Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

If she thought he’d surrender his shovel to a man twice his age, she was sorely mistaken.

Evan dropped the tool and stripped to his shirtsleeves. “Take my coat and wait inside. There’s no point us both getting wet.”

Miss Hart hesitated. “I’ll not leave you,” she said, ignorant to the fact the words struck a chord deep in his chest. She lowered her cloak and draped the damp garment around her shoulders before grabbing his coat. “And my need to remain here has nothing to do with distrust.”

“You don’t fear I might steal what’s hidden in the trunk?” Evan gripped the shovel and continued digging, aware of the lady’s gaze lingering on his biceps.

“I trust you to do what is right, Mr Sloane. Everything about our situation is difficult. I’ll not leave you to deal with any part of it alone.”

Hellfire!

Never had he encountered a more accomplished temptress. Miss Hart made sincerity as arousing as sin. One carefully constructed sentence had the power to reach deep down into his soul and stir hidden feelings. The old trunk wasn’t the only thing buried. When a man had no memory of his mother, he filled the gaping hole of loneliness with any rubble he could find.

Evan continued working in silence. The beguiling woman behind him consumed his thoughts, not the need to uncover the chest.

“That should suffice,” she said as he exposed the solid lid. “You should be able to slip the key into the lock and flick the catch.”

Evan thrust the shovel into the dirt, leaving it upright. He brushed his hands and took the small iron key from Miss Hart’s cold fingers. His only thought was sucking life into the slender digits, not crouching and sweeping away the soil.

The tarnished hinges creaked as he lifted the lid. “How long has the chest been buried here?”

“Two years. After my father’s death, Lady Hollinshead persuaded my mother to move from Derbyshire to London. That’s when my mother told me about the contract.”

Evan removed the box wrapped in a coarse linen grain sack. “Did she know I was Livingston Sloane’s only direct descendant?”

“Mother knew your name, but didn’t urge me to find you until hours from meeting her maker.” Miss Hart gestured to the house. “We should go inside where it’s warm and dry. Rosemary has lit the fire in the drawing room.” She threw him a mischievous grin. “I shall let you look through the documents if you promise not to steal them.”

He smiled. “Why would I steal them when you trust me with everything you hold dear?”

Evan followed Miss Hart back to the house. The young maid took their outdoor garments, then brought the tea tray and a plate of Bath cakes to the drawing room. Once nestled into the worn wingback chairs, and having banished the cold from their bones, Miss Hart removed the mahogany chinoiserie tea caddy from the sack and held it on her lap. She unlocked the caddy with a tasselled key before glancing up at him.

“First, let us put to rest any doubts concerning Livingston Sloane’s chosen profession.” The lady removed a folded letter, tatty around the edges and with slight foxing. “This is a letter of marque held by Lucian Hart, granting him permission to attack enemy vessels in the Mediterranean.”

Evan took the letter, peeled back the folds and read it quickly.

“And this is a letter giving Livingston Sloane the same rights.”

Evan gripped the parchment. The sudden surge of emotion in his chest took him by surprise. He felt a close kinship to his deceased relative, the one he was supposed to despise. Hell, he’d taken enough beatings at school for defending the scoundrel—until he found the strength to fight back.

“How have you come by this?” He absorbed the information on the page. Mild anger tainted Evan’s tone, anger aimed at Lady Boscobel, not Miss Hart. “Tell me my family knew nothing of its existence.”

“I don’t know why your grandfather’s document is in this box. I don’t know why your great-grandmother disowned her son when he had legitimate cause to attack foreign ships.”

Like the wind rattling the sash, Evan’s anger gained momentum. Indeed, he would visit the pompous oaf who had inherited the Leaton viscountcy, the distant cousin who must know something of the tales spun by Lady Boscobel, and then throttle the truth from his lying lips.

“I can only presume your grandfather gave Lucian Hart the letter before he died,” Miss Hart added. “Both letters bear Lord Anson’s signature, who was the First Lord of the Admiralty. Whatever they were doing in the Mediterranean, it was of some naval importance.”

Various questions bombarded Evan’s mind.

Did Lady Boscobel believe her son had carried out acts of piracy? Based on the vile things she’d said about Livingston Sloane, she couldn’t have known the truth. So why had she kept the painting? Why had she refused to use the name Sloane?

“And this is a copy of the letter instructing Mr Golding’s father to ensure the contract is legally binding. It’s signed by Lucian Hart and Livingston Sloane.”

Evan gave an amused snort. Miss Hart’s persistence in wishing to marry him distracted from thoughts of his family’s antagonism. “Regardless of what Mr Golding says when we meet him today, the contract cannot be enforced.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed, much to his surprise.

So why did he feel a pang of disappointment?