“Pointless?” Anger and disbelief warred in Evan’s clipped tone. “But if we do not marry, I cannot honour my grandfather’s debt. I cannot … I cannot—” He broke off, his wide eyes searching her face, gauging her reaction.
Mr Howarth looked almost apologetic. “On that, I cannot comment. I am simply instructed to give you your wedding gifts.”
“Do you not want to check Golding’s office, confirm we speak the truth?”
“The fact you’ve asked the question tells me I can trust you, Mr Sloane.”
Mr Howarth folded the letter. He dangled the end over the lit candle in the brass stick on his desk. Like the prospect of becoming Mr Sloane’s wife, the paper disintegrated, shrivelling to nothing but blackened ash.
Mr Howarth dropped the remnants on the floor and stamped violently to extinguish the flame. Then he reached into the mouth of a skull positioned on a plinth and removed a key. The key belonged to a trunk on the far side of the room, and the man returned to present Vivienne with a fan.
“A fan?” Disappointment marred her tone.
Of what use was it to their investigation?
She spread it with a sharp snap, fanned her face before stopping to examine it in detail. The sticks looked to be ivory, the painted scenes small vignettes, each one depicting the theme of love and courtship. It smelt old and musty. Lord knows why Lucian Hart had left her such a gift.
“And I have something for you, Mr Sloane.” Mr Howarth enlisted Evan’s help to lift a large painting of fruit off the wall. “I trust you’ve brought your carriage.”
Evan appeared equally crestfallen. “I often wonder what goes through an artist’s mind when he paints mundane objects.”
“One must read the symbolism,” she said. “Fruit might represent fertility or the decay that comes with age. A pineapple might signify wealth, an apple the sins of the flesh.”
Her cheeks grew hot as she recalled just how sinful they had been last night. Though was it a sin to show him how much she cared?
Mr Sloane smiled. “Then I might commission a painting of an apple cart.”
“While this is all very interesting,” Mr Howarth interjected, “the wedding gift lies beneath the painting of fruit. Might I suggest you attend to the matter in the privacy of your home?”
She met Evan’s eyes. Their silent exchange held the same burning excitement—an eagerness to find another clue.
Mr Howarth removed his apron and draped it over the desk chair. “Now, I suppose I should get myself over to Long Lane and see what Bonnie has to say about my friend’s disappearance.”
“Bonnie?” Mr Sloane spoke first, though Vivienne was about to ask the same question.
“She runs the Old Red Crow. The woman knows the comings and goings of all those living in the lane.” He blew out the candle in the stick and the one in the lamp. “Is there anything else I might help you with?”
“You have Mr Sloane’s card,” Vivienne said. “Please let us know the moment you find Mr Golding.” Alive hopefully. Not that they needed him to witness a wedding, but she hoped he had not met a tragic end on their account.
The gentleman took his coat and hat off the stand and ushered them out of the workshop that looked more like a necromancer’s spell room. They’d barely stepped out onto the pavement when he bid them a good day and hurried along Oxford Street.
Noticing them standing outside, Buchanan climbed down from atop the carriage and crossed the road. “Let me help with that, laddie, lest ye drop it on yer toes.”
“Buchanan, I’m a man of thirty, not a laddie of ten.”
Vivienne pursed her lips. “It’s an endearment. It means he likes you.”
“Aye, I mean nae offence, sir.” Buchanan took hold of the painting. “I thought the shop sold compasses, nae paintings of fruit.”
Vivienne glanced at Evan, feeling torn between her loyalty to Buchanan and the man who was her lover, not her husband. “It’s a gift for Mr Sloane. A gift from his grandfather.” Though it pained her, she was economical with the truth. She did not mention the hidden clue or the fan she’d thrust into her reticule.
“I’d have thought a seafaring man would have given ye a painting of a ship battling a violent storm, nae a basket of fruit.”
“One must look for the symbolism, Buchanan.” Evan grinned at her as he took hold of her arm and helped her cross the busy thoroughfare. After Buchanan had placed the picture inside the carriage, Evan said, “Might I ask you to do something?”
“Aye, sir. I’m here to help.”
“Did you see the gentleman who left the shop with us?”