Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,27

door to Mr Golding’s office swung open, and he ushered a woman dressed in widows’ weeds out onto the landing.

“There must be something you can do,” the young woman implored.

Mr Golding clutched the brass handle of his walking stick and stared over the round spectacles perched on his nose. “As I said, you’ve no grounds to contest the will as you were not legally wed. A bigamist has duped you, madam.”

“But how am I supposed to feed my child?”

Evan couldn’t bear to watch the exchange. Slipping his hand into his coat pocket and retrieving three sovereigns, he strode forward and thrust the coins into the widow’s hand. “I’m afraid it’s all I have with me, but you’re welcome to it.”

Astonished, the woman raised her black veil and gazed at the gold coins. “Thank you, sir.”

With mild embarrassment, Mr Golding said, “Come back tomorrow, Mrs Davies, and I shall see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Mr Golding,” she said and hurried on her way before the man changed his mind.

The lawyer waited until Mrs Davies was out of earshot before turning to his sotted nephew. “Get back into that office and don’t come out for the rest of the day.” He glared at Mr Wicks until the man shuffled back into his den and closed the door. “Forgive my nephew. He’s not been the same since his mother died.”

It was strange how a simple comment altered one’s perception. Suddenly, a drunken lout became a fellow tortured by unbearable pain. It was a lesson on how not to make assumptions without knowing the facts.

“Now, if you would both care to follow me.” Mr Golding gestured to his office.

Miss Hart appeared at Evan’s side and touched his arm. “What a kind gesture, Mr Sloane.”

“I have a weakness for mothers down on their luck.”

“Indeed.”

Evan found he rather liked the glint of admiration in Miss Hart’s brown eyes. It cleansed his soul in a way nothing else could. Equally, the act of giving had a way of lifting a man’s spirits.

They followed Mr Golding into the cluttered office. Evan waited for Miss Hart to sit and then dropped into the seat next to her.

“We’re here to discuss the matter of the contract made between Lucian Hart and Livingston Sloane,” Evan said. “Miss Hart tells me our ancestors hired your firm to deal with all legal proceedings in relation to the matter.”

“That’s correct.” Mr Golding hobbled to the old veneer side table. He retrieved a key from his waistcoat pocket and opened a secret compartment concealed by the faded marquetry. “As you’re here with Miss Hart, I must assume you’re a direct descendant of Livingston Sloane.”

“He was my grandfather, though I confess to knowing nothing of the contract until Miss Hart made me aware of its existence.”

“I feared no one would come forward to relieve me of my burden.” Placing a steadying hand on the table, Mr Golding removed a leather notebook and doddered back to sit behind his oak desk. “I’m not sure your ancestors expected it either.”

Evan was about to tell the lawyer that he had no intention of honouring the contract. No court in the land would force a man to marry based on a privateer’s oath. But he was keen to learn more before dashing Miss Hart’s hopes.

“Now, let us begin.” Mr Golding opened the black book and flicked to the relevant page. “The first thing to consider is that you can both prove you’re related to my clients.”

“You want proof of our lineage?” Evan scoffed.

Again, Miss Hart touched his arm to bring an element of calm to the situation. “What sort of proof is required?”

Mr Golding consulted his notebook and then glanced at them over his spectacles. “Do you have the men’s letters of marque issued by the admiralty?”

“We do,” she replied. “We have both letters, but they’re locked away in a bank vault.”

The lie fell easily from Miss Hart’s lips. Like Evan, she wasn’t sure she could trust the lawyer and so proceeded with caution. It was a wise move, a wise move indeed.

“Ah.” Mr Golding examined the other notes written on the page. “Then you must both present the clues to the legacy left by your ancestors.”

Clues to the legacy? How in the devil’s name could he do that? The painting of Livingston Sloane was nought but a pile of ash in the grate.

“Present the clues?” the lady challenged. “Lucian Hart would not demand I reveal his secret correspondence.”

“Excellent. It says here that should you give the lawyer the