The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London Book 4)

by Adele Clee

  “You’re convinced it is her?” Farleigh said as Vane climbed into the carriage and settled into the seat opposite. His friend insisted on coming for fear Vane might venture to St Giles again, worried that another knock to the head might mark the end of him. “I find it hard to believe.”

  “You heard Wickett. It is her.”

  Hope sprung to life in Vane’s chest. Soon he would have the answers he thought lost to him. Why break a promise? Why profess to love a man only to abandon him the next day?

  “But surely Miss Darcy would have sought her brother out.” In the dark confines of the carriage, Farleigh’s gaze searched Vane’s face and lingered on the bruise beneath his chin. “Forgive me if I sound cynical but if Miss Darcy survived the shipwreck why wait eight years before returning to London?”

  “Well, we will soon know.”

  Vane struggled to sit still.

  In his mind, he imagined what he would say to her, although he would not give her the satisfaction of telling her she’d ruined his life.

  Wickett slowed the carriage as they turned into Whitecombe Street and drew to a stop outside Marselles Perfumery. Beneath the light of the streetlamp, one could see the ornate walnut caskets in the window. The boxes were lined with burgundy velvet and held a glass bottle of unique design.

  Vane rapped the roof. From what he remembered, heavy perfumes made Estelle sneeze, and so he doubted she lived there.

  When the conveyance rolled to a stop opposite the apothecary shop, Vane’s heart lurched. Mr Erstwhile’s name was painted in gold above the door.

  Vane sat there for a few minutes and stared at the facade.

  What would he do if Estelle was inside?

  What would he do if she was not?

  “Is this the one?” Farleigh said, peering through the carriage window.

  “This is the one.” Nerves pushed to the fore. Good God, what the hell did he have to fear? He had done nothing wrong. “Wait here. I doubt I’ll be more than a few minutes.”

  Vane threw open the carriage door and stepped down. Candlelight filtered through the shop’s bow windows. Two figures busied about inside. Vane straightened his shoulders and inhaled deeply, ready to confront the ghost of his past.

  Chapter Four

  All hopes Estelle had of fleeing London were dashed upon her return to Whitecombe Street.

  In their absence, someone had entered the apothecary shop through the back door, smashed glass bottles and emptied the drawers of dried herbs over the floor. The sweet aroma lingered in the air to irritate her nostrils. A bookshelf lay upturned, the precious pages of text ripped from their bindings and strewn about the room. And yet amid the chaos, there seemed something orderly about the mess, something structured, purposeful.

  “Oh, Mr Erstwhile, who would do such a terrible thing?” Mrs Erstwhile swayed as she struggled to stand.

  Estelle fetched a wooden stool and guided the woman to the seat lest she collapse into a distressed heap. “Sit for a moment and catch your breath.”

  “Whoever did this has no heart, no conscience.” Mr Erstwhile brushed a hand through his mop of white hair and sighed. “If I find out Mr Potter had something to do with it, I’ll … Lord knows what I shall do.”

  Guilt flared. Estelle could not help but picture one particular cold and callous Frenchman. In all honesty, she hoped she was wrong and that Mr Potter was the man responsible. The apothecary despised competition and was forever spreading lies to cause mischief and steal Mr Erstwhile’s customers.

  But what if Faucheux had come?

  Estelle’s stomach roiled at the prospect. She mentally shook herself. They were eighty miles from Dover. What need had a smuggler to come so far inland?

  “We cannot open tomorrow, not with the shop in such dreadful disarray.” Mr Erstwhile bent down, scooped a handful of herbs and brought them to his nose. “See if you can find the drawer for rosemary.”

  Estelle took the lamp from the counter and scanned the labels on the drawers scattered about the floor. She found the one he needed and handed it to him. “We should do as much as we can tonight.” So much for her plan to leave. The Erstwhiles were good people. They’d given her a place to stay, and a means to make a living when she’d had barely five shillings to her name. The least she could do was offer her help. “We should save what herbs we can.”

  Mr Erstwhile stared at the pools of liquid on the floor amid the remnants of broken glass. “It would be wise to wait until daylight. No doubt most things will need replacing.”

  As the son of a gentleman, and one who had dedicated his life to curing ailments, Mr Erstwhile had funds aplenty. A day or two at most and he would be back in business again.

  “I can visit Mr Broom in the morning and place an order for provisions.” She had a good mind to call in on Mr Potter to gauge his reaction upon hearing the news. The skills she’d learnt in France meant she could read the involuntary tics of a liar, could hear the hitch in the voice of the guilty.

  “Take yourselves off to bed,” Mr Erstwhile said. “I’ll secure the back door and then follow you upstairs.” He rummaged underneath the counter, withdrew the metal cash box and opened it with the key retrieved from his waistcoat pocket. “One thing is clear. This was not the work of an opportune thief with ten starving mouths to feed.”

  Estelle stepped closer and examined the box. The gold sovereigns shone in the dim light. If money was not the motive, then that left jealousy or revenge. The Erstwhiles were not the sort to be cruel or unkind. And so she couldn’t help but think this vile act was in some way connected to her.

  “What a dreadful end to what was an entertaining evening.” Mrs Erstwhile attempted to stand but wobbled and dropped back onto the seat. “Help me, Miss Brown, won’t you? My head is spinning, and I have a peculiar pain in my stomach.”

  “Of course.” Estelle wasn’t sure if the woman’s sudden illness was a consequence of finding the shop in such a shambles. She offered her arm. “Hold on to me, and I’ll escort you to your bedchamber.”

  Mrs Erstwhile gripped Estelle’s elbow. “Thank you. Had I not given Gwen a few days off to visit her sister I would call on her to assist me.”

  “Perhaps it is best Gwen wasn’t here.” Had the culprit been watching the premises? Did he know the house was empty?

  “You’re right.” Mrs Erstwhile clutched her stomach as she hobbled through to the hall. “Good heavens. I cannot recall the last time I felt so queer.”

  These strange symptoms had taken the woman suddenly. Mr Hungerford’s servants were plagued by a similar malady, so he’d said. Or could Ross have been suffering from a contagious illness? Had he been taken unawares, just like Mrs Erstwhile, and had no choice but to collapse in the alley? But then she recalled the bruise beneath his chin. Had he been robbed, or attacked by a jealous lover during a row?

  Shaking all thoughts of Ross Sandford aside — for what did it matter when she was leaving London in a few days — she assisted Mrs Erstwhile into bed. Estelle left the woman cuddling a chamber pot and returned to the shop to speak to Mr Erstwhile.

  Lost in thought, he was staring at nothing of any consequence. Although he’d suggested they leave tidying the shop until the morning, Estelle sensed he had no desire to go to bed. And so she lit a few candles, picked up a wooden drawer and placed it on the countertop.

  “I should go and find a brush and scuttle.”

  It took a moment for the gentleman to reply. “What? Yes, perhaps that is wise.”

  “A few hours of hard work and you may still be able to open tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I intend to, my dear. I just needed a moment to recover from the shock.” He slipped out of his coat, folded it neatly inside out and placed it on the end of the counter. “Help me straighten the bookcase.”

  Gathering her strength, Estelle gripped the old bookcase and hauled it upright. Most of the books beneath lay untouched, and so she picked one up, blew off the dust and placed it back on the shelf.

  “What are y
our thoughts regarding what happened here tonight?” she asked. “If not a thief, then who do you think did this and why?”

  Mr Erstwhile rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Time will tell. Liars are found out eventually. They are often so wrapped up in untruths they forget what is real.”

  A hard lump filled her throat. She wanted to explain that not all deceivers were black of heart.

  “But you do not think money is the motive?”

  “No, my dear, I do not.” He handed her another book. “Only a man with evil intentions desecrates the written word. Even those of the lower classes understand the value of books.”

  “And how do you propose to discover the identity of this devil?”

  The old man smiled. “I do not need to do anything other than continue as if nothing has happened. Courage and resilience are the weapons of the gods when fighting evil.” His intelligent blue eyes searched her face. “But you already know that.”

  Estelle’s heart skipped a beat. Did this kind and generous man possess the ability to read her mind, to see into her soul?

  “When we met on the ship to Dover, and you offered me employment, not once did you ask about my past. Why?”

  He smiled. “I have learnt that regardless of where a person has been, what matters is where they are going. Besides, I know goodness when I see it. I know when a lady deserves a helping hand.”

  Oh, if only her father had been as compassionate, as understanding. If only she had possessed these weapons of the gods when she’d needed them most. How different life would be.

  “No words will ever express the depth of my gratitude.” How could she run now? How could she disappoint them? Was she destined to leave destruction and misery wherever she went?

  “I do not need to hear the words. The truth is in your eyes. Over the years I have become adept at deciphering the unspoken. That is how one discovers what truly ails people.”

  Estelle blinked rapidly, hoping the horror of all she had experienced didn’t linger there. “Wh-what do you see when you look at me?” She did not need his diagnosis to know what caused her pain.

  Mr Erstwhile sighed. “I see a wealth of loss and sadness all hidden behind a helpful manner and a sweet smile.”

  This man’s insight unnerved her.

  “That is in the past,” she said softly. Who was she trying to fool? “Know that I am on a new path now.”

  They fell silent while they examined the drawers and returned those undamaged to their rightful place.

  “A wise scholar from the Orient once told me that the road to acceptance eventually leads to happiness,” Mr Erstwhile said. “Marriage to Mr Hungerford may bring the contentment you seek. It is only a matter of time before he makes you an offer.”

  Marriage to anyone was impossible when her heart was not her own.

  A loud rap on the front door made them both jump.

  Mr Erstwhile peered through the gloom at the large shadow hovering outside. “Good heavens. If that is Mr West looking for more laudanum, then the man has a problem. If the fellow cannot wait until morning, what hope is there?”

  The apothecary made his judgement based on the height and breadth of the night-time caller. Standing over six feet tall and with shoulders almost too broad to fit through the door, Estelle was relieved that he appeared too robust to be Mr Hungerford.

  The impatient visitor hammered the door this time.

  “Yes, yes,” Mr Erstwhile cried. “I’m coming.”

  Estelle touched the old man’s arm as he passed. A deep sense of trepidation filled her chest. “Is it wise to open the door after all that has occurred this evening?”

  “We often have midnight callers. You know that.”

  Out of hours visitors were usually women with sickly babes, drunkards who had tripped over their own feet and sprained an ankle, or those who knew Mr Erstwhile was skilled at pulling out rotten teeth.

  Estelle shrank back as she watched the apothecary unlock the door. He opened it ajar, not wide enough so that she might put a name to the shadow. She heard the rumble of a deep voice, the timbre familiar enough to prickle the hairs on her nape.

  “Ah, my lord, may I say you look much improved since last we met.” Taking a small white card, Mr Erstwhile squinted as he examined it. “Please, come in out of the cold and tell me how I might be of assistance.” He gestured to the damaged items littering the floor behind him as the figure hovered on the threshold. “Forgive the mess and watch where you place your feet. I’m afraid someone sought to cause mischief while we were out this evening.”

  “Then I shall not keep you long.” The rich drawl reached her ears clearly this time. Nervous tremors rushed through her, stealing her breath, leaving her dazed and somewhat unsteady on her feet. “I merely wish to thank you and enquire as to the condition of your companion. My coachman mentioned that the young lady appeared most distressed.”

  “Getting lost in the fog is a harrowing experience. But rest assured, Miss Brown has fully recovered.” Mr Erstwhile stepped aside. “It has been a strange night I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Miss Brown?”

  “My assistant. The young lady you mentioned.”

  Ross Sandford stepped into the light.

  Good Lord, no!

  It could not be. Not now. Not so soon.

  The room spun.

  Her heart thumped.

  Anyone else entering the shop would look at the floor to avoid stepping on broken glass. With wide eyes, they would scan the disorderly room, shocked to see such a state of disarray.

  But not Ross Sandford.

  His piercing blue eyes settled on her instantly and did not falter, not for a second. A dangerous energy filled the room. Ragged breathing invaded the tense, oppressive silence. His hard stare proved unnerving, but she deserved no less.

  The urge to run came upon her, but it was a coward’s choice, she knew.

  The crunch of glass beneath Ross’ feet signalled his move towards her. With slow, purposeful strides, he came to stand but a few feet away. Broad shoulders filled her line of vision. The firm, arrogant tilt of his jaw conveyed his displeasure. Controlled anger emanated from every fibre of his being.

  “May I present Miss Brown, my lord?” Mr Erstwhile introduced her as a grand matron would a debutante. Bless him. Like her, the old man gave no consideration as to what was deemed de rigueur. “My assistant.”

  What could she do other than plunge into a curtsy? “My lord.”

  Nausea took hold. Her stomach flipped.

  The gentleman had inherited his father’s title, that much she knew. The name Marquess of Trevane suited the strong, powerful figure of the man standing before her. Estelle scanned his face, looking for a sign of the benevolent gentleman she once knew. But her search was in vain.

  “Miss Brown.” The words were cold, hard, tinged with contempt. Ross inclined his head though his gaze remained fixed on her, his target — his prey. Casting Mr Erstwhile a brief sidelong glance, his countenance softened slightly. “While eager to ease your distress after the unfortunate events of the evening, my primary reason for calling at such an improper hour is because I believe Miss Brown and I are acquainted.”

  Mr Erstwhile gasped. “How interesting. Miss Brown thought you seemed familiar but dismissed the idea as folly given the circumstances. Then Miss Brown must have lived in the village close to your country estate.”

  “Indeed, though that was many years ago,” Ross said sharply. “One might easily be mistaken.”

  Heat rose to Estelle’s cheeks, hot and scorching. He despised her. That much was evident. The last time she’d seen him, other than in a dank alley in St Giles, his smile had stretched from ear to ear. Alone in the orchard, he’d picked her up, swung her around until she laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe. He’d caressed her cheek, ran the pad of his thumb over her lips. Kissed her so deeply and with such tenderness, her heart melted.

  He had loved her then.

  Oh, Ross!

  The musc
les in her throat tightened. Tears welled, but she refused to let them fall.

  Estelle lifted her sagging shoulders. “Would you mind, Mr Erstwhile, if I had a moment alone with his lordship?” There was no time to answer all of his questions now. How did one explain eight tragic years in a matter of minutes?

  Mr Erstwhile frowned. Suspicious eyes moved back and forth between them. But one did not refuse a marquess anything.

  “I will go upstairs and check on Mrs Erstwhile.” He turned to Ross. “My wife has taken ill. The shock of it all, you know.” The man inclined his head. “I shall return presently.” He said no more, but with every retreating step Estelle’s heart thumped harder against her ribs.

  With his eyes flicking briefly to the door, Ross waited to hear the creak of the stairs before taking one last step forward.

  Estelle braced herself for the barrage of questions, for the words that conveyed disdain for liars and deceivers.

  The oppressive silence proved suffocating. Feeling compelled to speak, she said, “You look well, Ross. Considerably better than you did earlier this evening.”

  “And you survived the shipwreck.” The stone planes of his face showed not the slightest sign of emotion. Clearly, he no longer cared.

  So why had he come?

  “Fate intervened, though I’ve come to learn it can be cruel as well as kind.”

  “Personally, I have yet to witness evidence of the latter.” Ice-blue eyes settled on the neckline of her simple forest-green dress.

  Why did he speak so calmly? Why did he not rip her to shreds and leave her in a tattered heap? At the very least she deserved a scathing reprimand, a dozen lashes of his tongue.

  “Why did you come?” She had to say something to move the conversation towards the real crux of the matter.

  “For proof you exist, nothing more.”

  “And are you satisfied?” She waved her hand down the front of her dress. Disappointment flared. Though her mind knew better, in her heart she’d often imagined him pulling her into an embrace, telling her nothing mattered other than the fact she was alive and well.