He snorted.
When it came to imaginative plans to snare a husband, Miss Hart deserved a medal of merit. Yet there were many flaws in her tale. If they needed to marry to discover the final clue, surely their lives wouldn’t be in danger until after the event. And he’d known nothing of the contract before this evening. So how had the villain discovered the secret?
But what of this confounding contract?
Livingston Sloane must have known it would never stand up to the scrutiny of the law courts. Perhaps he had meant to appease his rescuer. A way to repay the debt without parting with hard-earned funds. And typical of a scoundrel like Livingston Sloane, he’d left his descendants to deal with the problem.
And yet Evan couldn’t help but smile when he recalled Miss Hart’s earnest explanation.
You’re contractually obliged to marry me, Mr Sloane.
Had she expected him to nod and race to the archbishop for a licence? Surely while spying, she’d discovered he wasn’t the sort to make a lifelong commitment. Nor was he willing to trade his sanity
and freedom for a pot of pirate gold.
So why couldn’t he shake the damn woman from his mind?
Why could he think of nothing but the scroll tucked inside his boot?
I’m placing my trust in you, sir.
Oh, Miss Hart knew how to stir emotion in a man’s chest. She knew exactly what to say to rouse his interest.
A light rap on the door drew Evan from his reverie. “Enter.”
Fitchett appeared. “Sir, I came to see if you required supper.”
Evan arched a brow. “No, you came to see if I’d read the scroll. I’m sure Miss Hart’s attendants explained the reason for her visit.”
“They’re convinced the lady is in danger, sir.”
“Miss Hart is a danger to herself. A young unmarried woman should know better than to call at the house of a man who entertains courtesans. What is it you want me to do, Fitchett? Marry the chit?” Give up endless nights of pleasure for a woman who was most certainly deranged? Definitely not. “And before you ask again, I have no intention of solving her imagined mystery.”
Fitchett inclined his head. “Forgive my insolence, sir. It’s just one cannot help but believe there is some truth to the lady’s claim. It’s a ten-mile round trip, so I know we shouldn’t expect Turton back yet, but I cannot shake the feeling something is dreadfully wrong.”
Evan glanced at the mantel clock and felt a niggle of apprehension. “Have a stable hand saddle my horse, and fetch my hat and greatcoat. If Turton fails to return within the next half an hour, I shall ride into town.”
Fitchett’s shoulders sagged in relief. “A wise decision, sir.”
“How long do you intend to make me pay, Fitchett?” Evan referred to the reason the poor man had lost the sight in his left eye. An accident for which Evan was entirely to blame.
“Pay, sir?”
“How many times will you play the guilt card to force my hand?” Evan would do anything to turn back time and save his butler from the savage temper of a madwoman—and Fitchett damn well knew it.
The butler bowed gracefully. “For as long as my impudence serves your best interests, sir. Consequently, in light of Miss Hart’s warning, might I suggest carrying a loaded pistol if you plan on venturing to town.”
“As an agent of the Order, I am always adequately equipped.”
“Of course, sir.”
Fitchett left the room to attend to his duties.
Well, if Evan was going to give Miss Hart’s warning any credence, he may as well read the clue to finding their grandfathers’ supposed legacy. Considering she saw fit to trust him, did he not owe the woman the respect of reading the note?
Reaching into his boot, he removed the small scroll. Energy pulsed in his fingers. His heart raced as he slowly unravelled the piece of parchment. When working for the Order, one learnt to use one’s intuition, to listen to one’s inner guide. These strange physical reactions might convince a man this was part of his maker’s plan.
The clue amounted to nine cryptic words.