“Aye. The elderly man in the burgundy coat.”
“I need you to follow him, see what he does when he reaches Long Lane. A man of his age won’t walk to West Smithfield. Take a hackney and visit the Old Red Crow. Find out what you can about Bonnie, the proprietress. We shall reconvene at Keel Hall.”
Mr Sloane went to thrust coins into Buchanan’s hand, but the Scot refused. “I’ve money to pay for ale and the fare. I’d best be off if I mean to catch him.” And with that, Buchanan pulled his greatcoat across his chest and hurried along the road.
“Hart Street, Turton.” Evan helped Vivienne into the carriage. The second he closed the door and settled in his seat, he mentioned the topic she was hoping to avoid. “Vivienne, about last night. I—I assumed we would marry. I wouldn’t have seduced you had I known … known—”
She laughed, though as ridiculous as it was, a large part of her felt deeply saddened. “While I have no wish to diminish your masculine pride, sir, you were equally seduced. What happened last night stemmed from a mutual attraction. And I certainly have no regrets. Though it sounds as if you do.”
He reached over the gilt picture frame—a barrier wedged between them—and grasped her hand. “I regret nothing.”
She snatched her hand away. Touching him added to her confusion. “Then there is nothing more to say on the matter.” Thankfully, it was but a five-minute drive to Hart Street. Once there, the conversation would turn to the case, not the chaos of emotions whirling around in her chest.
“We will discuss this latest development once we’re home,” he said, watching her constant
ly.
“Keel Hall is your home, not mine. It is foolish to pretend otherwise.”
“Damn it, Vivienne. It’s not my fault Golding instructed Howarth to give us these gifts without proof of a wedding. It is not my fault our ancestors made the pact.”
He was right. They were both mere pawns in a game. “No, it is not your fault, but let’s focus on the case and forget about this confounding attraction that exists between us.”
“Forget?” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Forget the way it felt to be inside you? Forget the way you urged me to drive harder, deeper? Forget the fact I have never felt so connected to a woman?”
“Yes.”
The carriage jerked to a halt outside the townhouse belonging to Lucius Daventry, used as the premises of the Order. Silence enveloped them like a thick shroud, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. They remained silent as they alighted, remained silent when they entered the house and found the other agents seated in the drawing room.
They were not silent enough.
“Evidently, you’ve encountered a problem.” Mr D’Angelo spoke with keen discernment. “If this melancholic mood is an insight into married life, I thank the devil for my bachelorhood.”
Mr Daventry lowered his newspaper and glanced at the painting Mr Sloane had placed against the wall. “Is there a reason you’ve bought a picture of a fruit basket?”
“That’s what married men do.” Mr D’Angelo’s Italian brown eyes glinted with amusement. “They turn into old maids. Next, you’ll find he’s swapped his brandy for fruit punch, his stallion for a lame donkey.”
Mr Cole shook his head. “You have a pessimistic view of marriage, D’Angelo.”
“I have a pessimistic view of life, Cole. Still, when a man buys a painting of—”
“He didn’t buy the painting.” Vivienne couldn’t bear all this talk of marriage. “Mr Howarth gave us the wedding gifts left by our grandfathers. The fruit basket is merely hiding a clue to our legacy.”
Their curiosity aroused, all four men straightened.
Mr Daventry frowned. “But I thought the man needed Golding’s sworn testimony as proof of your marriage?”
“We gave him the sealed letter from Golding.” Mr Sloane’s sharp tone roused some confusion with his colleagues. He failed to mention they did not need to marry. “Apparently, the lawyer changed the plans.”
“As an agent of the Order, one must adapt to changing circumstances.” Mr Daventry folded his newspaper and placed it on the low table between the sofas. “Such things rarely faze you, Sloane, yet your agitation is plain for all to see.”
A deep-rooted need to defend Evan Sloane took command of Vivienne’s tongue. “Nothing about this is easy. A man might remain objective when helping a stranger. Not so when every new piece of information challenges his beliefs.”
Knowing glances passed between the men.
“Then let us focus on solving this case.” Mr Cole relaxed back on the sofa. “I can tell you that Mr Ramsey is engaged in an affair with the owner of the Old Red Crow.”
Vivienne was not surprised. Mr Ramsey had made no secret of his love for her mother, though the feeling was not at all mutual. Mr Ramsey made no secret of his love for all women.