Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order #3) - Adele Clee Page 0,9

reply sounded rather salacious, far too out of character for a woman who hid behind marble pillars and watched him from afar.

Thankfully, Buchanan leant forward and opened the carriage door, saving her any embarrassment. The Scotsman tipped his grey felt cap to their host as a mark of respect.

“Just promise me one thing,” she said when Mr Sloane plonked her inside the vehicle. “Promise you’ll—”

“I’ll not take you as my wife, Miss Hart.” He slammed the door shut and instructed the coachman to move on.

Clawing desperation saw Vivienne yank down the window and thrust her head through the gap. The wind whipped her hair into her mouth. “Promise you’ll read the clue on the scroll!” she cried amid the distant rumble of thunder.

But Mr Sloane ignored her plea and strode towards the house. Despite one last effort to gain his attention, he did not glance back.

Chapter 3

“The gentleman is a stubborn mule.” Mrs McCready scowled at the window, though the carriage was already at Keel Hall’s main gate. The thin woman’s mouth rarely curled into a smile. Years spent battling the harsh Highland weather had left her with ruddy cheeks and a permanent frown.

“Och, the lad needs time.” As usual, Buchanan’s summary carried the measure of the situation. “The lass will have said enough to gain his interest.”

Vivienne prayed he was right. “Gentlemen like Mr Sloane are content to keep a mistress and have no need to take a bride. Hopefully, he’ll consider what I’ve said and be intrigued enough to grant me a second audience when I call tomorrow.”

“Well, he didna seem too happy when he dumped ye in the carriage,” Mrs McCready grumbled. “Though the butler’s plan worked well enough.”

“Plan? What plan?”

“To have Mr Sloane sweep ye up into his arms.”

Vivienne’s stomach grew hot at the memory. Any woman would relish the prospect of being held in his strong embrace.

“Aye, the butler is desperate to see his master wed.” Buchanan chuckled as he twirled the ends of his grey moustache. “Though his motives are entirely selfish.”

“No doubt Fitchett longs for the day he can retire before midnight.” During her time spent lingering in the ladies’ retiring room, Vivienne discovered Mr Sloane’s penchant for entertaining guests until dawn.

“The butler fears being hit with another vase and losing the sight in his good eye,” Buchanan added.

“Hit with a vase? Is that why Fitchett wears an eye patch?”

“Aye, a woman in a devil of a temper threw a vase at Mr Sloane. He ducked just as the butler walked into the room.”

Mrs McCready gave a scornful snort. “Mr Fitchett said the master carries a heap of guilt and canna forgive himself. Though he canna be that sorry if he still hosts his wild parties.”

Vivienne silently contemplated her dilemma.

When a man lived with the freedom to do as he pleased, to entertain unscrupulous women, to fill his life with excitement and pleasure, what incentive was there to settle into the tedious humdrum of family life? Not that she expected anything from Evan Sloane other than proof of their marriage. After the deed, and after Mr Sloane had used his skills as an enquiry agent to capture the villain out for their blood, Vivienne would travel north and live out her days in the Highlands.

“Well, let’s hope he reconsiders before the miscreant who ransacked my house ventures to Little Chelsea.” The intruder had smashed drawers, ripped feather pillows, slashed paintings, pulled up boards. But he did not find the old mahogany tea chest buried in the garden.

Buchanan shrugged. “Yer mother—God rest her soul—said Lady Sloane destroyed all evidence relating to the contract. The scoundrel will find nothing of interest in the mansion house.”

Vivienne squirmed in the seat. Buchanan would rant and rave when he learnt she had left the priceless documents with Mr Sloane, but she kept no secrets from her mother’s companions.

“Apparently, the matron abandoned the Sloane name and preferred to call herself Lady Boscobel.” Vivienne paused. “And as for the scoundrel finding nothing in the house, I’ve given Mr Sloane the contract and the clue to our lost legacy.”

Buchanan gasped. “Blessed saints!” His cheeks ballooned and his grey eyes bulged. “Tell me I’ve misheard, lass. Tell me the damp air hasn’t dulled yer brain. Ah dinna ken what ye were thinking.”

“The gentleman is probably dancing around the bonfire,” Mrs McCready chimed, “singing his good fortune.”

Having spent his life believing his grandfather was a heartless pirate who plundered the high seas, a life tainted by the association, trust did not come easily