Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,28

clues, you shall forfeit any claim to the legacy.” Mr Golding ran his bony finger down the page. “Ah, I don’t need to see the clues. But I must ask you both a series of questions, and you must provide the answers.”

The process was more complicated than Evan had anticipated. Livingston Sloane’s instructions were precise and left no room for negotiation. Did that mean the treasure amounted to a vast sum?

“So, the first question is to Miss Hart.” Mr Golding glanced up from his notebook. “A pauper or prince, a knight or knave, who will you save?”

Evan glanced at Miss Hart, who beamed with confidence. “Why, I would save a pauper,” she said, quoting from the nine cryptic words written on the tiny parchment.

“Yes. Good.”

Evan’s pulse pounded in his throat when the elderly gentleman fixed him with a beady stare. “Now a question for you, Mr Sloane.”

Hell. Evan knew nothing about his ancestor’s clue, and could only assume it had something to do with the painting of Livingston Sloane.

“North, south, east or west, which direction suits me best?”

Good lord, it was like a line from a children’s rhyme. Evan couldn’t help but think their ancestors were mocking them from the grave. Still, with quiet confidence, he said, “The answer is north.”

“Excellent. Now back to you, Miss Hart. If you could travel anywhere in the world, my dear, where would you go?”

“While I have a fondness for the Highlands, sir, I believe I am supposed to say Egypt.”

Mr Golding consulted his notebook. “Egypt, yes. The land of the pharaohs.” He glanced at Evan. “Is there anything, sir, that might distract a man from a beautiful view?”

It took Evan a second to realise that was his question. Clearly, Mr Golding referred to the lush fields depicted in the painting. He thought for a moment.

Miss Hart turned to him. “You know the answer, Mr Sloane.”

“I do, Miss Hart.” All thanks to her. Had Fitchett not granted her permission to examine the painting, had she not suggested he had missed something from his sketch this morning, he would be clueless. “I believe the answer is a book. A book might distract a man from a beautiful view.” Yet when he looked at Miss Hart, nothing could drag his gaze away from her brilliant smile.

Mr Golding hummed with pleasure. “This is the point where I’m to ask for the author’s name.”

Miss Hart turned pale. “His name?”

Evan’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. “The writing was illegible. I couldn’t read the name of the book or its author.”

“Good. Good.” Mr Golding fiddled with his spectacles before reading from the notebook. “Then I can tell you it’s a poem by Thomas Gray.”

Thomas Gray?

Was that supposed to mean something? Was it another clue?

“Well, I’m pleased to say you both passed the test.” Mr Golding pushed to his feet, though Lord knows what he intended to do next. He reached for his walking stick and tottered to the veneer table. “No doubt you want to marry posthaste.”

“As to that,” Evan began, but Miss Hart tapped his arm and mouthed for him to wait.

“I presume you have the letter we’re to take to the archbishop,” she said.

Mr Golding bent over the table and inserted a key into a lock hidden at the back. The whirring of cogs preceded the opening of yet another secret drawer. “There are a few letters here for you, yes. I must say it’s been a mighty strain on my heart, keeping them here all this time. But my father made me swear to abide by the oath, and I’m not the sort of man to break a promise.”

Guilt flared, for Evan cared nothing about a pact made seventy years ago. Not when he was the one forced to make the ultimate sacrifice.

“I doubt our relatives expected two strangers to marry. And for what? So they might share a chest of pirate gold.”

Mr Golding retrieved the letters from the velvet-lined drawer and hobbled back to his seat. “Who can say what motivated the men to invent the complicated scheme. Though I remember my father saying Livingston Sloane despised his family and hoped one of his ancestors might inherit his moral character.”

“Moral character?” Evan scoffed but caught himself. Livingston Sloane was not the dastardly pirate he’d been told to loathe. The man had been permitted to hunt foreign vessels in the Mediterranean. Alas, many in society thought the term privateer was a polite name for pirate.

“Both your ancestors detested society’s hypocrisy. Livingston Sloane told my