Merciful Lord!
Evan shot back. He gripped Miss Hart’s arm and pulled her away from the flames. “Cover your mouth, Miss Hart. Do not breathe in the fumes. The devil did not steal the painting of Livingston Sloane. He snapped it into pieces and used it as firewood. Quick. Help me open the windows.”
Miss Hart did not stop to question him, nor did she vocalise the crippling panic flashing in her eyes. She threw the scroll onto the sofa, darted to the far end of the room, dragged the heavy brocade curtains aside and raised the sash. Oh, there was nothing timid about this woman. Indeed, after tonight’s debacle, she deserved the moniker Valiant.
Wind rushed into the room, howling in protest.
“This window is already open.” Miss Hart’s comment came as no surprise. The intruder had to have found a way in without alerting Fitchett.
Evan joined her at the window so they might talk while inhaling fresh air.
“You were right, Miss Hart,” it pained him to say. “Right to voice your concerns, right in your belief that someone has learnt of our ancestors’ pact and wants to ensure we never find the supposed treasure. Forgive me for not taking the matter seriously.”
The lady blinked in surprise. “There is nothing to forgive. You acted as any man would when confronted by a stranger demanding marriage.”
A gust of wind whipped wet locks of hair from her heart-shaped face. It was then Evan noticed blood at the hairline near her temple.
“You’re injured.” His heart raced, though he resisted the urge to cradle her head and examine the wound.
Miss Hart pressed her fingers to the area and winced. “It’s nothing, just a scratch from a shard of glass.” She glanced at the spot of blood on her finger and wiped it on her cloak.
“May I take a look?”
Her eyes widened. “If you think it necessary, but I assure you, all is well.”
“Still, if we’re to work together, you need to be in optimum health.”
“Work together?” A weak smile played at the corners of her mouth, yet he sensed excitement rushing through her like a fast-flowing river. “You would work with a woman?”
He refused to work with anyone but his colleagues at the Order. And yet a small part of him wished to make amends for his earlier mistreatment.
“I’m a logical man, Miss Hart. Our combined efforts will bring rapid results.”
“Does that mean you’re going to marry me, Mr Sloane?”
Evan couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ve made my views on marriage clear, though perhaps we might find another way to gain the third clue.” A mountain of questions formed in his mind, but they would begin their investigation in the morning. “We can discuss the matter tomorrow. For now, I wish to check your cut and hear your thoughts on the villain’s reason for destroying the painting.”
Miss Hart nodded. She bent her head. “See, it is just a scratch.”
A coil of desire swirled in his stomach as he clasped her head in his hands and narrowed his gaze. A different sensation filled his chest, one infinitely more worrying—an overwhelming need to play protector.
Hell! He must have inhaled the toxic fumes.
Evan tried to focus on the task.
“Ow!” she cried when he touched the small gash.
“It should heal perfectly well on its own, but you must wash it thoroughly before you retire tonight. I’ll have Mrs Thorne bring you some ointment.” He released the tempting minx and stepped back. “Now, tell me why you think the painting of my ancestor has been reduced to a pile of ash.”
He sensed an inner conflict. “I must confess, I’m unable to lie to you, Mr Sloane. Please know I dislike condemning those who cannot offer a defence.”
“Madam, honesty is a quality I admire. Speak freely.”
Miss Hart exhaled before saying, “I do not believe Lady Sloane, or Lady Boscobel if you prefer, cared for her son. I believe she cared about money and title, and so kept the painting because she knew it held a clue to finding the hidden legacy.”
Evan attempted to remain impartial while he considered her point. “And that is the reason you persuaded Fitchett to let you study the painting?”
“Indeed.”