Dark Fancy

by York, Sabrina

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Hell. She’d run again. But she couldn’t have gone far. He glanced out the window and frowned. It would soon be far too dark to search the woods. “Assemble the men, all of them. And the hounds.”

  “My lord?”

  “Now! She’s out there somewhere and night is falling. I won’t have her freezing for hours in the woods.” With each order, panic rose higher in his chest. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t. “Someone should scour the roads between here and Tiverton. Prepare my carriage.”

  “I cannot, my lord.”

  James gaped at him, taken aback at this uncustomary sedition. “Why?”

  “Your Uncle Andrew has taken the carriage.”

  “What?”

  “To London, my lord.” Baxter’s brow twitched. He adjusted his topcoat. “Said he had urgent business there.”

  Urgent business? Uncle Andrew? “He hates going to town.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  “Did you see him off?”

  “No sir.”

  “Who prepared the carriage?” He knew he was barking, he just couldn’t help himself.

  “Timothy, my lord.”

  “Bring him in. I need to talk to him at once.”

  “At once, my lord. And, my lord?”

  Gads. James was beginning to hate that appellation. “What?”

  “Shall we wake the hounds?”

  “Not yet.” Suspicion curled, roiled in his gut, along with a sinking certainty.

  When Timothy the groom scuttled into his study, his suspicion was confirmed.

  Uncle Andrew had taken the carriage to London, and yes, he had a passenger. A small, delicate girl with an unkempt mop of golden curls.

  * * * * *

  It was quite late when the coach rolled into town. Truly too late to be knocking on doors, but Helena couldn’t wait until morning. She didn’t dare. She gave the address to the coachman and sent up a prayer to heaven that Violet was there.

  Her friend had only recently come to London to live with her cousin, the Duke of Moncrieff, but there had been some uncertainty as to whether the high-and-mighty lord would house his destitute relations.

  Helena didn’t know what she would do if she was turned away.

  And she nearly was.

  When she rapped the knocker on the imposing door of Wyeth House and the starchy butler opened it to peer down at her, he almost closed it in her face.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Servants around the back, miss.”

  Helena didn’t need to glance down at her frock to know what he saw. A small, disheveled, poorly dressed girl grasping a rather ratty bag filled with her paltry possessions. She stiffened her back and adopted her haughtiest manner. “I am not a servant. I’m here to see my friend Violet Wyeth. Is she at home?”

  The butler blinked. His lips parted and then firmed. “Servants around the back.”

  Helena stomped a slippered foot. “I am not a servant.” She waved at the grand coach parked in the drive. “I am a lady in distress. Do you want to explain to your lord why you refused me?”

  A funny look flickered across the butler’s face and then he sighed. He looked up and down the street—to make sure none of the neighbors would witness this impropriety no doubt—and then stepped back. “Very good, miss. Hurry now. Inside.”

  Helena waved Andrew and the nice coachman, letting them know she had been admitted. Thank heaven. If she couldn’t gain entry to Violet’s home, she would have had to go with Andrew to James’ London home. And that would have been terrible.

  Surely he would have found her then.

  If he was even looking.

  Both prospects depressed her.

  With a grin, Andrew waved back and the coach trundled off. Helen stepped inside and the door closed behind her.

  “Thank you.” She nodded to the butler.

  He grumbled something to himself about innocents and angels that Helena found rather mysterious, but he sent a footman with her name to let Violet know she’d come to call. Less than a minute later Helena heard the patter of running feet. Violet—darling Violet—appeared at the top of the stairs and squealed.

  The butler winced.

  “Helena? Helena Simpson!” Violet flew down the stairs in a flurry of muslin. Her jet-black hair streamed out behind her. When she reached the marble floor of the foyer, she didn’t stop. She barreled into Helena and nearly knocked her to the ground. “Darling. I am so happy to see you!”

  She was not called Violet for nothing. Her eyes were a shocking shade of blue with hints of lavender which, against her pale skin and sable curls, was rather breathtaking. To Helena, right now, she looked like salvation.

  Tears prickled at her lashes as joy and relief flooded her. “Violet.”

  “Darling, what are you doing here? In the middle of the night?”

  “It’s hardly the middle of the night.”

  “Close enough. But you must tell me. What are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Escaping.”

  Violet threw back her head and laughed. “Naturally. You always were a dramatic little thing.” She patted Helena’s hand. “Mercy. You’re like ice. Come to my room and tell me all about it. Transom, would you please have some warm tea and cakes sent up?”

  Helena put her palm over her belly as it growled.

  Violet laughed again. “And some finger sandwiches.”

  “Very good, mum.”

  Violet hooked her arm in Helena’s and led her up the stairs. “Poor Transom,” she whispered. “Imagine working for a single bachelor lord and then having a brood of infants descend upon you. He’s getting used to us, I think. He hardly ever grimaces anymore. But just wait until the season begins. The poor man will likely expire. Oh Helena, I’m so glad you’re here. You cannot know what a trial it is living in a house filled to the rafters with men.” She tugged, urging Helena to move more quickly. “I can’t wait to hear about your adventures. And to tell you about mine.”

  Helena blinked. “You’ve had adventures?”

  “I didn’t tell you everything in my letters. Only the broad strokes. The move from Scotland was the worst of it, I suppose, but worse for the boys because they were used to running wild.” She chuckled at her own joke. For Violet was something of a hoyden herself. “You do know Eleanor’s been married?”

  Helena’s foot missed a step. “No.”

  “To Ulster.” Violet made a face. “A hideous man. I was at their wedding. It was dour at best.”

  “Poor Eleanor.”

  “Yes. Now that you’re here, we shall have to pay her a call. You are staying for a while, are you not?”

  “As long as you’ll have me.”

  “Fabulous. And Penelope married too. At least her groom isn’t ancient and sour. Although he does reek of farts.”

  Helena paled and then barked a laugh. Trust Violet’s unpredictable irreverence to shatter her gloom. “You should call it a raspberry tart,” she teased. “Remember what Lady Satterlee always said.”

  Violet waved an imperious hand. “A pox upon her. A fart is a fart. And he smells of them.”

  “How unfortunate for Penelope.”

  “Indeed.” Violet rounded the corner and led the way to a spacious suite of rooms. She opened the doors and ushered Helena in. “At any rate, I can speak freely now that I am a ruined woman.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I no longer need to restrain myself as a proper lady.”

  “Had you ever?”

  Violet ignored this aside. “Well, very nearly ruined. Do close your mouth, Helena. It is not as though you’ve always been a proper puss.” Between them, they’d been in more trouble than any of the other girls at Lady Satterlee’s.

  “Exactly how are you ruined?”

  Violet laughed. “I’m living here. With my cousin. Moncrieff.” She leaned closer. “He’s quite a rake. A true degenerate. Although I must say, he hardly seems like the satyr they make
him out to be. I looked for horns when I met him but found nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was quite disappointing, I must say. The tail, most likely, was tucked into his trousers.” She stopped for breath. But only that. “He took us in when our father died and the world collapsed. I cannot dislike him after that. I’m not saying he’s a saint, mind you, but he’s not an evil man.” A funny look crossed her features and she settled her gaze on Helena’s face. “That said, you probably shouldn’t be alone with him.”

  A scratch on the door distracted her. As Violet saw to the setting of the table, Helena settled into a seat by the fire and allowed herself to relax. How wonderful it was to find a friend. A friend who would take her in.

  She was safe and warm. A meal was in the offing. Everything was wonderful.

  And if she didn’t think about James and the way he’d used her—the way he’d broken her heart—she didn’t even feel like crying.

  At least, not too terribly much.

  “So tell me, darling, the last I heard, you’d been called back home. Why are you in London?” Violet asked as Helena lit into the sumptuous repast. She took a bite of sandwich and a long sip of tea. The warm brew was a balm to her parched throat. Heavens, how she’d missed tea.

  She refused to think of the rich, buttery wine she’d drunk in its stead. “I’ve run away.”

  “I gathered. But why?”

  “My guardian has betrothed me to the Earl of Darlington.”

  “I thought he died.” Violet tapped her lip with a finger. “Or perhaps that was some other boozy old lecher.”

  “There are so many.”

  “Too true.” Violet shuddered. “Darlington. Blech. Almost as bad as Ulster.”

  “I returned to Trueglove and oh, Violet, I was so looking forward to being home again. I hadn’t been there for years.” Her uncle had never had her back, not since the death of her parents. “But the very day I arrived, I overheard him plotting to sell me to Darlington in exchange for the stables.”

  “No.”

  “I was horrified.”

  “I can well imagine.” Violet selected a flaky cake. “You’re worth far more than the stables.”

  Helena spewed her tea. “Dear Violet,” she said as she mopped up the mess. “I do adore you.”

  “And I you.” Violet wiggled in her seat. “I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re here. We can go shopping, to the theatre, or visit Vauxhall Gardens—”

  “I cannot be seen.”

  Violet’s face fell. “Bother.” She took a sip of tea as she contemplated this wrinkle. “I’ve got it. We shall disguise you as my maid.”

  “I should like that.”

  “You always did have a dramatic flair. We will have to make you less attractive though. From what the servants say, my cousin has very wicked friends that drop by unannounced for orgies with great frequency. Have you considered blacking out a tooth?”

  “Your cousin has orgies?”

  “That’s what the servants say.”

  “They told you that?”

  “Don’t be silly. I was listening at the door.” She smiled primly. “No one tells me anything. But I’m not sure they weren’t exaggerating. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Moncrieff since we arrived. He was quite startled when he came upon us milling about in his foyer.”

  “How many are you again?”

  “Seven. Ranging from five to twenty years of age.”

  “I can imagine that would be quite a shock for a pampered, self-absorbed lord.”

  “Yes. He commanded Transom to arrange for our keeping and then he disappeared.” She gave a delicate little snort. “There haven’t been any orgies either. At least not as far as I can tell.”

  “If there were, would you listen at the door?”

  “Naturally.”

  Helena chuckled and gave up on the sandwiches. She moved on to the cakes.

  “Aunt Hortense should be here soon. That will put paid to any truly depraved goings-on, I suppose.” Violet sighed. “She’s coming to chaperone me. Guard me is more like it. We shall have to have all our fun before she arrives.”

  Helena tried to answer Violet’s impish grin but her offering was weak at best.

  She hadn’t had any sleep the night before—she didn’t dare think why—and today had been an emotional drain. She was exhausted. She yawned hugely.

  “Dear me. You are all in.” Violet tsked. She set down her third cake and pushed away from the table. “It’s late. We should go to bed. You can sleep with me and tomorrow we’ll have Transom find you a room of your own.”

  Numbly, Helena changed into the nightgown James had brought her. Violet tucked her in under the covers and wished her goodnight but Helena barely heard her. Sleep stalked her as her head hit the pillow.

  That night she dreamed of James. And no wonder. Her nightgown still carried his scent.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Where is she?”

  James stood over Uncle Andrew’s bed in a snarling rage. He’d spent the ride to London swinging between fury and contrition. Right now he was on the far end of fury.

  Uncle Andrew crossed his arms over his chest. His nightshirt was voluminous and the movement made it puff out like a soufflé. “I promised not to tell.”

  “I must find her. I need to know she’s safe.”

  “She’s safe.” James relaxed—until the dotty old man finished his thought. “She’s a fairy princess, after all. She has special powers.”

  “God damn it!”

  “No need to curse, young man.”

  James bit back another profanity. He forced down his roiling ire. “Please, Uncle Andrew. Please tell me where she is.” For God’s sake. It was past midnight. Where had the crazy old man taken her? London was a dangerous town on the best of days. At night, a woman alone was at dire risk.

  “I cannot tell you. I have given my word.”

  James curled his fingers into tight fists and spun on his heel before he gave in to the urge to throttle his uncle. Anger and worry snaked through him. His pulse thudded in his head. He tried to block out images of Helena in a gutter, in a mews, in a whorehouse somewhere, helpless and desperate. He had to find her. He had to.

  And then the light dawned. Relief flooded him. Uncle Andrew might live in another world but John Coachman lived in this one. And this world followed the golden rule. He who had the gold made the rules.

  He headed for the mews.

  John Coachman did, indeed, remember where he had taken the girl and though James had awakened him from a deep sleep, he was happy to retrace his steps. James made a note to himself to increase the man’s pay.

  Hope rode him hard as the coach sped through the darkened streets, whipping through dim puddles of light created by the streetlamps and splashing through small pools lingering after the night rain. James perched on the seat next to the coachman, too anxious to ride inside. That he would soon hold her again soothed the beast in his breast.

  They did not go far. And when the coach slowed before an imposing façade and turned into a familiar drive, his blood curdled. He knew this address. He knew it well. “Are you sure this is where you brought her?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  James blanched. Damn. Of all the people to take her in. Acid and fury tangled in his belly.

  Because she wasn’t safe. She wasn’t safe in the least.

  He leapt from the box, swept up the stairs and pounded the knocker. He was certain he would be refused entrance, tossed down the steps perhaps. Shot, possibly. But he didn’t care.

  Transom opened the door. His hard face showed no reaction but James saw it, that minute tightening of disapproving lips. Moncrieff’s butler gave a minute bow. The absolute smallest bow he could get away with. “My lord.”

  The last time James had been here, he’d been anything but a lord. He hadn’t even been in line for the title. Nothing but a pup. A callous, thoughtless, horny pup.

  He’d ruined a friendship that night. Maybe more.

  “I ne
ed to see Moncrieff.”

  “His Grace is from home.”

  James thrust his foot into the door. Clearly, it gave Transom pleasure to crush it. “I demand to see him.”

  “His Grace is from home.”

  “Then bring me the girl.”

  A frigid brow flexed upward, just ever so. “The girl, my lord?”

  “The one who arrived here this evening. I must see her.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord. If you return in the morning. At present, His Grace is from home.”

  Desperation clawed at him. He shoved his hand to the closing door and pressed it open. “Just tell me,” he hissed, glaring at Transom with an intensity so overpowering even someone with his stony heart could not go unaffected. “Tell me she is safe.”

  Transom gave a tiny smile, one that could be categorized as an evil smirk. “She is perfectly safe, my lord. His Grace is not home.”

  * * * * *

  It took him hours but he finally found Edward Wyeth, Duke of Moncrieff, ensconced in the private parlor of an infamous house of very ill repute, sprawled in an overstuffed chair, one leg flung over the arm, nursing a drink and staring into the fire with a trollop draped over his lap. In retrospect, James realized he should have checked here first.

  Madame Chantilly’s had always been a favorite of Edward’s.

  It had been one of James’ haunts too, though he hadn’t been here in years. Not since…

  Edward’s heavily lidded eyes widened when he saw James. He smacked a palm on the girl’s bare bottom and she jumped, though James could tell, from the hue of that ass, this was hardly the first blow to fall. The girl leapt up and, accepting a nice fat purse, left the room. Edward fastened his trousers.

  He shot James a lazy, languid grin, though James knew better. There was nothing lazy or languid about Moncrieff. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable.”

  “Glad to hear it.” God help him if he’d walked in on something in progress. “Still up to your same old games, I see.”

  “Old games suit me. No need to change them.” He considered this and then added, “Although I am always open to new games, if you have discovered any.”

  “May I join you?”

  Edward waved at the companion seat and took another sip of his drink. He did not offer one to James, so he poured his own and dropped into the chair.