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

by Adele Clee

  Ross rubbed his chin. “Do you want to discuss the nature of your deception here, Miss Brown?” He turned a contemptuous eye to the stunned gentleman at her side whose mouth hung agape. “Are you still here, Hungerford?”

  “People are beginning to stare.” Estelle glanced at Mr Hungerford, waiting for him to say something, but the fellow simply stood there stupefied.

  “Perhaps I should leave you to deal with this matter.” Mr Hungerford stepped away, the tremble in his voice a sign of his unease. While some might think him craven, Ross looked ready to pounce, ready to rip Hungerford’s throat out with his bare teeth. “Clearly, you are acquainted and have something of great importance to discuss. Unless, of course, you insist I stay.”

  Estelle considered the gentleman’s offer.

  She knew why Ross had come. He wanted answers, explanations. He wanted to know why she’d left him, how she’d survived.

  Did she have strength enough to relive eight years’ worth of nightmares?

  Spending time in Ross’ company was sure to open old wounds. Even now, while annoyed at his brash manner, the urge to feel those large arms surround her, to hear his whispered words of comfort proved unnerving.

  But she could not run forever. She cared for the Erstwhiles and did not have the heart to disappoint them. Even so, how could she stay?

  Oh, what was she to do?

  Estelle turned to Mr Hungerford. “Thank you for your kindness, sir. And you’re right as always. My brother and Lord Trevane were childhood friends, and so I must address his lordship’s complaint.”

  Already she had revealed too much, but this shameful situation did nothing to quell Mr Hungerford’s heated gaze as he studied her face. Indeed, he looked pleased at the prospect of having to compete.

  “May I call on you this evening? I believe we, too, have much to discuss.”

  Ross muttered something unintelligible. She noted his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

  “Of course,” Estelle quickly agreed, eager to be rid of him before Ross unleashed the anger brimming beneath the surface.

  Ross did not wait for her to say anymore, nor did he pay Mr Hungerford the courtesy of acknowledging him. No, he simply took hold of her wrist, turned on his heels and forced her to march along Whitecombe Street.

  “Stop this,” she whispered through gritted teeth as he barged past several people going about their business. He had not bothered to ask where she was going, but from the determined set of his jaw, he had another place in mind. “You’re hurting me.”

  Ross released his hold on her wrist and gripped her hand instead. People gaped and stared. In their youth, such scandalous behaviour would have seen them married within the week. But she was a lady no more.

  “You’re walking too quickly.” Estelle had to break into a jog to match his pace. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere quiet,” he snapped. “Somewhere away from prying eyes.”

  Oh, she could not be alone with him.

  They passed a coffeehouse.

  “What about here? We could find a table.”

  He stared straight ahead. “Since when has a coffeehouse been a quiet place?”

  They turned into Coventry Street, continued north of Leicester Square.

  “We could sit in the square near the statue. No one will disturb us there.” And she would not be inclined to stare at his mouth, or long for his fingers to delve down into her bodice.

  Two ladies and their maid stopped walking and watched them stride past. The fair-haired one moistened her lips. “It seems one lucky lady has captured Vane’s attention. If only it were me.”

  “You will be the talk of the salons tomorrow,” Estelle complained.

  No one knew her in town. The ladies could pry and probe their peers, but no one would come up with a name. But an aristocrat with such a commanding presence captured everyone’s interest.

  “Do you think I give a damn what these people have to say?” They turned into St Martins Lane and entered the courtyard of The Golden Goose coaching inn.

  Panic flared as she noted numerous carriages crammed with passengers. They navigated the luggage and wicker baskets strewn around one conveyance. Stray dogs ran wild. One unusually large wolfhound raced over to her, almost knocking her off her feet.

  She clutched Ross’ arm, both hands settling over hard muscle. “Good Lord.” The comment expressed her surprise at the size of the dog and her companion’s impressive physique. Ross had always been of athletic build, but now there was so much more of him.

  Wearing a frown, Ross’ head shot to the hound. The animal came up to him and rubbed its furry head against his leg.

  “I think he likes you.” For the first time in days, Estelle smiled with genuine amusement.

  Ross raised a brow. “I would wager the hound is a she, not he. I seem to attract the wild ones, those of a mind to wander, those quick to deviate from the moral path.” One corner of his mouth twitched, though she could not tell if he was angry or amused.

  Was he describing her? She didn’t think so. And yet she had strayed so far from the path she would never find her way back. What would he say if he knew the extent of her crimes?

  Perhaps he was speaking about a lover or a wife. She had to know. “And what would Lady Trevane say about you bringing a woman to a coaching inn?”

  “My mother died ten years ago or have you forgotten that, too?”

  “I was speaking about your wife.”

  Jealousy ate away at her heart like one of Mr Erstwhile’s caustic solutions. Estelle imagined a lady with exquisite taste in fashion, a lady who oozed sensuality, one who knew how to please a man like Ross Sandford.

  Ross’ expression darkened. Had her comment roused a hidden pain? Had his wife died in childbirth or in a dreadful accident?

  “There is no Lady Trevane. There never has been.”

  “I see.” A wave of sadness washed over her. She should have been Lady Trevane. Once they had been equals. Noble blood flowed through their veins. Now they were worlds apart. “Is it not your duty to marry?”

  Ross clenched his jaw and glared at her beneath hooded lids. “Do not dare lecture me on one’s duty.” He grasped her hand again, pulled her into the inn and through the common room to where the landlord stood behind his counter. “I want a room. Any will do.” Dropping her hand to reach into his coat pocket, he retrieved a handful of coins and slapped them onto the wooden counter.

  The landlord brushed a wispy lock of hair over his bald head. He pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and studied her face.

  Ross removed a calling card and slid it across the worn surface. “That should suffice.”

  Bony fingers lifted the card. One quick scan of the name inscribed and the man reached under the counter and plonked a key on top.

  “Two hours enough time for you, my lord?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Up the stairs, third door on the right.”

  Ross nodded.

  “And I’ll want to see the lady afore she leaves,” the landlord added. No doubt he was used to men using his rooms for distasteful purposes.

  “I shall make sure she reports to you directly.”

  Ross cast her a sidelong glance. Perhaps he expected to see fear or shock marring her brow. When it came to the perverse appetites of men, nothing surprised her anymore.

  Without protest, she followed Ross upstairs. Amidst all the hustle and bustle, no one paid them any heed. Doors opened and slammed. People barged past, shouting for their companions to hurry, fearing they might miss the mail coach.

  Ross stopped outside a door and examined the brass disc attached to the key. “Number twelve. How apt.”

  She took a moment to recollect the number’s relevance. “You speak of the day I left Prescott Hall.”

  He thrust the key into the lock but did not look at her. “I speak of the day and the month.”

  “I’m surprised you remember.”

  “Trust me. I wish I c
ould forget.”

  A whiff of stale sweat hit her as soon as she entered the room. Dust clung to every surface and clawed at the back of her throat. Ross closed the door, and she heard the clunk of a key turning.

  Was it not enough that they were alone?

  Now he had barred the exit to prevent her escape.

  Nerves pushed to the fore. Estelle swung around to face him. “Now that you have me here what is it you want?”

  He stepped closer, towered over her, so large and commanding. His gaze flicked briefly to the double bed. “What do you think I want?”

  Desire unfurled deep in her core. Would she allow him to take what should have rightfully been his? The answer swept through her — yes. To love Ross Sandford, to hear him pant her name in the throes of passion … it was the dream of a lost and lonely woman.

  But she had suffered enough humiliation and so squared her shoulders and said, “You want to know about the past?”

  “I want to know everything.” Ross removed his hat and threw it on top of the chest of drawers. “But you can start by telling me how the hell you survived the shipwreck when more than a hundred people lost their lives.”

  “It’s a long story.” One she did not care to repeat.

  In a sudden move that made her gasp, Ross clutched her hands. His touch sent her heart skipping up to her throat. He pulled her towards the bed. How she wished she could erase the last eight years, wished that they could slip between the sheets, that she could show him what he’d meant to her then, what he still meant to her now.

  But everything had changed.

  They were not the same people. No longer a perfect fit.

  “We have the room for two hours.” Ross forced her to sit on the bed. He dragged the chair from the corner and sat opposite her, their knees almost touching. “I think that’s plenty of time for you to tell your tale, don’t you?”

  Chapter Seven

  The old adage that passions cool with time was a fallacy.

  Vane sat on the chair in the shabby room, his eyes fixed firmly on Estelle. The task proved difficult when his traitorous body urged him to look at the bed, called for him to consider the possibility of slaking his desire for this woman and have done with it.

  “Very well.” She lifted her chin defiantly, unfastened the ribbons on her straw bonnet and placed it next to her on the bed. “Where shall I begin?”

  She could begin by undressing, straddling him on the chair and begging for his forgiveness. “Were you on The Torrens when it sank?”

  Estelle pursed her lips and nodded. “When the storm hit, I thought the world was ending. I’ve never seen waves like it. Mountain high. Of biblical proportions.” She put her hand on her stomach and winced. “The wind was so strong it blew men ten feet into the air. The ship careened to one side, the sea swamping the deck. Don’t ask me how I survived, although many times I wish I had not.”

  Her eyes filled with tears and Vane felt like the worst of rogues for making her relive what was clearly a painful memory. Still, she owed those who loved her an explanation.

  “And what of your lover? Did he survive?” The words sliced through the air like the crack of a whip — harsh and unforgiving.

  He knew the answer of course.

  Mr Peterson’s bloated body washed ashore and was claimed by relatives. Vane had spent a week pacing the beach looking for Estelle while Fabian scoured the beaches in France.

  Little did she know that Vane had boarded one fishing vessel after another, had sat amongst the stench of festering fish guts watching every ripple in the water, praying for a miracle. The men had laughed and joked, shared family stories, while he had sat silently, filled with despair.

  “My lover?” Estelle’s voice brought him back into the room, though the ache in his chest remained. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “There is no point denying what I know is true.” Why else would she leave him if not to elope with another man? “You boarded the vessel with Mr Peterson. People saw you dining together in a dockside tavern.”

  A groan resonated from her throat. She shook her head, her frown disappearing only to be replaced by an arrogant grin.

  “And so because a gentleman offered me sanctuary that means we were conducting a liaison? Maudette never left my side, not for a second.” Estelle closed her eyes briefly and whispered, “Poor Maudette. She did not deserve such a fate.”

  “What do you mean Peterson offered you sanctuary?”

  “Some men will assist a lady without demanding certain rewards in return. Three drunken bucks made a wager — which one of them would have me first. Mr Peterson punched the tallest one. He told them I was his sister and would shoot anyone who so much as looked at me in the wrong way.”

  Anger burst to the fore — hot fury for the bastards who thought to take advantage of an innocent woman. Shame quickly followed, for presuming to think he had all the answers.

  “Forgive me. Under the circumstances, I could not help but think the worst.”

  If she’d not left him for another man, then what had he done to lose her favour?

  He thrust his hand through his hair. The flurry of mixed emotions unsettled him. He preferred to feel empty, to feel nothing. The devil on his shoulder forced him to look at the bed, and whispered, “Take her and have done with it.”

  “To assume such a thing means you think I’m a liar. That when I told you how much I—” She stopped abruptly and sighed. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  Vane came to his feet. He turned to the window and watched people climb in and out of the coaches. Part of him did not want to hear any more. But knowing the truth was the only hope he had of putting the past behind him.

  “And so how did you manage to reach the shore?”

  A tense silence ensued.

  “French smugglers found me one night while they were rummaging through the wreckage looking for anything of value.”

  Smugglers!

  A host of unwanted images flooded his mind. “Did … did they hurt you?” He closed his eyes while he waited for her answer, but lacked the strength to turn around and face her.

  “Monsieur Bonnay led the men. He lived in a cottage in Wissant and took me in. His wife treated me like a daughter, and so no man dared lay a hand on me.”

  Relief flowed through his veins to calm his racing heart. “How long did you stay with them?”

  “Four years.”

  Vane swung around unable to contain his shock. “Four years! Why the hell didn’t you leave sooner?”

  Why did you not come home?

  Estelle sat with her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap. “I tried, many times, spent sleepless nights planning my escape. But I knew too much. Though Madame Bonnay became my protector, the men would have killed me rather than take the risk I might pass information to the authorities.”

  All the time he’d been carousing the ballrooms, bedding women who took his fancy in the hope of banishing this woman from his mind, she was living in squalor, doing heaven knows what to stay alive.

  The thought roused a crippling sense of inadequacy.

  “Did you commit any criminal acts?” Vane almost scoffed at his own question. No smuggler would give her board and lodgings without asking for something in return.

  “I acted as a lookout, distributed contraband. Once, I dressed as a laundress and took receipt of a couple of kegs of spirits hidden beneath newly washed linen while the revenue officers sat a few feet away supping ale.” She looked up at him, sadness brimming in her eyes. “And so the answer is yes, Ross. I have lied, cheated and stolen. I have bribed men to turn a blind eye to my crimes.”

  Vane dragged a hand down his face. “You did what you had to do to survive.”

  Damn, he wished she’d not told him.

  Now the small part of him that so desperately needed to despise her swelled with admiration for her strength and courage.

  A sudden noise from the room next door captured their attention. The loud groan
could well have been the sound of a weary passenger relieved to have reached his destination. The creak of the bed may well have conjured an image of the poor fellow collapsing with exhaustion, but the groans became grunts. The banging grew louder, more insistent.

  Vane met Estelle’s gaze, the flush of her cheeks reminding him of the innocent young woman who’d captured his heart. She had been so full of life, so vibrant and vivacious. Now a deep sadness lingered behind those wide eyes. She may not have lost her life on The Torrens, but she had lost something of herself that day.

  “May I ask if you’ve seen my brother?” she suddenly said over the amorous din. “Is he well? Is he happy?”

  “Fabian lives on an island off the Devonshire coast,” Vane said, as eager as she to mask the intimate sounds coming from the room next door. “He commands a fleet of merchant ships and has made quite a name for himself.”

  A woman’s cries of pleasure rent the air though they were fake. He could tell.

  Vane swallowed deeply. “Fabian and Lillian married recently. He kidnapped her in the hope it would persuade me to search for you. As it turns out, they’re in love.”

  Estelle blinked. “Good heavens, I don’t know which piece of information to address first.” She fell silent, lost in her own thoughts. “I’m glad he’s happy.”

  “Oh, he is happy beyond words.” Vane could hear the thread of jealousy in his tone. “But since his man Mackenzie spotted you in Paris, Fabian has not stopped looking for you. He will be relieved to know you’re safe and well.”

  She clutched her hands to her chest and closed her eyes briefly, looked every bit the serene angel who’d come to save him in the dank alley.

  “You cannot tell him I’m alive. Fabian must forget about me.” The words as must you echoed in his head though they never left her lips. “I’m not the same person. Too much has happened. Society would never accept me.”

  Vane gave a mocking snort. “Society does not look favourably on any of us. Your brother is in trade. A rogue ruined my sister years ago. And as for me … well …”

  “But you’re the Marquess of Trevane. People will make allowances. At some point, you must take a wife of noble birth else the ancestral line will stop with you.”