“Good.”
“And what of Mrs McCready?”
“She’s suffering from a terrible migraine and is still abed. The doctor said to expect as much, and she should rest for a few days.”
While Mrs McCready enjoyed playing the poorly patient, Vivienne wondered if she had another motive for keeping to her bed. The woman’s nerves had been in tatters since learning an intruder had rummaged through her belongings. No doubt she felt safe sleeping beneath Mr Sloane’s roof. Or was she using her injury as an excuse for Vivienne to remain at Keel Hall?
“While waiting for you to dress, I sketched this.” Mr Sloane removed a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to her. “I haven’t mastered Hogarth’s realistic portraiture, but I’ve tried to record every memorable detail.”
Vivienne scanned the sketch of Livingston Sloane’s portrait. The devilish gent sat by a window overlooking lush fields in the height of summer. To the right of the window hung a painting of a galleon at full sail. In his hand, Livingston held a compass.
She glanced up and smiled. “It’s a fair attempt, sir.”
“Only fair?”
“More than fair considering it’s from memory.”
“I tried to capture everything pertinent.” He leant closer, close enough for her to catch a whiff of his cologne. The sensual smell of cedarwood and frankincense spoke of a man confident in after-dark pursuits. “But there’s nothing of interest except for the compass in his hand.”
Vivienne felt certain he had missed something. She closed her eyes and summoned the image of the painting. “Hmm. I recall there being a small table with a book resting on top.” She opened her eyes to find Mr Sloane staring at her mouth.
He blinked and shook his head. “I once took a magnifying glass to the book but found it impossible to decipher a single word. As such, I don’t see how it’s relevant.”
“Perhaps it’s not.” When Fitchett kindly let her study the painting, she had squinted at the book until her eyes hurt. “The needle on the compass pointed north, if I remember rightly.”
“Yes. It pointed to the window. It must mean something because my grandfather held the instrument upside down.”
Vivienne had made the same observation. A seafaring man relied on his compass the way he relied on the wind. “I agree. Livingston Sloane respected the instrument and would not have allowed the artist to make such a foolish mistake.”
Mr Sloane relaxed back in the seat. His keen gaze drifted over her simple chignon and the complicated knot in her cravat, tied by his reluctant valet.
“As we’ve agreed to speak honestly, Miss Hart,” he said, his eyes brighter than she had ever seen them before, “let me say I’m quite impressed by your logical deductions.”
Vivienne’s heart lurched at the compliment. “I’m glad you can take me seriously when dressed in foppish attire.”
“Oh, I’ll soon have you out of those clothes.” The gentleman caught himself and added, “You can change the moment we arrive in Silver Street. While my colleagues are all forward-thinking men, I would prefer they understood the gravity of our situation. Dressed like that, D’Angelo will think you’re an actress persuaded to play a prank.”
“We’re to visit the office of the Order?” A wave of trepidation washed over her at the thought of meeting the intimidating men.
“I must explain that I cannot take a case while working on this one.”
Would his friends at the Order sway his decisions? Would she find herself pushed to the periphery, ousted from her role so his colleagues could assist? Had she placed her trust in a man who would discard her at the first opportunity?
“And as we get closer to discovering the identity of the plague doctor, we might need their support,” he added. “Like Buchanan, they’re highly resourceful.”
Well, at least he intended to include her. But his colleagues were bound to frown upon the stipulations in the contract. She wondered what they would advise when marriage was the only way to gain the third clue.
Vivienne pushed to her feet, and Mr Sloane stood, too.
“Then let us not waste time,” she said. “I presume you have another carriage and coachman.”
“I do.” Mr Sloane glanced at the toast on her plate and the full cup of coffee. “Do you not want to finish your breakfast?”
“No. We have a busy schedule.” Once they’d visited Silver Street and she had shown him the documents in her possession, they would make the next necessary call before advancing on the men of the Order. “And we do not need an appointment to visit Mr Golding.”
“Mr Golding?”
“The lawyer at Golding, Wicks & Sons.”