?
“But you will see something of interest listed amongst the articles given to Mr Golding’s father.”
Intrigued beyond measure, Evan took the letter and studied the contents. It seemed Mr Golding had taken receipt of various items of correspondence. One in particular leapt off the page.
Letter for the archbishop. Approval for a special licence.
“Were it not for the yellow stains and faded ink, I might be inclined to think you wrote this, Miss Hart. It seems our ancestors went to great lengths to remove any obstacles to a potential marriage.”
Miss Hart looked quite pleased with herself as she sat in Lamont’s flamboyant clothes, clutching her precious box. “Are you not curious to know why?”
“Curious to the point of madness.” Particularly when the person who approved the licence must have influence with the archbishop. “Every passing hour brings a new riveting revelation.” Indeed, Miss Hart had swept into his life and knocked him off his feet.
“Oh, we’ve only just begun, Mr Sloane. Wait until the masked devil discovers we’ve visited Mr Golding together.” The lady’s expression darkened, and she shivered visibly. “He is watching our every move and has been for weeks.”
“Then we need to gain ground if we hope to catch him.” He gathered the papers and handed them back to Miss Hart. “We will take the tea caddy with us. Change into something more appropriate and pack a valise. I’ve already asked Buchanan to gather clothes for Mrs McCready.” And to bring the plague mask left by the intruder.
“Pack?”
“You cannot remain here. You and your servants will remove to Keel Hall.” It was the only way he could guarantee her safety. “No doubt we will have a lot to discuss, and I cannot make the trip to town whenever I need to ask a question.”
After a silent deliberation, she said, “You’re right. Few people venture to the wilds of Little Chelsea, and considering the fact we shall soon be married, your suggestion makes perfect sense.” She locked the letters away, clutched the casket to her chest and stood. “What shall I do with Monsieur Lamont’s clothes?”
Evan stood, too. “Leave them here, or throw them on the bonfire. I doubt the poor will want them.”
Before she left the room to slip out of Lamont’s fancy breeches, he couldn’t resist one last look at her tempting thighs. Miss Hart had a body made for sin. Lust throbbed in his loins as he considered every delectable