Suspicion flared.
So, this did have something to do with his pirate heritage. And what could this busybody-come-wallflower-come-spinster—for she must be five-and-twenty—know about adventure?
“I do have one question.”
“Only one, sir? As an enquiry agent for the Order, I expected more.”
Cursed saints! Did she know his inside leg measurement too? “You said you removed your boots so as not to ruin my rug. How did you know it was Persian?”
“I called a week ago, but Fitchett said you were attending a wedding in Surrey. The wedding of your colleague Mr Cole. I asked if I might see the painting of Livingston Sloane, and he obliged.”
The soft-hearted devil. Fitchett would feel more than the whip of Evan’s tongue. Still, he admired Miss Hart’s honesty despite the mildly arrogant delivery.
“And why would you travel from Silver Street to Little Chelsea just to glance at a painting of a scoundrel?” Was this the moment she revealed some distant kinship? Would she claim her parent was the bastard child of the buccaneer?
“I journeyed from Silver Street to Little Chelsea to see you, Mr Sloane, as you’re intent on avoiding me.” Miss Hart seemed unperturbed by the fact he remembered her address. She glanced at the portrait of Livingston Sloane hanging in a gilt frame near the fireplace. “But I believe the painting holds a vital clue and so couldn’t leave without persuading your butler to let me examine the piece.”
Evan narrowed his gaze. It occurred to him that Miss Hart suffered from a form of mental instability. Perhaps she was a fanatical eccentric whose imagination ran riot. Perhaps she had grown so bored with hiding behind potted ferns she thought to invent an exciting heritage.
“A vital clue to what, Miss Hart?” he foolishly said, for the woman needed no encouragement. By rights, Evan should summon his loose-tongued butler to escort her to the door. Yet this annoying pest had piqued his interest.
Hell.
Miss Hart paused. She rubbed her hands together and gazed at the amber flames dancing in the grate. “Might I take a moment to warm myself by the fire? And could I trouble you for a glass of sherry?”
How could he deny the needs of a woman caught in a raging thunderstorm? “Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Hart, and I shall pour you a drink.” It wasn’t often one played footman to a loon.
“Thank you.” She moved to stand before the fire and raised her hands to the flames. “When one has important information to impart, one should have a firm grasp of one’s faculties.”
Had Evan been entertaining a paramour, he might have suggested his faculties needed a firm grasp, too. The lewd thought was undoubtedly the reason his hand shook as he poured the fortified wine.
“The information must be important to bring you out in this weather.” Evan crossed the room and handed Miss Hart a glass of sherry. Her fingers brushed his as she gripped the stem. They were long and elegant and would look splendid wrapped around his—
“I used the weather to my advantage, sir,” she said in so confident a manner he decided she must be a bluestocking, not a wallflower. “You’ve failed to reply to my letters, and so I had no choice but to play the damsel in distress.”
“So, this is a game of sorts, Miss Hart.”
Her expression darkened. “On the contrary, this matter will alter the course of our lives, Mr Sloane. In coming here, I have placed us both in grave danger.”
Yes, the woman was most definitely a loon.
Evan huffed in frustration. During his work as an enquiry agent, he’d met his share of vicious villains. Every new case brought the prospect of death. Miss Hart had misjudged him if she thought to intimidate him with baseless threats.
“Madam, do I look like a man who scares easily?”
Miss Hart’s warm gaze drifted over Evan’s mane of brown hair, down to the open neck of his shirt.
“You’re a man who rescues innocent children from their abductors, Mr Sloane. A man who thwarts poisoning attempts, who proves paid companions do not steal rare blue diamonds.” Her slow, teasing smile was that of a courtesan, not a damn bluestocking. “Nothing terrifies you. Yet I will lay odds my proposal will chill your blood.”
Proposal?
Hellfire!
“Miss Hart, while I find your honesty and resolve refreshing, stop dancing around the maypole and come to the point.”
“Very well.” She swallowed her sherry swiftly and placed the glass on the mantel. “While I’ve imagined this moment for a while, I must confess to being somewhat nervous.”
Evan’s heart softened. Then he remembered this woman was potentially deranged. “Your confidence has served you well so far, madam. Be blunt, and I shall afford you the same courtesy.”