by Adele Clee
“We must leave now.” The white-haired gentleman stepped forward, his full beard and curled moustache a clear sign of his divinity. “We cannot afford to linger.”
“We cannot leave him here like this,” the angel, this beautiful version of Estelle, said.
Footsteps brought another figure: that of Wickett. “Begging your pardon, but I’ll take it from here.”
The angel straightened and shrank back into the shadows.
Don’t go!
Wickett bent down, lifted Vane’s lids and moved a bony finger back and forth. Satisfied, he patted Vane’s chest, dabbing and inspecting the pads of his fingers, no doubt looking for blood.
Vane groaned when the coachman pushed against his ribs.
“My lord, are you hurt?” Wickett’s face blurred and drifted in and out of focus. “Can you hear me, my lord?”
Oh, he could hear him, but why he was still clinging to life when heaven was but a few feet away was a mystery.
“Let’s get you into the carriage. It seems you’ve taken a mighty bump to the head.” Wickett stood over him, one foot planted on either side of his chest. He grabbed the lapels of Vane’s black coat and hauled him to his feet. “Right you are. Steady now. We don’t want you falling and taking another injury.”
“I … I assure you, I am perfectly capable of … of standing.”
The urge to sleep came upon him. The strain to keep his eyes open proved too taxing. He searched for the angel, but she had disappeared into the mist, the beautiful dream lost to him. The gates to paradise barred to him for now.
“Do you need assistance?” Mr Erstwhile stepped forward. “He’s too large a fellow for one man to carry.”
“Happen you should get yourselves off home, and quickly if you want to keep hold of that tidy watch and walking cane.”
“Listen to the man,” Mrs Erstwhile said in a mild state of panic. “We must make haste.”
“I can take you as far as Piccadilly,” Wickett said. “Don’t suppose his lordship will mind under the circumstances.”
“Well, we would not wish to impose. We only need to go as far as Whitecombe Street—”
“Come, Mr Erstwhile, we shall lose Miss Brown if we linger.” The woman tugged her husband’s arm. “And I can feel one of my migraines coming on.”
“Thank you, but we will walk. My wife finds carriage rides in the fog somewhat unnerving.”
“As you please.” Wickett firmed his grip on Vane’s waist and clasped the arm draped around his shoulder. “Turn left at the end of the street, and you’ll find yourself on St Martins Lane.”
The couple bid farewell and disappeared into the night.
“This is what happens when your mind’s on other things,” Wickett complained as he assisted Vane across the road to his carriage. “Count yourself lucky the rogues didn’t have a blade else they’d have gutted you like a fish.”
“I would have finished them both were it not for that blasted wolf.”
“Wolf, you say?” Wickett chuckled. “No one has seen a wolf in England for three hundred years, let alone one wandering the streets of St Giles.”
“A hound, then.” The haze in Vane’s mind was clearing. A large mouthful of brandy would numb the pounding in his head. “The damn animal came from nowhere.” Perhaps that, too, had been a figment of his imagination, a symbolic representation of a hound from Hell.
And yet it had all seemed so real.
The Devil’s beast had come to claim him. The Lord’s angel frightened it away to offer him a better alternative.
But what did it all mean?
Was seeing a vision of Estelle’s sweet face a clear sign that all was lost and he should abandon his search? Or was the illusion meant to bring her to the forefront of his mind?
Not that he needed reminding.
The portrait might be locked in a drawer, but her image haunted every cold corridor of his mind, still haunted the lonely chambers of his heart.
Chapter Two
Estelle should run. She should pick up her skirts and run as far away as her legs could carry her. But already her breath came in rapid pants. Her heart raced so fast it hammered in her chest. The acrid fog clawed at the back of her throat. This must surely be the reason her eyes stung.
A tear fell, and then another.
Ross!
So many years had passed since she’d last seen him. He looked the same and yet so different. The same lock of ebony hair hung rakishly across his brow. Those piercing blue eyes still possessed the ability to muddle her mind though they were colder now — distant. Broad, muscular shoulders filled the slender more athletic frame she remembered. The same square jaw marked him as handsome although it held a defiant, rugged edge often common in those with a life blighted by hardship.
But what did Ross Sandford know of hardship?
Despite the changes, one thing remained irrevocably the same. The intense longing for him still burned deep in her core. Eight years apart and still her heart ached.
Oh, this was impossible.
“Miss Brown, wait!” Mrs Erstwhile’s concerned voice reached Estelle through the fog. “Wait, else we will lose you.”
But Estelle could not wait. With any luck, Ross had failed to recognise her. Why would he when she was a ghost to those she once knew? No doubt he had forgotten her face. No doubt he’d married, and love for another filled his heart now.
A sharp pain stabbed her chest.
Hopefully, he had not thought of her since that fateful day when she’d fled Prescott Hall knowing he was to come and offer marriage. And yet not a minute passed when she did not dream of what might have been.
“Miss Brown!”
Estelle glanced back over her shoulder and quickened her pace. The clip of footsteps chased behind.
Panic flared.
Ross!
What would she say to him? Too much had happened. How could she possibly explain?
Firm fingers gripped her elbow. “My dear, this is not the place one wanders alone.” Mr Erstwhile drew her back as he gulped for breath. Being short in stature and large around the middle he suffered easily from exertion. “One wrong turn and we might lose you for good.”
One wrong turn had brought the past hurtling to the present. What could be worse than that?
“Heaven knows what unsavoury characters linger in the shadows.” Mrs Erstwhile came to stand at her husband’s side. She put her hand on her chest to calm her ragged breathing. “You saw the state of that poor gentleman. Beaten and left for dead and all for a guinea.”
Estelle considered her options. The Erstwhiles were good, kind-hearted people. She should at least wait until they were home and settled before taking flight.
“Come, it is best we keep to the streets where the lamps are lit.” Estelle fell into a slow pace beside them. “I’m certain if we head this way we shall soon reach Leicester Square.”
A tense silence ensued.
Every step brought with it the fear of Ross trailing behind in pursuit, of him calling her name, of having to explain to the Erstwhiles that she was not the sweet Miss Brown they believed her to be.
Mr Erstwhile made an odd humming sound. “It just occurred to me that you called that gentleman by his name.”
“Did I?”
“You must have seen him before. Has he visited the shop? I’m sure I would have remembered such a prestigious client.”
Estelle’s pulse fluttered in her throat. “He reminded me of someone I once knew.” Someone from a different time, a different place. A love not destined for this life. “A gentleman from the same village, but clearly I was mistaken.”
That was enough information. He did not need to know any more, and she did not have the strength of heart to tell him.
Mrs Erstwhile’s frantic gaze darted left and right as the clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of rolling carriage wheels drew near. “We’re walking far too close to the road.” She ushered them to walk in single file away from the curb edge. �
��Oh, my poor heart cannot stand the strain.”
“My dear, if a carriage mounts the pavement, we’ll be lucky to escape alive let alone suffer a mangled leg.”
A hulking black shadow whipped past on their left.
“No doubt that’s his lordship’s carriage.” Mr Erstwhile came to stand at Estelle’s side once again. “It begs the question what was a gentleman from the upper echelons of society doing in an alley near St Giles?”
“Come now.” Mrs Erstwhile clutched her husband’s arm. “Many lords court actresses. Where better to find one than a stone’s throw from Covent Garden?”
Jealousy roiled in Estelle’s stomach. “Why would he court an actress?” She could not hide her disdain. “Such an upstanding gentleman must surely have a wife.”
Mrs Erstwhile tutted. “I should think as long as there’s an heir it wouldn’t matter. The aristocracy fail to adhere to the same moral code we do. Isn’t that so, Mr Erstwhile?”
Estelle silently scoffed. While that applied to some lords of the ton, Ross Sandford was not the sort to be unfaithful.
“Indeed.” He sighed. “Oh, to be an earl.”
Mrs Erstwhile coughed to express her displeasure. She coughed again although this time she pressed her fingers to her temple and winced.
“I merely meant it must be exhausting,” Mr Erstwhile said with a chuckle. “Keeping one lady happy is a task in itself. Attempting to manage two, would test any man.”
“Talking of gentlemen and their interests,” Mrs Erstwhile began. “Mr Hungerford’s reason for inviting us to dinner had nothing to do with learning more about the way we use St John’s Wort in our work.”
Estelle groaned inwardly. “On the contrary, I thought he seemed rather keen to discuss the process of making tinctures and tonics.”
Mr Erstwhile snorted. “I think he was more interested in why the son of a gentleman works in trade. He asked some rather impertinent questions.”
“Trade? You make us sound like market hawkers, husband. It takes skill and dedication to treat those with cramps and agues.” Mrs Erstwhile grunted. “Besides, Mr Hungerford has visited the shop three times this week when he could have easily sent a maid.”
She had been in many precarious situations during her eight years in France and knew enough about men to know the glint in Mr Hungerford’s eyes stemmed from more than an interest in the apothecary. Not that she would admit to it of course. Mrs Erstwhile needed no encouragement when it came to affairs of the heart.
“I think the man is besotted with our Miss Brown,” Mrs Erstwhile continued. “Besotted, indeed, and now his wife has passed, he’s free to marry.”
Mr Hungerford’s motives for entertaining them were of no consequence. Estelle could not remain in London. What if she saw Ross again? Tonight, she’d escaped before he’d regained full use of his faculties.
Returning to France was not an option. Faucheux had men watching the ports, had spies lurking in every dockside tavern. A stone-cold shiver ran across her back. God help her if the smuggler ever found the courage to travel to England.
No. As soon as they reached Whitecombe Street, and the Erstwhiles were tucked up in their bed, she would pack her meagre belongings and go somewhere far away from Mr Hungerford’s lustful gaze. Somewhere far away from the clutches of the cruel Faucheux. Far away from Ross Sandford, from the man who would always hold a piece of her heart.
Chapter Three
“Good God, man. Do I look like a matron with failing health?” Vane batted Wickett’s hand away as the coachman tried to assist his descent from the carriage. “I took a knock to the head not a lead ball to the chest.”
Wickett raised a brow as he scanned the breadth of Vane’s shoulders. “Granted. But for a man so strong and robust, you’ve been mumbling gibberish ever since I carried you out of that alley.”
“You did not carry me.” Vane stepped down to the pavement outside his townhouse in Berkeley Square. He touched the tender lump on his head and winced. “And if I spoke nonsense, it’s because I was momentarily stunned. I would have beaten the life out of both rogues had that blasted dog not thrown me off my game.”
A wave of excitement washed over him as he flexed his fingers and recalled throwing a barrage of satisfying punches.
“Dog? I thought you said you were set on by a wolf.” A smile touched Wickett’s lips. “Happen the fog brings out all sorts of wild creatures.”
Vane sighed. “No one likes a pedant, Wickett. I clearly remember using the word hound.”
“Yes, my lord, you were attacked by a hound and saved by an angel.”
“It’s called an epiphany.” Lord, he knew better than to mention such things to his coachman, but after injuring his head, he’d taken to rambling. “It is a documented fact that, in a rare moment of weakness, one might encounter symbolic representations of one’s life.”
“Or you might have hit your head and been confused.”
For a man dragged up on the streets of St Giles, Wickett possessed more sense than most lords of the ton. Still, Vane liked to keep him on his toes.
“During my search for a coachman with a particular skill set, I do not recall adding brimming with condescension to the list.”
Wickett tipped his hat. “I’m not sure I know what that means. But you asked for an honest man, and that’s what you’ve got, my lord.”
“Indeed.”
“Now, keeping in mind that I’ve only got your best interests at heart, I feel it my duty to say you smell like you’ve been rolling about in a pigpen.”
Wickett was right. One whiff and the stench of piss and ale caught in the back of Vane’s throat.
“Trust me, over the years I have rolled around in far worse places.”
“Would that be with wolves or angels, my lord?”
Vane smiled. “I wish I could say it was the latter.”
It was not a coincidence that the vision he glimpsed in the alley, as he hovered on the brink of consciousness, bore a likeness to Estelle. Despite all attempts otherwise, hers was the image he conjured when slaking his lust.
“Talking of wolves, my lord, another lady came to the mews earlier this evening and asked me to pass you a note.”
“And I trust you read it and acted accordingly.”
His coachman knew to burn all letters inviting him to partake in secret assignations. Still, some ladies continued to risk their reputation. Only last night, he’d glanced out of the window and noticed a woman watching the house from the safety of her carriage.
Wickett nodded. “Your presence was required at a house in Burlington Gardens. Happen it would have involved more rolling around in disagreeable places if you take my meaning.” Wickett cleared his throat. “The lady was most insistent, having never met a man with your talents for rousing a howl.”
“You have such a way with words, Wickett.” Vane laughed but then winced when the pressure hurt his head. “Perhaps you should have gone in my place.”
“When a man can’t afford coal for the fire, there’s no time for lingering atop the bedsheets. Happen a lady of her quality was looking for more than a five-minute fumble in the dark.”
“Count your blessings.” Vane gripped his coachman’s shoulder. “Loose morals bring nothing but trouble. Why do you think I avoid such encounters?”
Vane had believed himself impervious to pain. A tour de force when it came to suppressing emotion. And yet a jealous husband had found the chink in his armour. In ruining his sister’s reputation, Lord Cornell had shot a barbed arrow straight through Vane’s heart. And by God, the man would pay.
“I’m not sure I’d have your strength of will, what with all the offers you get.”
“Now that my sister is married, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to partake in the odd liaison.” It would make a change from brawling in taverns and alleys, and yet he couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm.
“I don’t suppose you’ll have a problem finding a willing partner.”
“An excess of willi
ng partners has always been the problem.” How ironic that the only woman he’d ever wanted proved elusive.
Wickett’s beady eyes moved to a point beyond Vane’s shoulder. “Perhaps a wolf followed your scent, my lord.” He gestured to the light spilling out from the drawing room window. “Either Bamfield has fallen asleep and forgotten to blow out the lamp, or one of your lady callers has knocked the front door and barged her way inside.”
Vane groaned. He was not in the mood for false displays of affection, for women too quick to fondle the bulge in his breeches in the hope of luring him into bed.
“You’d better see to the horses,” Vane said with a sigh, “while I dispose of our unwanted guest.”
Wickett nodded. “I’ll wait here until you’re safely inside. Wolves hunt in packs in case you’ve not heard.”
His coachman was full of amusing quips. And yet Vane couldn’t shake the sense that someone hid in the shadows, watching him, waiting to pounce.
Bamfield was not asleep. Like all good butlers, he opened the door before Vane reached the top step. Bamfield scanned Vane’s attire, his hooked nose twitching as he sniffed out the pungent scent of the streets.
“Good evening, my lord. Welcome home. May I take—”
“Don’t ask to take my hat and gloves as you can see I have neither.” Excess apparel proved cumbersome when battling beasts across town.
“No, my lord, though might I suggest a change of clothes before you greet Lord Farleigh.”
“Farleigh is here?”
Bamfield inclined his head. “His lordship arrived an hour ago and is waiting for you in the drawing room.”
The news came as some surprise. His friend had only recently returned to his country estate after his wedding north of the Scottish border. “And his wife and children?”
“Remain at Everleigh, my lord.”
Relief coursed through him. Although the house belonged to Farleigh, Vane had no desire to watch fawning lovers while in his current mood.