Mr Golding consulted his notebook and then glanced at them over his spectacles. “Do you have the men’s letters of marque issued by the admiralty?”
“We do,” she replied. “We have both letters, but they’re locked away in a bank vault.”
The lie fell easily from Miss Hart’s lips. Like Evan, she wasn’t sure she could trust the lawyer and so proceeded with caution. It was a wise move, a wise move indeed.
“Ah.” Mr Golding examined the other notes written on the page. “Then you must both present the clues to the legacy left by your ancestors.”
Clues to the legacy? How in the devil’s name could he do that? The painting of Livingston Sloane was nought but a pile of ash in the grate.
“Present the clues?” the lady challenged. “Lucian Hart would not demand I reveal his secret correspondence.”
“Excellent. It says here that should you give the lawyer the clues, you shall forfeit any claim to the legacy.” Mr Golding ran his bony finger down the page. “Ah, I don’t need to see the clues. But I must ask you both a series of questions, and you must provide the answers.”
The process was more complicated than Evan had anticipated. Livingston Sloane’s instructions were precise and left no room for negotiation. Did that mean the treasure amounted to a vast sum?
“So, the first question is to Miss Hart.” Mr Golding glanced up from his notebook. “A pauper or prince, a knight or knave, who will you save?”
Evan glanced at Miss Hart, who beamed with confidence. “Why, I would save a pauper,” she said, quoting from the nine cryptic words written on the tiny parchment.
“Yes. Good.”
Evan’s pulse pounded in his throat when the elderly gentleman fixed him with a beady stare. “Now a question for you, Mr Sloane.”
Hell. Evan knew nothing about his ancestor’s clue, and could only assume it had something to do with the painting of Livingston Sloane.
“North, south, east or west, which direction suits me best?”
Good lord, it was like a line from a children’s rhyme. Evan couldn’t help but think their ancestors were mocking them from the grave. Still, with quiet confidence, he said, “The answer is north.”
“Excellent. Now back to you, Miss Hart. If you could travel anywhere in the world, my dear, where would you go?”
“While I have a fondness for the Highlands, sir, I believe I am supposed to say Egypt.”
Mr Golding consulted his notebook. “Egypt, yes. The land of the pharaohs.” He glanced at Evan. “Is there anything, sir, that might distract a man from a beautiful view?”
It took Evan a second to realise that was his question. Clearly, Mr Golding referred to the lush fields depicted in the painting. He thought for a moment.
Miss Hart turned to him. “You know the answer, Mr Sloane.”
“I do, Miss Hart.” All thanks to her. Had Fitchett not granted her permission to examine the painting, had she not suggested he had missed something from his sketch this morning, he would be clueless. “I believe the answer is a book. A book might distract a man from a beautiful view.” Yet when he looked at Miss Hart, nothing could drag his gaze away from her brilliant smile.
Mr Golding hummed with pleasure. “This is the point where I’m to ask for the author’s name.”
Miss Hart turned pale. “His name?”
Evan’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. “The writing was illegible. I couldn’t read the name of the book or its author.”
“Good. Good.” Mr Golding fiddled with his spectacles before reading from the notebook. “Then I can tell you it’s a poem by Thomas Gray.”
Thomas Gray?
Was that supposed to mean something? Was it another clue?
“Well, I’m pleased to say you both passed the test.” Mr Golding pushed to his feet, though Lord knows what he intended to do next. He reached for his walking stick and tottered to the veneer table. “No doubt you want to marry posthaste.”
“As to that,” Evan began, but Miss Hart tapped his arm and mouthed for him to wait.
“I presume you have the letter we’re to take to the archbishop,” she said.