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

by Adele Clee

  Vane cared for this man like a brother. “What so you can press me to speak to Miss Darcy?”

  “No, I thought I might challenge you to a game of chess. It is the only pastime I know of where I stand a chance of beating you.” Farleigh offered a mischievous grin before adding, “But while we’re on the subject of Miss Darcy, all I ask is that you open your heart to the possibility that she is still your everything.”

  Vane’s throat grew so tight he could barely breathe. He tapped Farleigh on the upper arm. “Your wife is waiting. If anyone deserves happiness, it is you. All I ask is that you make every second count.”

  They parted ways. Vane did not wish to linger and so decided Wickett could return for Pierre. As he settled into his carriage, all thoughts should have been on his secret mission to spy on Estelle. Equally, he should have been imagining the multitude of ways he would hurt Lord Cornell.

  But one feeling dominated all others.

  He had never felt more alone in his entire life.

  Chapter Ten

  “Finish your broth, and then you must rest.” Mr Erstwhile sat beside his wife’s bed and stroked her brow.

  Estelle had passed the open door on her way downstairs to wait for Mr Hungerford. She stopped to listen merely to gauge if they were keeping something from her and if Mrs Erstwhile suffered from a more serious illness than a fever and upset stomach. But the love and devotion expressed between the couple touched her heart, and she felt compelled to watch.

  “I’m so weak,” Mrs Erstwhile said. “It has been years since I felt so helpless.”

  Mr Erstwhile brought his wife’s limp hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her pale skin. “You will get better, my love. But you must believe it will be so. Besides, what on earth would I do here without you?”

  A lump formed in Estelle’s throat. In her experience, only a lucky few shared such a special connection.

  “Do you remember the day we met, when you walked into the drawing room to lay the fire?” Mr Erstwhile said, feeding his wife a spoonful of broth. “You looked so nervous.”

  She swallowed down his offering. “I was terrified. It was my first day working for your father, and I tripped over the rug. You helped me to my feet.” A warm smile lit up her face. “Always the gentleman.”

  “In that moment when our eyes locked something wonderful happened — something truly beautiful. It was as though I had finally come home.”

  “I remember.”

  “Then just as our love was worth fighting for, so you must fight to regain your strength.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise me you will try.”

  “I promise.”

  Estelle crept away but returned to her room instead of heading for the stairs. Once inside she settled on the bed, curled into a ball and hugged her legs to her chest.

  Oh, Ross!

  Once, her heart swelled with the same soul-deep love Mr Erstwhile spoke of. But she had made a terrible mistake. One that had cost her everything she held dear. While the Erstwhiles had the strength to fight for what mattered, she had been too weak to battle with two patriarchs. Too easily coerced and manipulated.

  If only she could go back to that fateful day.

  Yes, she had made the ultimate sacrifice for Ross, and for Fabian, too. And yet not a day passed when she wished she had thought of herself. But it was too late. A marquess did not marry a criminal no matter how blue her blood.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Why could she not forget? Why could she not learn to live in the present, instead of dwelling on the past? Those thoughts echoed through her mind until sleep brought her temporary peace.

  Estelle woke to a knock on her door. Mr Erstwhile called out, “Miss Brown?”

  “Yes” came her drowsy reply.

  “Mr Hungerford is here.”

  “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  The last thing she needed was to hear Mr Hungerford’s declaration. The gentleman could be quite determined when he put his mind to something. If he refused to accept her answer, she could always catch the next mail coach heading north. Running away from Faucheux had saved her from a truly terrible existence. If she had the strength to refuse the Frenchman, she had the strength to do anything.

  After washing her face and changing her dress, Estelle hurried downstairs.

  Mr Hungerford stood in the shop conversing with Mr Erstwhile who was still obsessed with spying on those in the street. Perhaps he suspected the intruder was still watching the premises, waiting for another opportunity to strike.

  “Mr Hungerford.” Estelle approached and offered a smile.

  The man looked pristine in his blue coat and mustard waistcoat. This evening he carried a silver-topped walking cane, though she doubted he had the courage to swing at Ross should the lord threaten him again.

  “Miss Brown.” He inclined his head. “You look delightful.”

  The gentleman was easily pleased. She wore a plain sapphire-blue dress that matched his coat to perfection and had tied her hair in a simple knot at her nape.

  “Thank you. Will you stay for supper?”

  “I thought we might go out for an hour. There’s a new coffeehouse on St Martins Lane that seems quite popular.”

  “Will we get a seat? I imagine it will be rather crowded.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  How different this man was from Ross. The thought drew her mind to Ross’ insistence they be alone, to the intimate way he held her close, the scandalous manner in which he kissed away her tears. She could never embrace Mr Hungerford in the same way.

  “Are you certain you do not wish to remain here, sir?”

  A smile touched his lips. “Mr Erstwhile may accompany us if you’d feel more comfortable.”

  “Thank you for the offer,” Mr Erstwhile interjected, “but I must sit with my wife this evening.”

  Mr Hungerford frowned. “I trust she is well.”

  “Just suffering from a touch of fever,” Mr Erstwhile said with a smile, although Estelle noted the slight flash of fear in the poor man’s eyes. “I would rather not leave her alone if it’s all the same.”

  “Of course.” Mr Hungerford turned to Estelle. “We shall walk to St Martins Lane, and if we cannot find a seat, we will return posthaste.”

  Estelle suppressed a sigh. Perhaps she should force a confession from the man now, but Mr Erstwhile had enough worries without upsetting his best customer.

  “Then give me a moment to collect my jacket.”

  The sun was setting as they left, and still, the knife grinders and orange sellers were out touting for business.

  They took a leisurely stroll to St Martins Lane. The slow pace meant but one thing. Mr Hungerford did not plan on remaining at the coffeehouse long. Indeed, it soon became apparent that their discussion was to take place during the journey.

  What she found most odd was that he had made no mention of the incident earlier in the day, had not enquired how she knew a man as prestigious as the Marquess of Trevane.

  “What has Mr Erstwhile told you about my late wife?” the gentleman asked, suddenly changing the topic of conversation from that of tinctures and tonics to one of a more intimate nature.

  “Only that she died four months ago, and that she had been ill for two years or more.” No one mentioned the cause of the illness. “Was a diagnosis ever made?”

  Mr Hungerford cast her a sidelong glance while walking. “As I know you will treat whatever I say with the utmost discretion, I must tell you that it was a condition of the mind as well as the body.”

  “Oh, I see.” Estelle wasn’t sure what to say. To ask questions might bring painful memories to the fore. “It must have been a worrying time.”

  “Indeed.” He fell silent for a moment. “Do you like children, Miss Brown?”

  The muscles in her abdomen tightened. Like carefully manoeuvred pieces on a chessboard, this line of questioning would eventually lead to the subject of marriage. Estelle suspected that r
egardless how she answered, he would agree with her opinion and find a way to turn it to his advantage.

  “Who does not love children?” she said with some reservation.

  “I hoped to be blessed with a large family and dreamed of moving to Bath where the air is clean and the streets much quieter.” He sighed. “Alas, as the years pass I feel the dream slipping away.”

  “One must never give up hope, sir.” The words left her mouth before she engaged her brain. It was the advice of a hypocrite.

  “Do you like Bath, Miss Brown?”

  “I have never been.”

  “Would you like to visit?”

  “I can’t say that I have given the matter much thought.” Oh, the muscles in her shoulders ached from holding her body so tense, so rigid. “Besides, the Erstwhiles have been kind to me and need my assistance in the shop.”

  “Forgive me if this upsets you, but they will not be around forever. What will you do then? You owe it to yourself to plan for the future. A man as wise as Mr Erstwhile would expect nothing less.”

  Oh, Mr Hungerford had a way about him that made it impossible to contradict his opinion. Had she underestimated this affable, somewhat timid man?

  “I deal with matters as and when they arise. Mr Erstwhile says that when one always looks to the future one misses the real beauty of life.” Thank goodness for Mr Erstwhile’s discerning gems.

  “There is that I suppose.” His tone revealed a reluctance to concede.

  They walked a minute in silence. When they came upon Brandersons coffeehouse, it was clear from the queue at the door that any attempt to wait for a seat was futile. A raucous din burst from the packed premises whenever anyone opened the door. A lady would struggle to hear her internal voice let alone an expected proposal.

  “It seems you were correct, Miss Brown.” Mr Hungerford did not seem too disappointed. He waved his cane at a point further along the street. “Let us walk for a few minutes more. There is another place we might try.”

  A knot formed in Estelle’s stomach. Were it not for the Erstwhiles admiration of this man, she would have insisted they return to Whitecombe Street.

  And so, against the nagging feeling in her chest, she continued to walk beside him.

  To distract her mind, she started a conversation about the weather. The sun had set bringing a chill to the air made sharper by the sudden breeze. She mentioned the descending fog though he seemed unperturbed by the dangers it presented for those wandering the streets. For one so concerned with his health, he cared not that the odd spots of rain might lead to a downpour. Nor that the distant growl overhead threatened far worse. Indeed, at the first opportunity, he directed the conversation back to discovering more about her background.

  “Do I recall you saying you had a brother, Miss Brown?”

  She paused and swallowed down her reluctance to reply. “We are estranged and have been so for some time.”

  He appeared pleased by this snippet of information. “Either way, you strike me as a woman who does not need to ask for her brother’s approval.” He removed his pocket watch, squinted at the white face and then slipped it back into his waistcoat. “You know your own mind, and I admire that.”

  “Not all men think as you do,” she said, hoping to steer the topic away from marriage.

  “I’m a man who values his wife’s opinion as much as his own.”

  Was that because he lacked the courage to make decisions? she wondered.

  “If I have gained anything from my association with Mr Erstwhile,” he continued, “it is that marriage works best when it is a partnership.”

  Marriage worked best when two people were in love.

  A few fat droplets of rain landed on her sleeve. Mr Hungerford suddenly stopped near the narrow alley leading from St Martins to Castle Street. He drew her closer to the entrance, despite the yellow fog obscuring their vision.

  “Would it be a terrible inconvenience if I escorted you home and accepted your generous offer of supper?” Mr Hungerford glanced behind him. “The weather is closing in, and it was foolish of me to insist we keep walking.”

  Estelle suppressed a groan at the thought of spending a few more hours in his company. “Is it not a little late now? Mrs Erstwhile is ill, and I imagine they are settled for the evening. Perhaps we should hail a hackney cab and rearrange our outing some other time.”

  Mr Hungerford failed to hide his disappointment, tuts accompanied his muttered mumblings. “Oh, I have made a dreadful mess of everything.”

  “You cannot blame yourself for the sudden turn in the weather.”

  He removed his hat and turned to her. “Miss Brown, I know this is not the ideal place to speak so intimately, but I must tell you that I admire you greatly. Know that my intentions are honest and I fear I cannot delay. I wonder whether you might consider the possibility of becoming my wife.” He released a lengthy exhale.

  Estelle groaned inwardly. It was destined to be an uncomfortable journey home once she’d refused him. She braced herself in preparation to give the only response her conscience could allow.

  A strange shuffling from somewhere in the alley forced her to glance back over her shoulder, and yet she could see nothing behind but a blanket of fog. The hairs on her nape prickled to attention which she imagined had something to do with the awkward situation.

  “Mr Hungerford, I am truly flattered—”

  He stepped closer and placed a gloved finger on her lips. Notes of expensive cologne reached her nostrils, the smell sickly as opposed to inviting. Nothing like the intoxicating scent of Ross’ skin.

  “Do not answer now. Take a few days. Imagine a life of contentment in Bath. I can make you happy, Miss Brown, if only you will let me.”

  Being cocooned in Ross Sandford’s arms was the only place she felt real joy.

  Estelle nodded. When she returned home, she would pen a note explaining that she could not possibly accept.

  An unexpected grunt from behind made her jump.

  Someone grabbed her jacket and pulled her backwards. She opened her mouth on a scream, but a chubby hand smothered the sound. The sharp tip of a blade pressed into her back as the smell of ale and rotten breath breezed past her cheek.

  The heavens opened then, and the rain pelted the pavement in an angry roar.

  “Give me your purse, Monsieur, and then I shall let this pretty lady go.” The thug spoke in a thick French accent, too deep to be Faucheux. Was he one of Faucheux’s men?

  Lord help them. Mr Hungerford was the sort to oblige rather than fight. Indeed, he reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a small pouch.

  “Release her, and you shall have your prize.”

  “Throw it over now else you will be carrying home a corpse.”

  Hungerford did as the rogue requested. “Now release her at once.” He seemed surprisingly confident, not the stuttering fool who had floundered under the weight of Ross’ frigid stare.

  The rogue sneered. “Perhaps I should have a little fun with the lady first, no?”

  “The hell you will.” Hungerford drew the sword from his walking cane and swiped the air, the action more like the exaggerated moves of an actor than a true buccaneer. “Perhaps you would care to fight me for the pleasure.”

  Mr Hungerford did not sound at all like himself. He possessed the courage of a drunken sot and yet hadn’t had so much as a sip of coffee. But then his self-assured grin faded and his eyes grew wide, fearful.

  The atmosphere changed.

  A dark and dangerous energy pervaded the narrow space.

  The rogue gasped and then a choking gurgle resonated in his throat.

  “May I offer another suggestion?” Ross’ charismatic voice drifted towards her. “Release the lady now else I shall cut your throat from ear to ear.”

  The clatter of metal hitting the ground gave Estelle the strength to rush forward. Once safely out of arm’s reach, she whipped around to see her hero dressed head-to-toe in black. He stood behind the rogue, his expre
ssion as menacing as the Devil. A trickle of blood ran from where Ross pressed his knife against the rogue’s throat. Rain lashed down upon them. Droplets dripped from the lock of hair hanging rakishly over Ross’ brow.

  “Let me at him,” Mr Hungerford suddenly cried. “It is my honour he called into question.”

  “This is not about restoring honour,” Ross chided. “What are you going to do? Challenge him to a duel?”

  Hungerford slid the sword back into the sheath and handed the cane to Estelle. “I shall challenge him to a fistfight for the insult he has shown to Miss Brown.”

  “Good God, man, he dug a knife into her back. Bow Street is the only place for him. After we’ve had a little scuffle, of course, where I will be forced to break his nose.”

  “Non! Please, Monsieur,” the rogue blurted. “It is not my fault. I did not—”

  “Be quiet, you devil.” In a shocking and highly uncharacteristic move, Mr Hungerford darted forward and slapped the rogue about the face. “We have no interest in anything you have to say.”

  Ross dropped his hand and stepped back. “Then have at him if it eases your conscience.” The rogue raised his fists but then turned on his heels and fled the alley. A muttered string of curses left Ross’ lips. “Damnation. Now I’ve no choice but to chase after him.”

  “I shall go. This is my fault after all.” Mr Hungerford snatched back his cane and darted off in pursuit before Estelle could catch her breath.

  Estelle stared at Ross for a moment. From the frown marring his brow, he appeared equally confused by Mr Hungerford’s odd behaviour. “Were you following me?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” He slipped his blade back into the sheath tucked into his boot, brushed the wet lock of hair back off his brow and came towards her. “No doubt you’re rather glad I did.”

  “I have never been more pleased to see you.” Her bonnet shielded her eyes from the rain, but water dripped from the tip of her nose.

  He cupped her cheek with his bare hand, used the pad of his thumb to wipe the rain from her chin. “Are you all right?”