Valiant: Gentlemen of the Order - Book 3

by Clee, Adele

  Fixated on her mouth, and with a look one might describe as salacious, he breached the seam of her lips with his finger, ran the tip slowly over the wet flesh inside.

  Her nipples hardened at the sensual invasion. Her legs trembled as she waited for him to slip deeper. She gave in to her urges, flicked her tongue against his finger, bit down on the tip.

  “Minx,” he mouthed, fixing her with his ravenous gaze. “Let me come to your bedchamber tonight. Let me show you the power of my tongue.”

  Vivienne swallowed deeply. Climbing into bed with this pirate seemed more than appealing. What harm could it do? What reason did she have to hold on to her virtue? And wasn’t it better to make love to a man she desired than to suffer the fate of most ladies her age?

  “You’re lying!” came the feminine screech from beyond the door. “I demand you put a stop to this at once.”

  “Madam, what my rakehell cousin does is his affair. For years, I’ve strived to avoid any association with the scoundrel and couldn’t give a hoot who he marries.”

  “Will you not at least confirm the rumour is true?”

  Vivienne leant closer to Mr Sloane and lowered her voice. “That’s definitely Lady Hollinshead. Only two people could have told her about our decision to marry.”

  “Three. Ramsey, Golding, and the drunken sot Wicks.”

  “Maybe now is the time to begin our performance.”

  Mr Sloane straightened. “As my betrothed, you will need to align yourself with me, not the countess. And having Charles Sloane here means we can lure them both with the bait.” He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “They have to believe we’re in love and mean to marry.”

  “Do you honestly think either of them would be interested in pirate treasure? They don’t need the money. What possible motive could they have for stealing our bounty?” And was the countess not trying to prevent the marriage?

  “The legacy might not be money, but damning information or a dreadful secret. That’s motive enough to prevent our alliance. And Charles Sloane must know of the contract. Perhaps he’s swimming in gambling debts, one creditor away from drowning. Most of what he owns is entailed.”

  But surely the information gained at the costume shop shed new light on recent events. “Is Mr Wicks not the one who fired shots at the carriage, who hurried to Keel Hall to destroy the painting?”

  Mr Sloane arched a brow. “The clerk can barely walk straight, let alone ride in the dark while firing two pistols.”

  “Could his sotted-fool routine not be an act to divert suspicion?”

  He pondered the point until the frustrated countess cried, “Do not belittle me. I heard it from a reliable source.”

  “Come, let us join the party before one of them leaves.” Mr Sloane clasped Vivienne’s hand and barged into the dimly lit library before she could protest. “What have we here? Cleopatra consorting with an envoy of Rome? Are you seeking to bring about the destruction of an empire, or just poking your noses into my affairs?”

  The Roman emperor cursed. He tore off his gold mask and glared at Mr Sloane. “As I have just explained to Lady Hollinshead, marry who the devil you please. Thankfully, in her infinite wisdom, our great-grandmother sought to divide the family. So those of us with blue blood might avoid any association with our dissolute relatives.”

  Mr Sloane laughed. “And yet Lady Boscobel-Sloane raised my father and left him a huge portion of her estate. It must cut to the bone to know I’m wealthier than you, despite the fact my grandfather was a marauding pirate.”

  The viscount, who was a wisp of a man compared to his cousin, glared down his patrician nose. “Money does not make you a gentleman. Your mother was a governor’s daughter. Your lowly status is evident in the sordid work you do for Lucius Daventry.”

  The atmosphere turned volatile, the threat of danger as frightening as Mr Sloane’s thunderous glare. “Do not dare speak about my mother. Not if you want to live to see tomorrow.”

  “Saving innocent children from blackmailing monsters is far from sordid,” Vivienne spat. The need to defend Mr Sloane took command of her senses. “The fault lies with you, not Mr Sloane. Men of privilege ought to right society’s injustices instead of endlessly pursuing pleasure.”

  “Miss Hart!” The countess put her hand to her throat as if struggling to breathe. Her cheeks looked deathly pale against the stark black wig. “Mind your manners. You’re speaking to a viscount.” Despite her heritage, her accent was devoid of the Scottish burr, a burr she occasionally let slip.

  “I have spent the last three months minding my manners, my lady, but I cannot permit anyone to disrespect the man I’m to marry.”

  She glanced at Mr Sloane, who did a remarkable job of appearing touched. Vivienne would fight his corner even if they weren’t putting on a show.

  The countess scanned the delicate gown hugging Vivienne’s frame like a silk glove. “Please tell me this is a terrible dream and I will wake in a cold sweat, praising the Lord and counting my blessings.” She pressed her gloved fingers to her brow. “This cannot be true. Not after your dear mother left you in my care.”

  Vivienne had passed the age of majority years ago and did not need a guardian. But she supposed the lady had taken her under her wing and sought to introduce her into society.

  “I am extremely grateful for your kindness, my lady. Indeed, when I met Mr Sloane two months ago, I didn’t imagine our relationship would blossom so quickly.”

  For the first time in history, Cleopatra looked ready to swoon. Lady Hollinshead gripped the rosewood writing desk. “Are you with child, my dear? Has this devil violated you? Can you be sure he will go through with this marriage, and it is not a ploy to annoy his cousin?”

  “Second cousin,” Mr Sloane corrected, for he was equally keen to distance himself from his relative. “And if a man had made those derogatory remarks about my character, I’d shoot him dead.”

  “Do you not entertain courtesans, Mr Sloane?”

  “Like most unmarried men, I did until I fell in love with Miss Hart. And while I long for the day when we might cement our union, I would never disrespect the woman set to be my wife.”

  The countess groaned. “Oh, this is dreadful.”

  “Then perhaps you should have paid more attention to the daughter of your friend instead of leaving her alone to watch the gaiety from her chair. Indeed, why did you not find her a suitor from your long list of respectable acquaintances? Not once has she graced the dance floor. According to Buchanan, she hasn’t received a single offer to ride out.”

  Vivienne couldn’t help but feel somewhat inadequate when she considered the lack of male attention. And when had Mr Sloane taken to questioning Buchanan about her private affairs?

  “Well?” Mr Sloane prompted.

  After an episode of excessive swallowing, the countess found her voice. “It’s an extremely complicated situation.”

  Vivienne frowned. This was the first time the countess had suggested there might be a problem. “Complicated? I don’t understand.” Or perhaps she did but didn’t want to believe the countess was as prejudiced as the rest of society.

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve no dowry. You’re but a cousin to the current laird, and your paternal grandfather—”

  “Second cousin,” Vivienne interjected, grinning at Mr Sloane. “What you’re trying to say is Lucian Hart’s choice of career means I fall beneath acceptable standards.”

  The lady raised her chin. “Many gentlemen frown upon your grandfather’s seafaring background. Edinburgh society would suit you so much better.”

  The viscount laughed. “So, the lady’s ancestor was a pirate, too. Did this fellow escape the noose? Did he go unpunished because he had connections to the aristocracy? Did you inherit a fortune despite being the offspring of a criminal?”

  A darkness fell over Mr Sloane’s fine features.

  A darkness of satanic proportion.

  “A criminal? Livingston Sloane served the Crown. I
have proof.” Evan Sloane gritted his teeth. “Next time we meet, I shall stuff the document down your throat and watch you choke.” He cricked his neck. “Beware. I intend to inform everyone of the false charges made against my grandfather. I intend to ensure you’re made to grovel for the mistake.”

  Vivienne should have been petrified, but Mr Sloane radiated a raw masculinity she found highly arousing. Indeed, she was keen to bring the conversation to an end. Keen to ensure Mr Sloane kept calm, for the viscount was no match for the virile gentleman clutching her hand.

  “My lady, might I ask how you learned of my betrothal before I had a chance to tell you personally?” Did the woman have anything to hide? Would she confess?

  Consumed with her thoughts, it took the countess a moment to reply. “Mr Ramsey came to see me, concerned by your sudden announcement. We have called at Silver Street more than a handful of times these last three days.”

  “I’ve struggled to sleep since the intruder tore through my home, and needed a brief respite.” The countess believed the blackguard was an opportunistic thief and knew nothing of the mask left behind.

  The lady’s face turned ashen. “Blessed Lord! Tell me you are not this gentleman’s guest.”

  “I am Lord and Lady Hawkridge’s guest and will reside there until the wedding.”

  The countess appeared mildly appeased. “You’ll need help with your trousseau. Your mother would have insisted I take on the role. And it would be better for everyone concerned if you stayed with me in Russell Square.”

  Vivienne might have found the kind gesture touching. But she noted a hint of desperation in the woman’s voice, feared the countess would resort to manipulation in the hope of changing Vivienne’s mind.

  An inner war raged.

  You need to align yourself with me, not the countess.

  Mr Sloane’s comment raced through her mind. And as much as she was grateful to the friend who had nursed her mother during those final hours, a feeling deep in her chest said she could not completely trust the countess.

  “Buchanan and Mrs McCready remain my loyal companions. And Mr Sloane has opened an account with a fashionable modiste. Besides, we are to marry in a matter of days.” Vivienne took it upon herself to taunt Charles Sloane. “A marriage between descendants of Lucian Hart and Livingston Sloane is what our grandfathers wanted. An alliance will reap untold rewards.”

  “I daresay all pirates keep to a code.”

  Upon witnessing his cousin’s sneer, Mr Sloane took a single step forward. It was enough to make the fop retreat. “Should I discover you’re prying into my affairs, I shall take a cutlass and gut you like a fish.” He bowed to the countess. “We shall post an announcement in the broadsheets. You’re welcome to visit my wife at Keel Hall. I trust you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Without further comment, and keeping a tight grip on Vivienne’s hand, Mr Sloane led her from the room and down the crowded staircase to join the exuberant throng.

  The first strains of a waltz reached her ears.

  “Dance with me, Vivienne.” Mr Sloane drew her towards the large double doors leading to the ballroom. “Else I’m likely to storm upstairs and rip that popinjay’s head off his shoulders.”

  Music drifted through the hall, teasing her with its sensual rhythm. All thoughts turned to the dance, to the feel of his warm hand on her back, the nearness of his body, the intoxicating scent of his cologne. Every nerve tingled with anticipation until a buxom lady in the garb of a serving wench blocked their path.

  “Sloane, I’ve been searching for you all night. I believe this dance is mine.” She stared at Vivienne through the eye slits of a silk mask. “The fairy can wait her turn. Old friends take precedence.”

  “Mrs Worthing.” Mr Sloane removed the woman’s wandering hand from his chest. “I’m afraid I must decline the invitation and correct your misconception. The lady is a sea nymph, and soon to be my wife.”

  “Wife!” the wench scoffed. “Wife! Oh, you’re a devil of a tease. I suppose I can wait. Let the fairy have her dance. Meet me outside afterwards, and we shall find a secluded corner of the garden so you can tease me some more.”

  Jealousy slithered through Vivienne, hissing wicked taunts. It took every effort not to pull the blade from the gentleman’s boot and press the point to Mrs Worthing’s throat. But words spoken with calm assurance carried a deadlier blow.

  “Clearly you know little of sea nymphs, Mrs Worthing.” Vivienne spoke with renewed confidence. “Mr Sloane has no control here. I lured him with the promise of a wild adventure. Now the man is besotted, infatuated, and has no desire to bed any woman but me. Ask him if you doubt my word.”

  Mrs Worthing sneered. “You know what they say about sirens, Sloane. An old crone lurks beneath the vision of beauty. Better the devil you know, I say.”

  “That might be true of sirens.” Mr Sloane looked at Vivienne and his gaze softened. “But I’ve fallen in love with a sea nymph. Every other woman pales in comparison.”

  Vivienne’s pulse thumped in her throat. Oh, he was so good at this game, so believable she might get lost in the fantasy. What would it be like to be loved by this man? To be worshipped above all others?

  Mrs Worthing gave a half shrug, and one breast almost escaped its confines. “You’ll be bored within a week. Visit me if you’re looking for someone to plunder.” And with that, the woman turned her back and was soon lost amid a sea of heads.

  Despite the raucous laughter and boisterous antics of the crowd, Mr Sloane’s mood plunged off a precipice into an abyss. Grave was the only way to describe the harsh look spoiling his handsome features.

  “Are we to dance?” Vivienne asked, hovering at Mr Sloane’s side as if they were both lost in the darkness. People were staring. Some took to whispering. Some nodded in their direction. “Mr Sloane?” she muttered through clenched teeth.

  “Dance?” He shook himself from his reverie. “No. We should leave, leave now. We need to find Ashwood.”

  The next ten minutes passed in a blur. His friends were equally surprised at his insistence they leave the masquerade. Bluntly, he explained they had completed their task for the evening and had no need to remain. Mr Sloane demanded his friends escort Vivienne to the carriage and instruct Turton to wait on Henrietta Street. He would join her there shortly.

  A heavy silence marred the journey to Keel Hall.

  Suspicion clouded Vivienne’s thoughts. But whenever she examined the conversation with Mrs Worthing, she came to the same conclusion. Mr Sloane was plagued by regret. The thought of marriage and losing his liberty must be the reason for his depressing disposition.

  “You’re quiet,” she said when she could no longer bear the tension.

  He continued to stare out of the window at the sprawling blackness of Little Chelsea. “We have much to do tomorrow,” he said as if that were the reason for his disquiet. “And it’s late.”

  Perhaps she might have ignored him, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gone in search of Mrs Worthing during the fifteen minutes he’d spent alone at the ball. What had he told the woman? That he would tire of his wife within a week? That he would seek her services as soon as he was finished with this dreadful business?

  “Late? Does that mean we won’t take a drink in the drawing room or play our little game?”

  He swallowed. “Not tonight.”

  The pang of disappointment was nothing compared to the sharp stab of jealousy. So this did have something to do with Mrs Worthing. Annoyance surfaced—though she had no right to be angry. Not when he’d made it clear he didn’t want to marry, didn’t want to have anything to do with the contract. Not when he’d been coerced into keeping his ancestor’s vow.

  So why did she feel the usual jolt of electricity when he clasped her hand and helped her from the carriage? Why did he look like a man starved of air when his gaze dropped to her mouth? Why did he linger in the hall and struggle to say good night?

  If ever there was a perfect time
to play a game of honesty, this was it.

  “Go to bed,” she said, slipping off her cloak before Fitchett hurried to attend to them. “I’m in need of something strong to drink and might mix my own concoction.”

  “We have an early start tomorrow, a busy day. I suspect the masked rider will do something wicked to scupper our plans.”

  They were to meet at the office of the Order to receive an update from Mr D’Angelo, as well as visit Mr Howarth, make arrangements to marry and see if the Hatton Garden constables had located Mr Golding.

  She shrugged. “All the more reason to relax and gather my thoughts. Good night, Mr Sloane.” She walked away so he couldn’t see the desperate loneliness etched on her face, the loneliness that left her chest empty, her hopes hollow.

  “Vivienne.”

  “Yes.” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

  “It’s unwise to be alone together, to drink when spirits lower one’s inhibitions.”

  She laughed. “Do you fear I might prance around barefooted?”

  Green eyes with the allure of polished jade settled on her face. “You know what I’m trying to say.”

  No. She had no idea. All thoughts of a romantic evening had abandoned her after the mild tussle with Mrs Worthing. “Perhaps a glass of brandy might loosen your tongue. Or perhaps the reality of our situation leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that makes everything unpalatable. Either way, I bid you good night again, Mr Sloane.”

  He paused. “Good night, Miss Hart.”

  Miss Hart? Not Vivienne?

  She fought the sickening churn of rejection and continued to the drawing room. Despite leaving the door open in invitation, the clip of Mr Sloane’s boots on the marble stairs confirmed his retreat.

  Chapter 13

  The bitter taste in Evan’s mouth had nothing to do with Vivienne Hart. This crippling feeling of malcontent had nothing to do with abiding by a contract made seventy years ago. No. Evan’s rude awakening came from the realisation he’d been living a lie.

  Strange that he had spent his life fighting against the failings of his ancestor, proving his valiance, showing the world he was no cowardly pirate and had courage abound. In truth, his need for casual relations made him as weak as every other man.