Vivienne inhaled. “Someone is home. I can smell stewed cabbage.”
“Och, the devil just peered through the gap in the curtains.”
Evan knocked again.
They heard the scuffle of feet, raised voices and barked orders, before Mr Golding called, “Wait! Wait! I’m coming!” He opened the door and craned his neck to look over Evan’s shoulder. “Hurry. Come inside before every fortune hunter in London knows you’re here.”
He ushered them in quickly, closed the door and slid the bolt across.
Vivienne followed the lawyer into the front room. “We’ve been so worried. Out of our minds wondering what happened.” She sat in the chair closest to the hearth as directed, glad of an opportunity to warm her hands, though the thought left her picturing Evan Sloane’s muscular chest. “We feared you’d met a grisly end.”
“Forgive me, my dear.” Mr Golding gestured to the sofa, and the old thing creaked when Buchanan and Evan dropped into the seat. “We had no option but to leave Long Lane.”
“I gave you my card,” Evan snapped. “You could have let us know you were safe. Had we not gone to visit Howarth, we would still be wandering aimlessly in the dark.”
Mr Golding’s weary sigh carried the weight of a seventy-year burden. He sat in the wingback chair opposite Vivienne and shook his head.
“You must understand. My father swore to follow the instructions set by Livingston Sloane and Lucian Hart. I swore to repay my father’s debt and do the same. My loyalty is to them first and foremost. It was a condition I remove myself from Long Lane, so you couldn’t find me.”
Evan’s jaw firmed. “Our ancestors underestimated our talents.”
“I don’t suppose Livingston considered the fact his grandson would be an enquiry agent. Not when your father was raised by one of society’s grand matrons.”
“Like Livingston Sloane, I do what I please. I do not bow to society’s hypocritical demands.”
“A philosophy that would have made him proud.”
Evan’s mood altered—his annoyance replaced by a sad introspection. Vivienne thought she knew why.
“It’s strange we should feel deeply connected to men we’ve never met.” She considered her mother’s serene temperament, her father’s need for praise. “I share Mr Sloane’s loathing of rigid rules. A trait I must have inherited from my grandfather.”
Evan managed a smile. “I imagine he would be equally proud, Miss Hart.”
“All the more reason to continue playing their game.”
“To prove we have their mettle?”
“Yes.”
Buchanan sat forward and glared at Mr Golding. “So, was the office ransacked before ye left or after?”
A blush tainted Mr Golding’s wrinkled cheeks. He winced. “I’m afraid my aim was to make you fear the worst. We made the mess, you see, made it appear—”
“Why?” Evan demanded. “For what possible reason?”
Again, Mr Golding looked pained. “To make it difficult for you to marry. To see if you had the gumption, the initiative, a deep-rooted desire to abide by the contract and follow the clues.”
Evan muttered something damning beneath his breath. “My newfound respect for my grandfather diminishes by the second.”
“They’re testing us, Mr Sloane. Making sure we’ve inherited their wisdom, their integrity, before we inherit their wealth. What the eyes do not see, the heart cannot follow. From beyond the grave, they’re creating facades, putting up barriers, dangling bait, all to see if we’re worthy.”
Evan’s smirk spoke of contempt. “Did they not stop to consider the fact you might have been killed by the masked intruder, by the devil shooting at you in the dark?”
He had a valid point—but the comment roused her suspicions.
Was it not Mr Wicks who purchased the masks?
The odd groaning noise came from Mr Golding, not the old sofa. “You were never in any real danger, not from the masked figure.”