“Did you draw any conclusions?” Natural suspicions surfaced. Would she have bothered coming back if she had gained the information she needed? Would she have found another way to obtain the third important clue?
The lady’s teeth chattered as she thought about his question. It occurred to him that her clothes were soaked, her feet cold, and she would likely catch a chill if she did not strip off the wet garments and warm her icy limbs.
“The first point to note is that the portrait was painted in 1756, and yet Livingston Sloane is depicted as a much younger man.”
“Vanity is a trait enjoyed by the masses. He wished to be immortalised as a handsome charmer, not a weather-beaten buccaneer.”
She wrapped her arms across her chest and shivered. “I think the date might be a clue to the meaning behind the painting.”
“And I think you need out of those clothes, Miss Hart, before you catch your death.” Evan strode to the bell pull and rang for his butler. He needed time alone to think and had to interrogate Fitchett while the man could still recall the night’s events. “Fitchett will escort you to your room. We can discuss the case in the morning.”
A pretty blush stained her cheeks. “I cannot stay the night, Mr Sloane.”
Evan arched a brow. “As you’re determined to marry me, Miss Hart, I don’t see the problem.” Indeed, he should be the one worried, worried the woman would force his hand. And yet for some unfathomable reason he trusted this less than timid wallflower. “Besides, it is unsafe for you to remain in Silver Street at present.”
“Oh, but I must return home, sir. There are—”
“A woman who rides astride can surely have no issue sleeping without nightclothes,” he said, anticipating her complaint. Indeed, he had no problem imagining the alluring scene. “Get some sleep, Miss Hart. We have work to do tomorrow and must make an early start.”
Fitchett’s timely appearance left the lady no option but to take her scroll and bid Evan
good night.
“Return to the drawing room once you’ve seen Miss Hart to her chamber, Fitchett.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as the lady crossed the threshold, Evan released the tempest of oaths he’d kept at bay. It was easy to remain impartial when solving a stranger’s case, easy to maintain a facade for Miss Hart’s sake. But the masked devil’s personal attack had Evan seething. He stared at the space on the wall and let the unholy rage overwhelm him.
Once the anger dissipated, he would be left with the steely determination to catch the blackguard, regardless of the cost. Even if he had to shackle himself to a wallflower, Evan would have his revenge.
Chapter 5
“To whom does this garment belong?” Vivienne asked as the maid helped her into a pretty white petticoat with frills at the hem.
Having spent weeks following Mr Sloane about town, scouring ballrooms and listening out for the latest gossip, she was confident the gentleman did not have a mistress. Nor did he have a sister or aunt. Mr Sloane was alone in the world, except for a distant cousin who had inherited the Leaton viscountcy.
“I don’t rightly know, miss.”
Vivienne caught Theresa’s flush of embarrassment in the looking glass. “Ah, I see. One of Mr Sloane’s guests misplaced the item.” That explained why there was a spare petticoat and stays, but no shift or gown. She plucked the clean white stockings from the bed. “These are expensive, new.”
Theresa swallowed deeply. “B-bought as a gift, miss.”
“A gift for whom?” It was unfair to pressure the maid into revealing her master’s secrets. Besides, Vivienne suddenly found the idea of wearing clothes belonging to Mr Sloane’s lover rather distasteful. “Never mind. Are you certain my undergarments are ruined?”
Theresa nodded. “I’ve never seen so much mud on a petticoat, miss, and it’s ripped. Bessie has been boiling and poking it in the laundry copper for the last three hours. And your stockings are fit for nothing but the bonfire. Your dress is almost dry, but it smells none too pleasant.”
That’s what came from traipsing about in a field during a thunderstorm. “Thank Bessie for her trouble, but I’ve changed my mind and do not wish to wear another woman’s underclothes. Help me out of this petticoat, Theresa.”
“But the master said you were to wear the new stockings.”
“And have Mr Sloane thinking about his paramour during breakfast?” That was hardly conducive to her plan. “Speak to Fitchett or Mrs Thorne and explain the situation.”
Like the rest of the household, Theresa preferred plain speaking. Her lips curled into a knowing smile, and she set about undressing Vivienne before hurrying from the room to fetch the housekeeper.
Mrs Thorne entered the bedchamber five minutes later. “Good morning, miss.” Her wrinkled face exuded a wealth of warmth and kindness. “Theresa explained there’s an issue with your undergarments.”
“Yes, perhaps you might provide a solution to the dilemma.” Vivienne explained her problem. “I cannot wear my clothes and refuse to wear a courtesan’s discarded raiment.”