Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,56
cabinet behind him, the fellow addressed them directly. “Good morning. May I be of assistance?”
Vivienne chuckled to herself. She wondered what the man knew of magnetism. Could he explain how Evan Sloane compelled her with his indeterminable force? How he wielded an invisible power that left her aching for his touch, longing to join him in bed?
Evan stepped closer to the counter, and she took a moment to admire his magnificent form. “We wish to speak to Mr Howarth,” he said, unaware of her silent appraisal. “It’s a matter of some urgency.”
The man’s expression turned apologetic. “I’m afraid he’s occupied, making a pair of spectacles for a client who is to arrive shortly. If you would care to come back this afternoon, I can schedule an appointment.”
Vivienne gave a discreet cough. “Might you tell him we are worried about a friend? Tell him Mr Sloane and Miss Hart are here at Mr Golding’s behest.”
Evan presented his calling card. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
The assistant appeared disturbed. A scan of Mr Sloane’s card had him hurrying through the door at the end of the counter. He returned with a look of surprise and an invitation for them to join Mr Howarth in his private workshop.
One would expect the workshop of a maker of optical instruments to be full of tools for grinding and turning lenses, with measuring sticks and scientific apparatus. But they were shown into a dark, sumptuous room lit by candlelight, a room filled with curiosities and old tomes, a room carrying the smell of herbs and aromatic oils which grew more potent as they passed the display of unusual glass bottles.
An elderly gentleman, the age of Mr Golding, pushed out of a worn leather chair behind a cluttered desk. “Sloane and Hart. Good heavens. I never thought I’d see the day.” He wiped his hands on his black apron and brushed a swathe of silver hair from his brow. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited?”
“Seventy years?” Vivienne suggested.
Mr Howarth laughed. “Not quite, my dear, but my father knew Livingston Sloane and Lucian Hart and left me with the task of safeguarding the treasure.”
“Treasure?” Evan inhaled deeply and then glanced at the glass tubes in the rack on the desk. “Please tell me our ancestors weren’t opium dealers.”
“Opium? Lord, no.” Mr Howarth’s eye’s glinted with recognition. “Ah, you can smell milk of the poppy. I’m an apothecary by trade, Mr Sloane, but I swore an oath to continue my father’s legacy, and so Mr Jameson and Mr Austin deal with all matters of mathematics and optics.”
Vivienne frowned. “Your assistant said you were making a pair of spectacles.”
“Howarth is a trusted name when it comes to optical equipment and the like, Miss Hart. We must give the illusion I am skilled with a lens.” He leaned closer and tapped his nose. “And though I imagine your ancestors have you darting this way and that, you’re not here to purchase a compass.”
“What do you know of the contract made between Livingston Sloane and Lucian Hart?” Evan spoke in the suspicious manner of a Bow Street constable. Evidently, he wished to draw information from Mr Howarth, not tell him their most guarded secrets.
“A direct descendant of Livingston Sloane is obliged to marry a direct descendant of Lucian Hart. It is a debt owed after Lucian risked his life to save his enemy.”
“His enemy?” Vivienne didn’t hide her shock. She glanced at Evan Sloane, the man who’d made her body sing with pleasure. “I thought they were firm friends.”
Mr Howarth nodded. “They were, after the incident that almost cost Livingston his life.”
“Do you know why they were enemies?” Vivienne wondered if it might be pertinent to the case.
“Perhaps enemy is too strong a word. They were rivals, rivals seeking the same goal until they both realised serving their country was all that truly mattered.” He shrugged. “That’s what my father told me. He said the men discovered a shared hatred for the aristocracy, for the hypocrisy rife in high society.”
Evan’s deep exhalation carried his frustration. “We agreed to abide by the contract. We followed a set of instructions written by our ancestors but relayed through Mr Golding. But now the gentleman is presumed missing, his office ransacked. I confess he expected something sinister to occur, which is why he wrote a letter and insisted we come to you.”
Mr Howarth’s expression turned grave. “Greed is a plague. A blight that scourges the hearts of men. Your ancestors believed only