“If you won’t listen to me, then take this. Keep it safe. Should I meet a grisly end, you must return it to Buchanan.”
Mr Sloane seemed more interested in the swell of her breasts than her prized possession. When he failed to take the parchment, she grabbed his hand and thrust it into his palm.
“I am placing my trust in you, sir. This is the first clue to finding our legacy. You already possess the second clue.”
The gentleman appeared more confused than ever. “Why would you trust a stranger with something so important, Miss Hart?” Suspicion darkened his tone. “Why trust the man opposed to your plan?”
Vivienne inhaled deeply. He would think her a candidate for Bedlam if she spoke the truth, but needs must. “You’re floundering, I can see. But you will marry me, Mr Sloane. During the coming days, the devil will seek to destroy us. Finding our legacy is the only way to save our lives.”
The crunching of carriage wheels on the gravel sent her pulse soaring. She was out of time, and he refused to listen.
Fitchett appeared, carrying Vivienne’s wet cloak and gloves. “Miss Hart’s servants are in the carriage, sir, and I sent Dawson to pay the jarvey’s fare.” The butler glanced at Vivienne, his expression brimming with sympathy. “Your outdoor apparel, Miss Hart.”
Vivienne took her cloak and gloves. Perhaps she should leave before Mr Sloane attempted to return the scroll and the contract. She would visit Keel Hall tomorrow, after he’d had time alone to process the information.
“And what of my boots?” she said, noting their absence. A maid must have wiped the muddy footprints from the marble floor and mopped the puddle.
“They were in such a terrible state, miss, I fear they’re ruined. Mrs McCready tried her best to clean them, but the lining is soaked through. She has them in the carriage.”
In the carriage? “And pray, how I am supposed to walk across the gravel in my stocking feet?”
Fitchett stared blankly. “With the master’s permission, I shall carry you, miss.”
“Carry me?” Based on Fitchett’s stick-thin frame, he’d struggle to cover a few feet. And with him possessing only one good eye, she envisioned him tumbling down the front steps. “Never mind. I shall tread carefully.”
Fitchett glanced at Mr Sloane. “Sir, Dawson broke a lantern yesterday. Slivers of glass covered the gravel. A cut to the toe often ends in amputation.”
Mr Sloane arched a brow. “Have you been reading those morbid seafaring stories again, Fitchett?”
“Sir, there’s many a truth found in fictional tales.”
If they continued in this vein, Mr Sloane was likely to forget all about the small scroll in his hand. Everything depended upon him honouring the debt to Lucian Hart.
“Perhaps you’d allow me to summon a footman to carry the lady to the carriage, sir,” Fitchett said. “Carter is just finishing his supper and can—”
“Oh, for the love of God!” Mr Sloane slipped the scroll into his boot. “I shall carry Miss Hart to the carriage.”
Mother Mary! Panic rose to her throat, coupled with a shiver of delight. She was about to protest, but did she not need to foster a level of intimacy with the man she hoped to marry?
“I shall be fine, Mr Sloane,” she said with a lack of conviction.
Evidently, the man wanted rid of her quickly. Without a word of warning, he scooped her up into his muscular arms and strode towards the door.
Vivienne wrapped her arms around his neck and clung on for dear life. The musky scent of his cologne teased her nostrils, as did the smoky aroma of whisky on his breath. She resisted the urge to lay her head on his broad shoulder, to take comfort in the warmth of his body. A woman need fear nothing with Mr Sloane as her protector.
“I know you think me a terrible pest,” she said as he descended the mansion house steps as if she were as light as a child. “But I am very grateful for your assistance, sir.”
“Madam, the sooner I deposit you in the carriage, the sooner I can relax and enjoy the evening.”
Rain pelted their faces as they left the cover of the Grecian-inspired portico. “It must be rather lonely living in such a large house.”
“I manage perfectly well.” He threw her a dubious look. “I know your game, Miss Hart. While your approach to snagging a wealthy husband is original, your veiled attempts to sway my decision are less imaginative.”
“Given time, I could find more inventive methods of persuasion.” Her quick