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

by Adele Clee

  With mild enthusiasm, Estelle raised her glass in salute. “To Fate for being a sly conniving devil.”

  They both took a sip of sherry. Estelle wanted to drain the contents in the hope it would calm her erratic emotions, but in some things, she was still a lady.

  “How is Mrs Erstwhile this evening?” Estelle said by way of a distraction.

  “Oh, much better. She should be up and about tomorrow with any luck.”

  Silence ensued.

  They stared at the flames for a while and sipped their drinks.

  “Do you know what is strange?” Mr Erstwhile eventually said in the tone of a constable from Bow Street. “For the second time in two days, you have left the shop with Mr Hungerford and returned with Lord Trevane. I trust Hungerford acted the gentleman, and it was his lordship’s overbearing nature that led to this sudden change in circumstance.”

  “You think Lord Trevane is overbearing?” she said defensively. She supposed Ross might appear arrogant, a little forceful of manner, but weren’t all deeply passionate men the same?

  “He did admit to threatening Mr Hungerford.” Mr Erstwhile shook his head. “I cannot help but wonder what poor Mr Hungerford makes of it all. Equally puzzling is why a marquess is willing to brawl in the street for you, Estelle.”

  Mr Erstwhile never used her given name and yet he’d made a point of stressing it twice now.

  “Ah, I see the flicker of surprise in your eyes,” he continued. “After tonight, it is fair to assume that while Estelle is your name, clearly Miss Brown is not.”

  Fear wrapped around her heart like a vine. This kind, honest man deserved to hear the truth.

  “It was never my intention to deceive you.” She spoke slowly and with reservation. “But I could not return to London without assuming a false identity.”

  Mr Erstwhile finished the remainder of his sherry and placed the glass on the table next to him.

  “Falsehoods occur when one is hiding from the truth.” He stroked his white beard. “As an observer, the truth is that you were once in love with the marquess, and he was very much in love with you. From your elegant bearing, clearly you’re from good stock, as the matrons like to say. And so I must assume a terrible tragedy occurred. One that led to your separation.”

  “I have lived in a constant state of mourning these last eight years,” she said softly. “Losing one’s true love evokes a pain deeper than any physical wound.”

  “In that, we are agreed. I too struggled in turmoil for a while until I followed my heart.” He sat forward. “That same turmoil is like a tempest raging through you, shaking your branches. But the time for honesty is nigh. To understand a problem, one must dig down to the roots for more often than not the issue lies there.”

  Estelle contemplated his comment.

  Her problems began the moment she received an ultimatum and invariably made the wrong choice. Everything that happened afterwards was merely a consequence of that one action. It was too late to rekindle what was lost. Even so, she owed it to Ross, to Fabian and to herself to tell the truth.

  Estelle stood, and Mr Erstwhile followed. “The time for introductions is long overdue.” She inclined her head. “Sir, my name is Estelle Darcy, sister to Baron Ravenscroft, and a lady lost these past eight years.”

  A smile touched the old man’s lips. He bowed. “Miss Darcy. Thankfully, you have found your way home at long last.”

  The word home roused a flutter in her stomach. The odd feeling came to settle in her chest, warm and comforting. England was home. She had lived by many names, had been but a ghost of her former self, but she owned the name Darcy.

  Mr Erstwhile gestured to the chair, and they both sat.

  “Some might think it an accident that we stumbled upon his lordship in the alley,” Mr Erstwhile said. “But I am more inclined to believe Fate guided our way.”

  Many times since that night, she had pondered the same thing, too.

  “Then Fate is cruel, sir, for nothing can eradicate the last eight years. Nothing can take me back to the life I long to live. Circumstance makes it impossible.”

  Mr Erstwhile tutted. “Though I loathe quoting that blackguard Bonaparte, the man sometimes spouted sense. Impossible is a word found in the dictionary of fools,” he uttered in a French accent. “And you are by no means a fool, my dear.”

  This wonderful man had a way of making her feel empowered, of making her believe anything was possible.

  “And so we come back to the root of the problem,” Mr Erstwhile reminded her. “It is better to speak out than keep your troubles in, as my dear mother used to say, though she put it rather more eloquently. Now, I shall refill your glass while you compose yourself.” He stood, took her glass and ambled over to the sideboard.

  Other than Maudette, Estelle had never told another living soul what had happened that day. During terrifying nightmares, one was aware of their nemesis, aware of the unbeatable monster sent to wreak havoc with their lives. But in reality, some monsters came in the guise of loving men. Behind their endearing mask, they were greedy, selfish, rotten to the core.

  Mr Erstwhile returned with her sherry. She swallowed down the golden liquid and let it soothe her spirits.

  “It’s a long story,” Estelle began as Mr Erstwhile sat down again.

  “Then let us start with the fact that you and the marquess are in love.”

  “Were in love,” she corrected, now it was more lust than anything else.

  With a mild sigh of frustration, he did not correct his earlier statement, but said, “And someone came to tear it asunder.”

  Estelle nodded. “Lord Trevane’s father persuaded my father to invest in what should have been a lucrative venture — silver mining across the ocean in South America.”

  “And the venture failed, presumably.”

  “Yes. The mine collapsed. People died. My father lost everything due to a clause in the contract that he had not read properly before signing.” She recalled the letter arriving from the solicitor. She had never seen a man cry before that day. “My father was frivolous with money, but he had no reason to distrust the marquess.”

  “I trust your family home was entailed.”

  “My father and brother had no option but to break the entailment. The debts were insurmountable. My father took out numerous loans to cover some of his investment, you see. It would have been the end of him had my brother not agreed it was better to pay the debt and begin again.”

  Mr Erstwhile’s eyes flashed with admiration. “Then your brother must be a remarkable man to put his family’s needs before his own.”

  Estelle’s heart swelled when she thought of Fabian. She must have hurt him deeply and only hoped he could forgive her.

  “By all accounts, he has made rather a name for himself running a fleet of merchant ships.”

  “Clearly, courage is a family trait.” Mr Erstwhile’s smile faded, and he frowned. “But surely your dowry was intact. Although Lord Trevane does not strike me as a man who would choose money over love.”

  Estelle cradled the glass in her lap. “I have no notion what Lord Trevane would choose as I never gave him the option.” It was wrong of her to leave without speaking to Ross. She knew that now. But she’d been so confused, so lost and scared.

  A heavy silence filled the room.

  Mr Erstwhile’s shoulders sagged. “But you told Lord Trevane you couldn’t marry him?”

  “No.” Oh, she could never have told him that. “You see his father intentionally ruined my father to make it too difficult for us to marry.”

  “The marquess would rather see your father bankrupt than have you marry his son? Surely not, child.” Mr Erstwhile cleared his throat. “I saw the possessive look in Lord Trevane’s eyes when he almost punched Mr Hungerford in the street. No doubt he would have protested should his father attempt to force his hand.”

  A lump formed in Estelle’s throat. Brought to bear by the burden of regret. She struggled to swallow. “Ross knows noth
ing of the day his father came to see me.” It would break him to know the truth about his parents, to know the level of deceit and betrayal. “All he knows is that I left without a word despite promising to marry him.”

  Disappointment passed over Mr Erstwhile’s face. “When we are young, we do not always see things clearly. The lady I know would not intentionally hurt someone she loves.”

  Estelle closed her eyes briefly. She had made up her mind to tell Ross everything, and would tell the truth now.

  “My father would not have prevented the match. But he grew bitter, insisted that I could not know the character of the man I wanted to marry. Indeed, he had decided I should stay with my great-aunt while he and my brother made arrangements to sell the estate. He said time apart might save me from making a dreadful mistake.”

  “So that is how you came to be so far from home.”

  “No, I was to go to Yorkshire, not France.” To tell him of the shipwreck and her life with the smugglers would be more than his poor heart could take. “But my maid received word that her uncle had come into some money and had bought a vineyard. She contemplated returning to Bordeaux.” Estelle’s mind had been so heavy with the weight of her burden when all she’d wanted was to be with Ross. “The conversation I had with Ross’ father the day before I left persuaded me to flee.”

  “From the outcome, I imagine it was not a pleasant conversation.”

  “No.”

  “And yet I sense unpleasant is too mild a word.”

  “Ross’ father came upon me in the orchard one morning. He made it clear that he had the power to prevent the match. Indeed, he presented a promissory note signed by my father, and said he would call it in unless I told Ross that I couldn’t marry him.”

  Mr Erstwhile stared at her incredulously. “The marquess must surely have had a motive for his despicable behaviour.”

  “Indeed.” The motive stemmed from jealousy and obsession. “Ross worshipped his parents. He often told me that he wished for a love like theirs. But it was perhaps the greatest deception. His father had kept a mistress for ten years. When Ross’ mother died, the marquess wanted to marry his lover, but she declined and only agreed to continue the relationship providing Ross marry her daughter.”

  Mr Erstwhile’s mouth fell open. “The marquess wanted his son to marry a courtesan’s daughter?”

  “No, the mistress was a lady, a widow of wealth and status. The daughter was the legitimate child of a member of the aristocracy. The marquess never mentioned the lady’s name. Perhaps he thought that to do so might give me a hand in the game.”

  To use the word game implied a level of amusement — nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Dear heaven above.” Mr Erstwhile pushed out of the chair. “I believe I need something stronger to drink than sherry.” He ambled over to the decanters and came back with a crystal tumbler half-full of brandy. “But you did not tell Lord Trevane that you couldn’t marry him.”

  She could have never looked him in the eye and lied. “No. The marquess threatened to cut Ross off if we married. Said he would see to it that Ross lived the life of a pauper until he inherited. Equally, had he called in the promissory note, my brother would have lost any chance he had of making a decent life for himself.”

  “And so you ran away to France.”

  “Yes, with my maid, Maudette.” For some reason, she blurted out the tragic events that led to this point. Tears soaked her face. Some words choked in her throat. But it was a cathartic experience — a purging of her guilt and shame, a spiritual cleansing of sorts.

  Mr Erstwhile came to his feet. He took her hands and held them tightly. “My dear, if anyone deserves love it is you. It breaks my heart to think of all you have been through. And yet I reserve some pity for Lord Trevane. For the man who has lived for eight years believing you indifferent when the exact opposite is true.”

  Estelle remained silent for a moment while she tried to suppress the pain in her heart. “I never meant to hurt him. I only meant to give him the life he deserved.”

  Mr Erstwhile shook his head repeatedly and sighed. “My dear, you have missed the point of life. Love is the only treasure. But it is a treasure without a map. A man may travel the oceans and seas for a lifetime and never find it. For those lucky few who do, well, it is like finding a heavenly island here on earth, and most men would die to defend it.”

  Estelle came to her feet. “I seem to have made a terrible mess of everything.”

  “And it is not too late to put things right.” He cupped her cheek and smiled. “I would wager Lord Trevane will call tomorrow. And you still haven’t told me what happened to poor Mr Hungerford this evening.”

  Both men would call at the shop. But she needed time to think, time to decide how best to proceed. “Would you mind if I kept to my room tomorrow?”

  “Will you keep to your room or board the next mail coach to Edinburgh?” He raised a suspicious brow.

  “No. I am so tired of running but I would like a day to myself, without seeing anyone.”

  A look of recognition flashed in his eyes. “Just remember, very little is needed to make a happy life. It is all within yourself, in your way of thinking.”

  Estelle forced a smile. “What would I do without your wise words?”

  Mr Erstwhile chuckled. “Oh, they’re not mine. They belong to Marcus Aurelius.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After spending a sleepless night in Hanover Square, Vane decided to visit Whitecombe Street. Despite replaying the conversation with Estelle over in his mind, he could not fathom what he’d said to enrage her. Perhaps he would never understand the lady. Perhaps that was part of her appeal. Indeed, he could think of no other time in his life when he’d chased after a woman. They always came to him, begging and pleading, offering themselves up as sacrificial lambs.

  Vane paused in the hall and gave his butler strict instructions regarding the procedure should any unchaperoned females call. Now he lived alone, some ladies would be keen to receive his hospitality.

  The footman followed Vane to his conveyance and opened the carriage door.

  “Any news from Mr Joseph?” Vane glanced up at Wickett sitting atop his box. “You did give him our change of direction?”

  “No news yet, my lord, and I told Mr Joseph where he could find you.”

  Vane wondered what his coachman made of the events of the previous evening. Wickett was used to dealing with a devil, not a lovesick pup. “I intend to visit Whitecombe Street, to return Miss Brown’s apparel.”

  Wickett nodded, but from the wary look in his eye, something was amiss. “What is it, Wickett? Speak your mind and let’s get it over with.”

  No doubt the man intended to caution him about languishing over a lost love. Vane dismissed the footman for he did not want all his staff thinking they had a right to an opinion.

  “It’s just something ain’t right, my lord.”

  Of course things weren’t right.

  Estelle had closed the door in his face, and he’d spent hours mulling over her cryptic comment. Not to mention having to deal with the all-consuming urge to have her writhing in his lap again.

  “Would you care to elaborate?” Vane glanced left and right, pleased to find no one lingering in the immediate vicinity. “In future, I would prefer if we did not discuss your grievances on the street.”

  “There’s something about that fellow from last night that don’t sit right.”

  “Mr Hungerford? The gentleman you conveyed to James Street?”

  Wickett nodded. “The man dresses like a duke, but it seems to me it’s more about deception than making a good impression.”

  “He dresses like a dandy, not a duke.” The Duke of Bedford would swoon at the comparison. “No sane gentleman co-ordinates beige, green and claret.” Vane had taken an instant dislike to Mr Hungerford but presumed it stemmed from jealousy — and yet at no other time in his life had he felt threatened by a rival.

  “It’s clear
to me that he wants Miss Brown to think he has more about him, but his house tells a man all he needs to know.”

  “Which is?” Vane was more intrigued by the minute. He’d been too preoccupied with his erratic emotions to pay attention to such things.

  “I’ll wager he’s as broke as my granny’s teapot.” Wickett raised a knowing brow. “In the rookeries, he’d be a cove marked for purse-snatching. But one look at his house and we’d mark it a deadlurk — empty, not worth the risk.”

  “You’re mistaken. The Erstwhiles dined there. I doubt they served themselves. Had there been anything untoward, Miss Brown would have avoided Hungerford’s company.”

  “All I can tell you is there are no servants in that house, maybe one if you’re lucky. The place was cold, the windows dirty, the frames peeling and rotten. All the curtains were open. He let himself in with a key, but no one came to greet him with a lamp despite the hall being dark.”

  Vane considered Mr Hungerford’s urgency to take a wife. Perhaps the man didn’t know how to run a house on his own. It couldn’t be that he needed a wife’s dowry as he believed Estelle was a mere shopgirl.

  “Your insight is remarkable, Wickett. Thank the Lord you’re in my employ. Heaven help one of the wolves should catch wind of your mental discernment and try to steal you away.”

  “Ladies of their ilk don’t want a man who tells the truth,” he said with a chuckle. “And talking of wolves, a carriage passed by while I was waiting. Happen it was the lady with the ugly pink hat you were speaking to outside the shop yesterday.”

  “Lady Cornell? Did she see you?”

  “I’d say so. She had her nose pressed to the window.”

  “God damn.” The one advantage of moving back to Hanover Square was that it would take the wolves time to find him. “Let me know if it becomes a habit.” The sooner he dealt with Lady Cornell, the better.

  “Right you are, my lord.”

  Vane climbed into his conveyance, closed the door and settled back for the short journey.