Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

“The clue to our legacy may be apparent when we enter the tomb.”

“There’s only one way to know.”

The solid stone door moved with surprising ease. One would be mistaken if they expected to find the pungent smell of rot in the air, or an atmosphere permeated with damp and decay. No. Evan inhaled nothing but a cold, sterile emptiness.

“It’s freezing in here.” Vivienne snuggled into her pelisse and rubbed her arms. She scanned the rectangular stone tomb, ran her gloved hands over the carved figures of a bearded man and a young woman lying next to each other, holding hands. “Livingston and his wife are buried together?”

“Yes.” Evan stood for a moment and let the strange wave of loss pass over him—the stark realisation nothing was permanent. “I’ve never been in here, but I know my father visited often.”

He braced himself to answer her next obvious question.

“Is your mother buried here?”

Nausea roiled in his stomach. “She is in a tomb with my father, one almost identical to this.”

Vivienne did not reply, but sidled up to him and slipped her hand into his. He clutched it, taken aback by the immeasurable sense of peace.

He was in love with her.

He was certain—as certain as a man who’d never known love could be. But a mausoleum was not the place to make a declaration.

“There’s an inscription.” Keeping a firm grip of his hand, she studied the plaque. “Kindred souls in heart and deed. I rather like that.”

Perhaps the inscription was their legacy.

The knowledge that love lived beyond the grave.

“It will be impossible to move the tombstone.” He’d need Buchanan’s help, would struggle even then. “Clearly, Livingston did not intend for us to look inside. We should examine the carvings.”

“There’s little to examine. Maria is holding a fan in her left hand, and Livingston looks to be holding a compass in his right hand.”

Evan leant forward and studied the compass closely. “There are no markings on it, but it points south.” He led her outside and glanced out over his lands. “The only point of interest south of here is the lake.”

“Livingston liked the water. Let’s walk there.”

They walked through a small copse down to the lake.

“If you stand between the lake and these trees, you can see the house.” She took to mumbling then, muttering about the book, reciting parts of the poem from memory. Evan watched in awe, consumed by nothing but the intense rush of emotion he’d managed to name.

After minutes of pacing back and forth, nibbling on her bottom lip, she gasped. “Evan, I know where we should look. We need to dig beneath that beech tree.” She pointed, her hand trembling. “The couple on the vignette sat beneath a tree, reading a book. When we look at the vignette on the fan, I’m sure we’ll find it’s identical.”

Evan studied their surroundings, noting sh

e had a point.

“You think they’re reading Thomas Gray’s poem?”

She hurried over to him and captured his hands. “Gray’s poem is about how people are remembered, about their successes and failings, about hiding truths. Will people remember him stretched beneath the beech tree? When he’s gone, will they notice his absence?”

“And if we find nothing?” Would Livingston have him digging up the entire estate?

She shrugged. “We go back to the mausoleum and begin again. What have we to lose?”

Perhaps it was the frisson of trepidation, or the unsettling feeling they were being watched, that made him say, “We should work under cover of darkness. We’ll return late tonight with a lantern and spade.”

And after the information he’d gained from his steward, he’d come armed with a loaded pistol.

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