A temple for a pauper of Egypt’s icy bones.
Evan read it numerous times. Egypt? Surely Miss Hart didn’t expect him to journey thousands of miles in the hope of searching desert tombs. Still, the lady was right about one thing. Reading the clue had fired his curiosity. Excitement thrummed in his veins at the prospect of solving the mystery. Indeed, he found himself suddenly more than interested to hear Miss Hart’s opinion, more than keen to discover what the hell had happened to his clue.
The chime of the mantel clock dulled his enthusiasm.
Turton should have returned by now. Had a fallen tree blocked the road? Had the torrential downpour left the muddy thoroughfare impassable? A chill ran down Evan’s back. What if Miss Hart’s suspicions were correct and a devious devil sought to stop them finding this supposed treasure?
Evan shot to his feet, though didn’t wait to tug the bell pull. He strode into the hall and was about to shout for Fitchett when the man came hurrying forward, clutching Evan’s hat and greatcoat.
“I fear there’s no time to lose, sir.” Fitchett helped Evan into his coat. “Something is amiss. I can feel it in my bones.”
The sick feeling in Evan’s gut said his butler was right.
Chapter 4
A man needed a raven’s keen sight when scouring the darkness. With so few houses situated along the muddy lane leading to town, and with the moon obscured by dense black storm clouds, there was no light to illuminate Evan’s way.
The driving rain forced him to wipe his eyes every thirty seconds, to steer his horse around broken branches being whipped about by the brisk wind.
How was a man to focus when guilt sat like a stone in his throat?
Turton was more than capable of driving in harsh conditions. But had Evan not ejected Miss Hart so abruptly, he wouldn’t be out combing the road through Little Chelsea.
“Turton!” Evan cried through the roaring gale while scanning the adjacent fields, silently bemoaning his fate.
Damnation!
Perhaps Miss Hart had discovered Turton’s grandfather served on Livingston Sloane’s ship. While Mrs McCready warmed a meat pie and made him a hot toddy for the journey home, Miss Hart was probably quizzing the coachman about his pirate ancestor. Meanwhile, Evan was soaked to the skin, cold to his bones and taking a mighty thrashing from his conscience.
Damn the woman.
She was intent on turning his ordered world upside down.
Salvation came in the form of an approaching rider. If the gentleman had travelled from town, he would have passed a carriage stuck in a quagmire, would have noticed something untoward on the road. Any information would prove useful at this point.
But as the horse drew closer, Evan knew it to be one of his Cleveland bays. Seated on the muscular beast, which had cost him the best part of a hundred and fifty guineas, was a woman riding bareback and astride.
“Sir! Stop!” Miss Hart waved frantically while clutching the reins with one hand. The wind whipped her loose hair about her face, sent her cloak billowing over the horse’s back and croup. She looked every bit a wild Amazonian charging into battle.
The sudden stirring in Evan’s loins proved more shocking than discovering the lady had bunched her skirts to her thighs and rode in her stocking feet.
“Where the hell are your boots?” he said as they brought their horses crashing to a halt in the road. His temper stemmed from his unwelcome arousal, not his mounting frustration. “Madam, I can almost see your thighs.”
It seemed Miss Hart had the ability to turn a rake into a prude.
“Oh, Mr Sloane, thank goodness.” Her breathless pants sent puffs of white mist into the air. “Hurry. Your coachman has been shot in the arm, and your carriage is overturned in a field.”
“What the blazes!”
She gripped the bay with her slender thighs and turned the horse around. “Follow me, sir. I’ve left Buchanan tending your coachman’s wound.”
“Your servant allowed you to ride alone in the dark?”
“Buchanan knows I ride like the devil, and someone had to fetch help.”
For a reason unbeknown he found that comment arousing, too. Hell’s teeth. Miss Hart was a temptress in the guise of a blasted wallflower.
“Come, Mr Sloane. Come quickly.”