Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

“I suspect even a small sip will roast my insides.” Having spent many summers in the Highlands of Scotland, she was used to taking a dram or two of whisky. Still, the aroma alone made her gasp. “The smell reminds me of hills and heather and babbling brooks, though I suspect my mouth will soon feel like the inside of a blacksmith’s furnace.”

Mr Sloane’s laugh reached his vibrant green eyes. The sight stole her breath and warmed her insides before the sip of wily whistle scorched her throat.

“Good Lord!” Vivienne coughed and spluttered and panted to cool the burn. A wily whistle? He should name the drink holy fire.

Mr Sloane shot to his feet and closed the gap between them. “I did warn you.” He took the glass from her hand lest she spill the contents. “It’s lethal to the untrained palette.”

“That’s the devil’s drink, sir,” she said, though she laughed too when he could not conceal his mirth. “Perhaps when we’re married, I might tempt you to mix me a whipkull. It’s a far better way to serve rum, and they say it’s the drink favoured in Valhalla.”

As expected, his smile faded at the mere mention of marriage. But he could not avoid their destiny.

“Miss Hart, though you are entertaining company, and nowhere near the dullard I expected, I refuse to abide by this ridiculous pact. Should you wish to prosecute for breach of contract, know my lawyers will have the case thrown out within a matter of hours. As to the claim on my land that you—”

“This is not about legalities, Mr Sloane. This is a matter of honour.”

Despite talk of his pirate heritage and his wild antics in the bedchamber, men respected Evan Sloane. They believed his work as an enquiry agent for the Order served as an acceptable pastime for a man with an adventurous spirit.

“You owe my grandfather your life,” she continued in earnest. “The debt must be paid. We live in a society where a son is accountable for his father’s mistakes. Your failure to abide by the agreement will bring more shame to your name than any association with Livingston Sloane ever could.”

Mr Sloane’s glare carried a hint of disdain. “Do you think I care about ballroom gossip? Livingston Sloane may have escaped punishment, but I took the beatings. School can be an unpleasant place when one’s grandfather is a pirate, and so one develops thick skin.”

“Your grandfather was a privateer, not a pirate,” she reiterated. “He carried a letter of marque. Do you not seek an opportunity to clear his name?”

“Such an effort will only rouse unwanted attention. And I have nothing but the word of a busybody as proof.”

Vivienne’s watery laugh held no amusement. “What about your duty to protect the innocent? I suffer because of your grandfather’s misfortune. If we do not marry, Mr Sloane, I doubt I shall live long enough to witness the first buds of spring.”

Mr Sloane observed her intently through narrowed eyes. “Is this about money, Miss Hart? Your mother died a year ago, and you live alone in Silver Street, I hear.”

“I do not live alone. I have Buchanan and Mrs McCready for company.”

Their ancestors had served every Laird McFarlane for the last two hundred years, and they were assigned as her protectors. Though that did not deter the devil determined to rob her of her inheritance.

Mr Sloane rubbed his jaw in thoughtful contemplation. “I shall have my lawyers prepare a new contract. You will be handsomely rewarded for agreeing to destroy this document.” He plucked the old contract from the sofa, rolled it tightly and attempted to hand it back to her.

Vivienne waved her hand in refusal. “I implore you, keep the contract. It is no longer safe in my possession.”

With a huff

of impatience, Mr Sloane pushed to his feet. “Miss Hart, this document isn’t worth a guinea. Accept my offer of financial compensation, take your servants and go home. If you’re so intent on marrying, know there are few men in the ton willing to take a wife with such a vivid imagination.”

Oh, she should have known he’d be an obstinate oaf.

Yet when he scanned her from head to toe with his intense green gaze, a glimmer of hope surfaced. Yes, she had a wild imagination, but judging by the look in Mr Sloane’s eyes, he appeared mildly captivated. That didn’t stop him from crossing the room and tugging the bell pull.

“I assume you hired a hackney to bring you here.”

“Yes, the jarvey parked a hundred yards from the front gate.” The miser had charged an exorbitant four shillings a mile—danger money for having to make the journey in a thunderstorm.

“My coachman will see you safely home. And I shall send a footman to settle your fare.”

Pride should have made her refuse his offer of assistance, but a villain might easily bribe a hackney driver to take a detour while en route to town. The intruder who broke into her house would go to murderous lengths to steal their bounty.

“Mr Sloane, there is so much more I need to explain.”

He needed to know he held the second vital clue to finding their inheritance, that she held the first. They could only obtain the third clue with proof of their marriage. She needed to explain there was treachery afoot, that someone stalked her from the shadows, had ransacked her lawyer’s office, too.

“Do not try my patience, Miss Hart. I’ve heard more than enough—”