Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3) - Page 10
“Well, let’s hope he reconsiders before the miscreant who ransacked my house ventures to Little Chelsea.” The intruder had smashed drawers, ripped feather pillows, slashed paintings, pulled up boards. But he did not find the old mahogany tea chest buried in the garden.
Buchanan shrugged. “Yer mother—God rest her soul—said Lady Sloane destroyed all evidence relating to the contract. The scoundrel will find nothing of interest in the mansion house.”
Vivienne squirmed in the seat. Buchanan would rant and rave when he learnt she had left the priceless documents with Mr Sloane, but she kept no secrets from her mother’s companions.
“Apparently, the matron abandoned the Sloane name and preferred to call herself Lady Boscobel.” Vivienne paused. “And as for the scoundrel finding nothing in the house, I’ve given Mr Sloane the contract and the clue to our lost legacy.”
Buchanan gasped. “Blessed saints!” His cheeks ballooned and his grey eyes bulged. “Tell me I’ve misheard, lass. Tell me the damp air hasn’t dulled yer brain. Ah dinna ken what ye were thinking.”
“The gentleman is probably dancing around the bonfire,” Mrs McCready chimed, “singing his good fortune.”
Having spent his life believing his grandfather was a heartless pirate who plundered the high seas, a life tainted by the association, trust did not come easily to Mr Sloane. Especially considering the terrible time he’d had at school.
“If I expect him to abide by the contract, I have to show him I believe he is honourable.”
“But to give him yer only proof of his family’s debt, lass.”
Vivienne raised her chin. “I have faith in fate, in destiny, in the fact there is so much more to the gentleman than some would believe.”
She couldn’t explain why she trusted Mr Sloane. The certainty of it sat in the pit of her stomach, heavy as an anchor. The man had rescued a child abducted from the street and held prisoner in the slums of Whitechapel. That made him a hero in her eyes.
“And I need a reason to return to Keel Hall,” she continued, clutching the overhead strap when they bounced through a rut in the road.
“There’s no reason to return if he’s destroyed the evidence,” complained Mrs McCready, her expression unsurprisingly glum.
“You must trust me,” Vivienne implored. “Mr Sloane knew nothing of his grandfather’s work as a privateer, yet he kept Livingston Sloane’s portrait.” Had he kept it for the reason he’d stated? Did he really think of himself as a misfit? “Mr Sloane is a man who seeks the truth. I’m confident all will be well.”
Buchanan’s moustache twitched as he smiled. “There’s logic to yer madness, lass. I’ll give yer that. Happen yer mother would be mighty proud.”
The mention of Vivienne’s mother brought a rush of emotion to her throat. The stricken silence that followed carried the gravity of her loss. The last words her mother uttered as she clung to life in her sickbed was for Vivienne to find Evan Sloane. Evan Sloane would honour the contract and keep her safe. Evan Sloane would be her protector.
They all sat in thoughtful contemplation, shivering and staring as rain pelted the windowpanes, their minds conjuring their own morbid memories of the past.
They might have sat quietly until they reached Silver Street, had the sharp crack not pierced the night air and dragged them from their reverie. The coachman’s keen cry followed. The commotion must have spooked the horses, for the carriage rocked violently as the terrified bays bolted forward.
“Damn the devil to Hades!” Buchanan rubbed mist off the window and pressed his nose to the glass. “What evil is this?”
Fear sent Vivienne’s heart slamming into her ribs. Why did she sense the coachman’s issue had nothing to do with the heart-stopping thunderclap? What if someone had followed them from town to Little Chelsea? Someone who wanted to ensure she never found the third clue.
Buchanan shot back from the window. “Quick. Crouch down, lass.” In a state of panic, he tugged her cloak. “That was gunfire, nae a thunderbolt.”
Mrs McCready yelped. “I knew we should have—”
Another shot rang out. The sound of splintering wood suggested the lead ball had hit a wheel spoke. Everything happened so quickly then. The carriage careened left, abandoning the muddy dirt track for the sprawling fields of Little Chelsea. It hurtled over the uneven ground at breakneck speed, throwing them off their seats.
“Cover yer heads!” Buchanan yelled.
“Saints and demons! Stop, you mad beasts!” The coachman’s curses brought some comfort, for at least the poor man wasn’t dead.
The carriage slowed and lost speed, but the rush of relief came all too soon. The vehicle bounced into a ditch, the violent impact snapping the axle and launching them into the air.
Mrs McCready and Buchanan banged heads as the carriage tilted and overturned. The windowpane exploded as it hit a rock on the ground, sending shards of glass flying into Mr Sloane’s plush cab. Vivienne felt the trickle of blood at her temple before noticing the pain. But it was Buchanan’s odd comment that brought bile to her throat, that left her trembling to the tips of her toes.
“Hush, lass, the plague doctor is on the trail. Where there’s a plague doctor, death follows.”
* * *
Legs crossed at the ankles, Evan sat in the wingback chair closest to the hearth, watching the amber flames flicker in the grate. A little over an hour had passed since Miss Hart thrust the tiny scroll into his palm and pleaded with him to read the script—the clue. The clue to what? Pirate treasure? A long lost legacy?
Source: readsnovelonline.net