Buchanan muttered something in Gaelic under his breath.
“It’s your head she hit, Buchanan,” Miss Hart said as if used to their petty quarrels. “It’s only right you take responsibility.” The lady touched Evan’s arm, leant closer and whispered, “Mrs McCready is a terrible patient, and likes to find something to complain about.”
As if on cue, the woman with the dour face began lamenting her fate. “Och, we should have waited. Should have visited the hall at a reasonable hour like normal folk.”
“Well, we cannot waste time here.” Evan decided a woman with Miss Hart’s fortitude could handle the truth. “The villain may be using the opportunity to ransack my house.”
“Ransack your house?” Miss Hart’s captivating brown eyes widened. “Blessed saints. Then we must hurry. Please tell me the clue is still in your boot. And what of the contract?”
Evan was annoyed at himself for not taking the threat seriously. “The clue is in my boot.” He’d slipped it back inside his Hessian before shrugging into his greatcoat. “But I left the contract in plain sight.”
While Miss Hart’s pretty mouth fell open, Mrs McCready whined, “Did I nae say it was a mistake to trust him?”
Miss Hart closed her mouth and fixed her determined gaze upon his person. “It matters not. Mr Sloane has seen and read the contract. As an honourable man, he will do what is right.”
Why did she seem so sure of his character? How was it a lady he had never spoken to until tonight had such faith in him? And why did he find the notion so damnably arousing?
“To anyone else the contract is worthless,” she added.
Evan begged to disagree. “Unless we’re looking for two villains who intend to pose as us. Either way, now is not the
time to ponder the possibilities. My fears may be unfounded, which would render this a pointless conversation.”
“Then let us make haste, sir. We can discuss our plan once we’ve assessed the situation at Keel Hall.”
Miss Hart liked using words like our and we. Usually, any hint of possessiveness had Evan darting for the hills, and yet he couldn’t help but feel he had an ally in this fascinating woman. That didn’t mean he had any intention of marrying her. Hell no! He’d seen what losing a loved one had done to his father. The man had been but an empty vessel going through the motions. A sad remnant of his former self, waiting to die.
Still, as Evan watched the lady ride the Cleveland bay back to Keel Hall, with her shapely calves on show, he decided he liked Miss Hart. Indeed, there was something wild and spirited about her, something he admired, something he longed to tame.
* * *
Chaos erupted when Evan barged into his house carrying Turton. “Fitchett! We need help! Mrs Thorne!” Thank heavens he’d only had to walk a short way, for the man was heavier than expected.
Fitchett appeared, almost tripping over his polished shoes as he hurried through the dimly lit hall. He summoned two footmen to carry Turton to the servants’ quarters, then rang for the housekeeper to attend to Miss Hart’s companions.
“Send a groom to Chelsea.” Evan paused to catch his breath. “To the physician who lives opposite the Botanic Gardens on Paradise Row. Tell him we need assistance now, tonight.” He turned his attention to his housekeeper. “And Mrs Thorne, have the maids prepare rooms for our guests.”
“Yes, sir,” the flustered servants said in unison.
Mrs Thorne, a woman of middling years who had served his father and liked to fuss and dote, sent a maid to heat some water and then escorted Buchanan and Mrs McCready upstairs.
Miss Hart had hurried into the drawing room within seconds of entering the house, desperate to see if the devil in the hideous mask had stolen her precious contract.
Evan entered the room and found her gawping at the fire roaring in the grate. The room was so hot it was hard to breathe. His gaze drifted over her windswept hair, down to her wet cloak and bare feet.
Bare feet!
What the devil had she done with her muddy stockings? She must have removed them and stuffed them in a concealed pocket for fear of soiling his expensive Persian rug. Most women of his acquaintance would dart for cover, ashamed to have a gentleman see them in such a sorry state. Miss Hart didn’t give a damn. He liked that. He liked that a great deal.
“I see you’ve found your contract.” He breathed a relieved sigh upon noting the rolled scroll in her hand. “We have a lot to discuss if I’m to accept your case, Miss Hart. Though after such a dreadful ordeal, you need rest. Mrs Thorne will find a suitable room and arrange to have your clothes cleaned. I’m sure we can find new stockings somewhere.”
“Sir, I fear we have more important concerns than my stockings.” Miss Hart pointed to the empty space left of the marble fireplace. “The blackguard took advantage of the carriage accident to steal the painting of Livingston Sloane.”
“What!”
Shock stole the breath from Evan’s lungs. He covered his mouth with his hand and stared at the dusty mark on the wall. Guilt surfaced for the umpteenth time. The masked rider appeared more cunning than his usual foe. Yet he couldn’t have predicted Evan’s coachman would take Miss Hart home, or that he would mount his stallion and ride out into the night. The quick-thinking devil took advantage of every opportunity, and that made him unpredictable. Dangerous.
He stepped forward but was suddenly distracted by the fire’s amber flames. A toxic smell wafted from the grate, hitting the back of his throat, attacking his nostrils, forcing him to cough. Chunks of wood and broken board lay scattered amongst the glowing coals.