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

by Adele Clee

  “I’m fine. The rogue wanted money that’s all.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not to me.”

  A satisfied smile played on his lips. He looked so sinfully handsome. Lord help her. Would she ever be able to look at him and not feel love in her heart, or lust in her loins?

  “So you did not see me stalking you?”

  In truth, she had been so focused on avoiding the subject of marriage she had thought of nothing else. “No, I did not see you.”

  They stared at each other, ignoring the rain. She wondered what he was thinking, wondered why he had come.

  “I should get you home before you catch your death of cold.” Ross gestured to a point beyond the mist. “My carriage is waiting on Castle Street.”

  “But what about Mr Hungerford? We cannot leave him.” It suddenly occurred to her that the poor fellow might have caught the Frenchman. “What if he’s lying injured in the gutter?”

  “I can assure you he will return unharmed.”

  Ross sounded so confident. Perhaps he knew something she didn’t. Perhaps Mr Hungerford was more skilled with a sword than she’d given him credit.

  As if on cue, the clip of booted footsteps reached her ears. Mr Hungerford appeared at the entrance to the alley. He stopped, gripped the wall and bent his head as if all the air was spent from his lungs.

  “Mr Hungerford.” Estelle rushed to his side. “Are you well? Did you catch the rogue?”

  “I … I’m afraid not,” he gasped. His cheeks were berry-red, and his chest heaved at far too rapid a rate. “The scoundrel was too … too light on his feet, although I whacked him on the back with my cane.”

  “You hit him with your stick?” Ross mocked. “How brave.”

  “He was too quick for me. The man is skilled in the art of fleeing a crime.”

  Ross folded his arms across his broad chest. “Perhaps we should visit Bow Street, recount the event and describe the culprit.”

  With a quizzical expression, Mr Hungerford inhaled deeply and said, “I cannot remember much about him. All thieves look the same. Besides, Miss Brown is soaked to the skin. I should see her home before she catches a chill.”

  “I shall escort Miss Brown home,” Ross insisted.

  “I would not be a gentleman if I neglected in my duty to deliver Miss Brown directly to her front door.”

  Ross straightened. “Perhaps you suffer from an impediment and did not hear me the first time.”

  “Enough of this,” Estelle said with some frustration. “Do not speak about me as if I were not here.” Considering the sodden state of their clothes, the inclement weather and the late hour there seemed to be only one solution. “Lord Trevane has his carriage and will see us all safely home.”

  A smile touched Ross’ lips accompanied by a look that suggested he had expected her to come to that conclusion. “After suffering at the hands of that scoundrel, we should adhere to Miss Brown’s wishes.”

  Mr Hungerford sighed. How could he refuse? “Very well. Lead the way.”

  When they exited the alley into Castle Street, Wickett was loitering on the pavement, the collars of his coat raised to shield him from the rain. He opened the carriage door and waited for them to climb inside. “Where to, my lord?”

  “We will take Hungerford home first.” Ross settled into the seat opposite Estelle as Mr Hungerford had already claimed the seat beside her. Ross stared at the gentleman in question. “What is your direction?”

  “Perhaps we should take Miss Brown home. She is cold and still shaken after her ordeal. I can walk from there.”

  “I am perfectly fine, sir. I assure you I have a robust constitution.” Heavens, she had lost count how many times the smugglers had fought each other with knives. She’d lost count the number of times she had to run and hide from the revenue men knowing they would string her up if they got their hands on her.

  Ross clenched his jaw. “My conscience demands I see you to your front door. You chased the attacker, and I would know you arrived home safely.”

  Estelle considered Ross with some suspicion. He didn’t give a damn about Mr Hungerford, which meant he had an interest in discovering where he lived.

  Intrigued by Ross’ sudden interest, and despite it being somewhat rude, she answered for the gentleman. “Take us to James Street. Mr Hungerford lives at number twenty-eight.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The carriage rattled along Castle Street on its way to take Mr Hungerford home. Vane sat back in the dark confines of his conveyance and let the immense feeling of satisfaction wash over him.

  First, he had followed Estelle without her noticing him. A skill he’d acquired while navigating the backstreets of St Giles looking for a fight.

  Even more satisfying was the fact he knew of Hungerford’s game. Vane would wager everything he owned that Hungerford was acquainted with the Frenchman who had set upon them in the alley. Indeed, the man was as craven as Lord Cornell, and yet he’d chased the scoundrel through the fog-drenched streets without a second thought.

  To add to Vane’s bounty, he now knew Hungerford’s address and in a matter of minutes would boot the coward out onto the pavement and leave the rest to the runner, Mr Joseph. The true prize of the night was having Estelle to himself on the journey back to the apothecary shop.

  Vane glanced at the lady in question. With her gaze fixed firmly on the window, she watched the rain trickle down the pane.

  Mr Hungerford sat sulking. Anger brimmed beneath his affable facade but he wouldn’t know what to do if he ever found the strength to unleash the devil.

  They turned into James Street and the vehicle jerked to a halt beside a row of townhouses. Mr Hungerford’s abode was of modest proportion, three floors high although too narrow by Mayfair’s standards. Vane could not imagine Estelle living here. She loved riding across open countryside, loved painting in a natural habitat, loved picnics in the orchard and strolling through buttercup fields.

  “Should you change your mind about visiting Bow Street, Hungerford, do let me know.” Vane couldn’t resist ruffling the man’s feathers.

  “As I said, I see little point in wasting their time,” Hungerford replied. “The blackguard will be long gone by now.” He turned to Estelle. “Perhaps we could take a picnic to the park tomorrow, Miss Brown.”

  “What, in the rain?” Vane mocked.

  “If the weather is fine,” Hungerford added. “If not, then we could return to the coffeehouse.” The man was persistent. Vane would give him that. “Perhaps you might be inclined to discuss my proposal.”

  Estelle cast Vane a furtive glance before considering the fop seated next to her. “Call into the shop tomorrow, and I shall let you know then.” One would have to be blind to miss the reluctance in her eyes, and the rigid reservation in her bearing.

  “I’ll see you safely inside, Hungerford.” Vane threw open the carriage door and stepped down to the pavement. Rain lashed his face and bounced off his boots.

  Hungerford muttered something incoherent. “I am quite capable of walking, my lord, quite capable of fending off an attack.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Vane followed the dandy as he hurried under cover of his portico and waited while he retrieved his key from his coat pocket. “But now we’re alone is there not something you wish to ask me?”

  Hungerford turned to look at him, but his green eyes flitted back and forth nervously in their sockets. “There … there is a matter I would discuss, but your position demands I keep my lips tightly buttoned.” His cheeks flushed as red as the ridiculous claret coat he’d worn.

  “Then allow me to assist you. You want to know of my intentions towards Miss Brown.” Vane glanced at his conveyance to witness Estelle staring back at him.

  “Well, I imagine my intentions are obvious, though yours are baffling. Miss Brown possesses too much integrity to be any man’s mistress
.”

  “You think I want her as my mistress?” It was a fair assumption given his position.

  “Don’t you?” Hungerford raised a brow. “I have seen the intense longing in your eyes when you look at her.”

  “Perhaps I want her for my wife.” Vane spoke merely for the thrill of annoying the gentleman. And yet he was surprised to find the idea had already taken root and the first buds were beginning to appear on this new tree of hope.

  Hungerford scoffed. “A marquess does not marry a shopgirl.”

  “Neither does a gentleman.”

  “Miss Brown is unlike any woman I have ever met.”

  “In that, we are agreed.”

  Vane did not bother to offer a parting greeting but simply turned and strode back to his carriage. He informed Wickett of their direction and the message he was to pass to Mr Joseph when they arrived in Whitechapel. Once inside, Vane settled into the seat opposite Estelle, dragged his hand down his wet face and waited to hear the question ready to burst from her lips.

  “What did you say to Mr Hungerford?”

  “Nothing.” The sodden sleeves of his coat stuck to his shirt, the cold seeping into his skin. He sat forward and shrugged out of the garment. “You should remove your jacket before you catch a chill.”

  “You clearly said something. I watched your lips move.”

  “Hungerford wanted to know what my intentions are where you’re concerned.”

  Vane tugged at his shirt sleeves as the material was plastered to his arms. He could feel the heat of her stare drifting over him, caught her ogling his biceps as they strained against the restrictions of the fabric.

  “And what was your reply?” Lacking dexterity, which he attributed to cold fingers, she managed to unfasten the buttons on her jacket. She slipped it off her shoulders and placed it on the seat next to her.

  Vane ignored the question. He wasn’t ready to address his feelings just yet, and fear of rejection forced him to remain silent.

  He rubbed his hands together to banish the cold. “Had I known it would be this bitter, I’d have had Wickett heat the bricks. There’s a blanket in the box beneath the seat should you need it.”

  “Did you threaten him?” She removed her bonnet and shook off the droplets of rain.

  “Who?”

  “Mr Hungerford.” Her tone carried more than a hint of frustration.

  “Why would I do that?”

  Estelle shrugged. “How should I know when I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re thinking? I haven’t the faintest idea where you’re taking me, either, though I know it is most definitely not Whitecombe Street.”

  Vane liked that she found him unreadable, unpredictable. “I need to make a slight detour. Wickett has a message to deliver to my man in Whitechapel. But have no fear, we shall remain in the carriage.”

  That meant he had her alone for at least thirty minutes, more if he instructed Wickett to take his time. And he would rather travel the foggy streets than return to the empty house in Hanover Square.

  Silence ensued.

  She did not press him on the subject of Mr Hungerford, nor did he ask if she would accept the man’s proposal. The answer was abundantly clear.

  “Well,” she began, “if we’re here for a while it seems foolish to sit in silence. What would you like to discuss?”

  Numerous questions flitted through his mind. None of them drew his thoughts away from the vibrant energy that thrummed in the air whenever they were alone. None of them captured his attention like the rise and fall of her breasts, like the full lips formed into a pout.

  Hell, this woman had a power over him even he could not comprehend.

  “So, you’re keen to satisfy my voracious appetite for conversation.” He imagined she could please him on many levels.

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “I have the feeling nothing could satisfy you, my lord.”

  You could. You’re the only woman who can tame me.

  “Then ask me a question, Estelle. Allow me to put your oral skills to the test.”

  She swallowed audibly as her breath came a little quicker.

  Excellent.

  “Very well.” She straightened as if preparing for battle. “Why have you never married?”

  “Do you want the truth?”

  “Of course.”

  “Because after what happened eight years ago I could never trust another woman. And you know my feelings on marriage and fidelity.” He would have been faithful to her as long as he lived. And therein lay the irony of the man he’d become.

  She placed a trembling hand on her collarbone. “But you have had relations with women?”

  “I’m not a monk. I’ve not taken a vow of celibacy.” And I thought you were dead.

  “No,” she whispered. “I didn’t expect you had.”

  Vane leant back against the squab as one question suddenly burned within. “And what about you? You say you never married but have you ever had relations with a man?” It was an impertinent question, one a gentleman would never dare ask a lady. But he felt he’d earned the right to know.

  She looked to her lap and sighed — and there was his answer.

  The blood in his veins turned ice-cold. She was his, always had been, always would be. To know she’d given herself to another was like a cleaver hacking at his heart. God, if there was one thing he despised it was his own damn hypocrisy.

  “Did you love him?” he heard himself say, though he was still rolling on a metaphorical floor, writhing in pain, twisting in agony.

  She grew suddenly restless, refused to look at him as she rocked back and forth in her seat. “This was a mistake. Stop the carriage. I want to get out.” She reached for the handle.

  “Wait!” Panic flared. “You’ll fall to your death.”

  Her hand settled over the metal.

  Vane lurched forward and grabbed her wrist. “You can’t get out here.”

  “I don’t care.” Tears filled her eyes as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. “Let me go.”

  He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her across the carriage and into his lap. She fought him at first, kicked the side and tugged the curtain on the viewing window.

  And still, Wickett did not take it as a signal to stop.

  Vane wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” It would kill him to hear her story, but her needs had always come before his own.

  She squirmed in his lap and punched his chest, the hollow sound drowned out by her sudden sob. “I can’t.”

  Fear turned to anger. When she’d mentioned someone hurt her, surely she had not meant— He shook his head to banish the thought from his brain.

  “Tell me what happened, Estelle.” How he kept his voice calm, he would never know. “Confide in me.”

  “I was a fool … a fool who forgot how some men treat their maids,” she blurted. “I thought he was a friend.”

  “Who?”

  “Philipe Robard.” She gulped for breath. “The … the merchant’s son.”

  Vane kissed the top of her head to bring her comfort, and to stop him from raising the roof with a barrage of vitriolic curses. “Are you telling me he forced you?”

  “It all happened so quickly.” She curled into his lap and pressed her cheek to his chest. “I hit him with a chamber pot, ran down the stairs and out of the house and never looked back.”

  Philipe Robard was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.

  One question filled Vane’s mind. The words stuck to his tongue like a bitter taste that he desperately needed to expel. “Was … was there a child?”

  Please say no.

  Her head shot up, and her red, puffy eyes settled on him. “Heavens, no.”

  Relief coursed through his veins.

  “I hit him almost as soon as—” She cut off abruptly but he did not need to hear any more.

  “And where will I find Monsieur Robard? In Paris?”

  “Find him?” Estel
le blinked in surprise. “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “No, Ross.” She shook her head. “I want to forget about Robard. I want to pretend the incident never happened.”

  He would not forget. At some point in the very near future, he would travel to Paris. Once there, he would find the scoundrel and beat him so severely he would never regain the full use of his manhood.

  “Please, Ross.” Estelle put a hand on his cheek, and he resisted the urge to close his eyes and relish the connection. “There was nothing you or I could have done to prevent it. I told you because you asked and because you were honest with me. But please, put it from your mind.”

  “You ask the impossible.”

  “Can you not understand?” Both dainty hands cupped his face now. “I want to leave all of that behind me.” Her face was so close he could feel her sweet breath breeze across his lips. “How can I do that if you won’t let me? Please, you must allow me to move on.”

  “When you say move on what you really mean is run away.” Vane stared into her sad eyes. “Will you ever stop running, Estelle?”

  She fell silent for a moment. “How can I? How can I stop when I don’t have the courage to face the truth?”

  Vane wasn’t sure what she was referring to, but she gazed longingly at his mouth as her thumbs stroked his cheeks. He knew enough about women to know she wanted him and so he took a leap of faith.

  “And what is the truth? Do you regret leaving Prescott Hall?”

  Do you regret leaving me?

  She swallowed visibly. “I regret it more than you will ever know.”

  “Why?” They were finally getting somewhere.

  “Because I lost the respect and friendship of someone dear to me.” She bent her head and pressed her lips to his in a chaste kiss. “I lost you.”

  Had Estelle been sitting opposite he might have asked questions, probed her for more information. But her soft buttocks were but an inch away from his throbbing cock. The mere touch of her lips roused his desire, and he was lapping her comment up like a thirsty dog did a puddle of rainwater.

  “What do you want from me?” Vane whispered. He cupped her neck, drew her mouth to his and kissed her with a passion reserved only for this woman. Leaving her in no doubt of his intentions.