Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

The next few hours passed quickly. While Vivienne took a nap, Evan met with his steward, Mr Bradmore, who wished to take advantage of his master’s sudden appearance and discuss the plans for the new tenant cottages. The steward would have rambled on about estate business all afternoon had Evan not promised to return in a week.

Under the guise of taking Miss Hart on a tour of the gardens, Evan escorted Vivienne on the mile walk to the memorial grounds—a row of depressing mausoleums housing the graves of Daniel and Livingston Sloane, amongst others.

“Is Lady Boscobel buried here?” Vivienne glanced at the weathered tombs, pointed to the only one with a bouquet of hothouse flowers in a stone vase to the left of the entrance.

Evan nodded. “My great-grandmother died at the grand old age of ninety-four, the year after I was born. Mrs Elkin changes the flowers weekly as a mark of respect.”

“Which one is Livingston’s resting place?”

“The one guarded by the statue of a wanderer.” He gestured to the figure of a robed man clutching a staff, perched above the entrance to a gloomy mausoleum. “Livingston and Maria are buried there.”

“It doesn’t seem right to disturb his grave.”

No. Evan had been plagued by similar thoughts all morning. “It won’t hurt to enter the tomb. All the clues point here—the painted vignette of the house, Gray’s poem of death, the compass leading us northeast of London. Equally, the mausoleum lies northeast of the house. We’ve every reason to believe this is where he hid the treasure.”

Vivienne stared pensively at the entrance, lost in a sad, wistful dream. “While it must be obvious to you that finding any treasure would ease my financial burden, it was never about the money.”

Evan closed the gap between them. The need to hold her and kiss away her melancholy took command of his senses. He clasped her upper arm and drew her around to face him.

“It’s never been about the money for me.”

It started as an amusement, a way to ease his boredom. It started as a need to prove his worth to a deceased relative he’d never met, to correct misconceptions, to right a wrong. And yet none of those things mattered now.

She laughed and glanced at her surroundings. “No, clearly you have no need of pirate gold. Your sense of duty brings you here. In that respect, you possess a quality your ancestor lacked.”

He took a moment to consider her words.

Duty? He had no loyalty to the man who had them chasing their tails. Livingston had lived by his own code, a code some might consider selfish. Despite being born into privilege, he turned his back on his family. Perhaps his return to Highwood, his desire to have his mother raise his child, was a way of correcting his mistakes. The prodigal son returning to the fold.

“The irony is I pride myself on the fact I avoid commitment, and yet I stand here as master of this estate, a commitment I take seriously. I stand here as an agent of the Order, committed to work I value and deem necessary.”

She touched him lightly on the cheek. “The difference is, those things are within your control. You avoid things you cannot control because it scares you to think you might try your best and still lose something precious.”

“Life is cruel. Like my father, I avoid anything that might cause pain.”

“And yet what counts is not the material things we leave behind. What counts is who we loved and who loved us in return.”

His heavy sigh was a sort of exorcism—an expulsion of false beliefs.

The darkness left his body, leaving a newfound clarity.

“I encourage D’Angelo to mask his pain, to use women and drink and vengeance as a means of coping. When our task is over, I must help him find another way to banish his demons.”

Vivienne came up on her toes and kissed him gently on the mouth. “Love is the only thing capable of freeing Mr D’Angelo from his torment. Love is the key to the shackles that bind him to the past.”

“Then there’s no hope for him.”

“There is always hope.”

Evan stared at her, his heart swelling, his body infused with a warm glow, though he struggled to label the feeling. “Before we continue our quest, may I say how much I respect and admire you, Miss Hart.” He wished he’d crossed the ballroom and asked her to dance, wished he’d turned to her in Gunter’s and commented on the fact they’d both chosen pineapple mousse.

Her smile failed to reach her eyes. “I have always admired you, Mr Sloane. Even when you dumped me in a carriage in my stocking feet.”

He laughed, though he was troubled by the unspoken words hanging in the air between them, troubled by the words craving a voice, nagging at his conscience.

“Then I pray you still admire me when I make you hold the coffin lid while I examine the contents.” There, light-hearted banter banished the need to speak from the heart.

She seemed suddenly fearful. “I’ll do it, of course. As long as you do not disturb his remains.”