Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

“She pawned a brooch and a necklace to pay for the tickets,” Ashwood replied. “How will she fund a lavish lifestyle across the water? Being a good friend of your mother, maybe she knows about the contract, knows Sloane and Hart hid treasure, and you’re close to finding a fortune.”

A shiver ran the length of Evan’s spine, though it had nothing to do with the fact the countess might be a cunning thief. “You said tickets. She’s not going alone?”

“I believe she’s taking her maid.”

Vivienne snorted. “I doubt she’ll get far. Lord Hollinshead has spies everywhere. The countess told me so herself. And if she’s leaving next week, how does she mean to steal our legacy?”

“That’s something we need to discover.” Daventry turned his attention to the painting propped against the wall. “Sloane, focus on following the clues and discovering your grandfather’s intention. We will continue to pry into all the suspects’ affairs. We will meet here daily until the matter is resolved.”

D’Angelo hummed and narrowed his gaze. “So, if you have your wedding gifts, must you still marry? And if not, is it wise for Miss Hart to remain at Keel Hall? Surely the longer she is there, the greater the risk of discovery.”

The devil. Trust D’Angelo to focus on the one point certain to cause distress. And based on Vivienne’s flush of embarrassment, the reason Evan wanted her at Keel Hall was evident.

“There is more to this than finding treasure,” Evan countered. “Our lives are in danger. And we’ve the matter of a vow, a contract.” And the host of unfamiliar feelings plaguing his mind and body. “We will do as Daventry said, follow the clues and see where they lead us.”

D’Angelo’s teasing grin said he had the full measure of the situation. “Then are we permitted to see what’s behind the basket of fruit?”

Daventry pushed to his feet. “I think it prudent they examine the painting privately. Someone may have followed them here. Should the fiend catch a glimpse of a map, he may attack their carriage on the quiet road through Little

Chelsea.”

“Perhaps one of us should follow behind,” Cole suggested. “Ensure they arrive safely.”

“Agreed. D’Angelo will go.” Daventry bowed over Miss Hart’s hand when she stood. “Report here tomorrow with any new developments.” Then he bid the men good day and took his leave.

D’Angelo stole a macaroon off the plate and popped it into his mouth before helping Evan carry the painting to the carriage while Ashwood engaged Vivienne in conversation.

“Tell Turton to drive like the devil. I have an appointment in town in an hour and cannot be late.” D’Angelo pushed the painting between the seats and brushed dust off his coat and hands.

“An appointment? You should have told Daventry to send someone else.”

D’Angelo glanced quickly behind. “Then I would have to tell him I’m conducting a personal investigation.”

A personal investigation!

Evan knew what that meant. D’Angelo lived to avenge the death of his parents. If his meeting involved romping beneath the bedsheets with a buxom widow, the fellow would have a lascivious glint in his eye.

“Tell me you’re not risking your neck, scouring the rookeries on a hunch. Wait until I’ve dealt with this matter and I shall accompany you on your crusade.”

“Sloane, I’ll not have you gamble with your life. Any fool can see what’s happening between you and Miss Hart. It’s only a matter of time before I’m left alone again. The orphan. The bachelor. It matters not.”

Bitterness filled D’Angelo’s heart.

The poison tainted his mind, tormented his soul.

“We’re like brothers, D’Angelo. The bond we share cannot be broken. My relationship with Miss Hart changes nothing between us. Promise you’ll wait until I can assist you.”

D’Angelo gripped Evan’s shoulder in a masculine gesture of affection. “I’ll not drag you into this when your heart is engaged, when you have the prospect of a bright future. Not when you’ve spent all these years alone, too. But I swore an oath. An oath to find the devil who shot my parents. An oath to find the bastard who murdered an unarmed woman in front of her young son.”

He wiped his face as if it were still smeared with his mother’s blood.

D’Angelo wore his pain like a second skin—hidden beneath the expert cut of his clothes, beneath his masculine charm and devil-may-care attitude. To the trained eye, it was there in every sleek movement, every mocking grin.

“Let me help you.”

“No. Not when I plan to fight with every breath in my lungs. Not when I’m determined to fight to the death.”

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