Finlay’s lips curled in amusement once again. “Sloane always has company. He hates being alone in the house.” Perhaps because his ancestor lived in close quarters with fifty men. Sloane deviated from tradition. He preferred women raising his rigging. “But he takes his responsibility to the Order seriously and will abandon all leisurely pursuits.”
It was evident Sloane had company the moment they entered the grand hall and heard the raucous laughter above stairs.
Fitchett, Sloane’s impeccably dressed butler whose weathered complexion could mark him as a dockside worker, glanced at the marble staircase and winced before turning to Finlay. “I shall inform the master of your arrival, sir. Perhaps the ladies would prefer to wait in the drawing room.”
“What happened to your eye?” Jessica asked, peering curiously at Fitchett’s black patch.
Fitchett cleared his throat. “An accident, miss.”
“Were you attacked aboard a vessel? Is that why you have that nasty scar?”
“Not exactly, miss.”
A sudden commotion drew their gazes to the marble staircase. The pad of footsteps darting across the landing preceded the arrival of two women dressed in silk pantaloons and short corsets, but minus their shifts. They giggled, frantically wrestled with numerous handles only to find the doors locked.
Sloane came sauntering behind wearing nothing but low-slung breeches, his golden-brown hair flowing down his back. “So, there’s mutiny afoot.”
The women squealed, oblivious to their audience.
“Make no mistake,” Sloane said, closing in on his captives, “when I seize you devils, there’ll be a price to pay.”
One woman begged for mercy. She dropped to her knees and caressed Sloane’s solid thighs. Finlay considered covering Jessica’s eyes, but the lady seemed to appreciate the performance.
“Bravo!” Jessica clapped.
“What the blazes?” Sloane swung around so quickly he almost lost his balance and toppled down the stairs.
Cole inclined his head. “Good morning. Is it not a little early in the day to play pirates?”
It took Sloane a moment to compose himself. “Cole, what an unexpected pleasure. I shall be with you momentarily.” He ordered his guests back to his bedchamber, then turned to his butler. “Fitchett, take their outdoor apparel. Make our guests comfortable and arrange refreshments.”
“Yes, sir.”
They were shown into the drawing room, a masculine space with burnt sienna walls, a warm oak floor and a sumptuous red Persian rug. Jessica couldn’t sit still and took to wandering the room, examining the portraits in ornate gilt frames.
“This man has a devilish twinkle in his eye,” Jessica said, studying the image of a bearded gentleman situated to the left of the marble fireplace.
“Perhaps because he was the most mischievous scoundrel you’d ever wish to meet,” Sloane said, striding into the room. He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue tailcoat and black trousers. As always, he’d tied his hair in a queue. “A canny old devil was Livingston Sloane.”
“Forgive the intrusion.” Finlay came to his feet and crossed the room. He
lowered his voice. “I could think of no other place where Miss Draper would be safe.”
“You should have sent word,” Sloane whispered through gritted teeth while still maintaining his smile. “Violet was about to wrap her plump lips around my—”
“And who is this pretty lady, sir?” Jessica asked.
Sloane craned his neck. “My great-grandmother. Lady Jane Boscobel. Now you see from whom I inherited my dashing good looks.”
“Oh, is there a portrait of your mother?”
Sloane’s feigned smile slipped. “I’m afraid not.”
In the awkward silence that followed, one could almost hear a child’s mournful cries. To never know one’s mother left lasting scars. Sloane never mentioned it, of course. There was nothing more revolting to society than a man expounding human frailty.
The sound of giggling in the hall preceded the crunch of carriage wheels on the drive.
“Pay them no mind,” Sloane said. “My guests are leaving.”