The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

“Where? My dear, I cannot see the tip of my nose in this dreaded fog.”

“There is little point patting the air. Look for a sign, Mr Erstwhile. A sign.”

“I fear you are mistaken.” The sweet feminine voice floated towards him on a gentle breeze to stir his muddled senses. “We are heading in entirely the wrong direction.”

“What did I say?” Mr Erstwhile complained. “Why walk when a hackney cab is by far the better option?”

“In this weather?” came the matron’s horrified reply. “Have you seen Mrs Pritchard’s leg?”

“Thankfully, I’ve not had the pleasure.”

“Mangled is the only way to describe it. Mangled. And how did she end up in such a sorry state?”

“Yes, you have told me five times within the space of an hour. Her hackney mounted the pavement and crashed through the chandler’s window.”

“Precisely, and—”

“Wait.” The feminine gasp sounded so close and yet so distant. The toe of a boot hit Vane’s leg. “There’s a body … on … on the ground.”

“A body?” the matron shrieked. “Good heavens. Come away at once. Lord knows what ails him. Disease is rife in these parts.”

Vane blinked to clear his blurred vision. His head felt thick and

heavy and while he could hear their words he struggled to form a reply.

A woman wearing a dark cloak with the hood raised came closer, her pretty face and ebony hair framed in a golden halo. It was a face he’d seen before, long ago, a face seared into his memory lest he ever try to forget. It was the face of an angel.

Estelle?

How could it be?

Death really had claimed him this time, and now he lay at the foot of heaven’s door. The thought banished the cold from his hollow chest. Contentment settled in its place, so warm, so comforting.

“Leave him be,” the gentleman instructed. He stepped forward to tug on the young lady’s arm. “Clearly, there’s been a disagreement of some sort. We should find a constable.”

The lady snatched her arm free and dropped to her knees beside him. Heaven was but an arm’s length away. All he had to do was reach out and touch it. The Lord had heard his prayers.

“Ross?” The angelic whisper brushed his cheek.

No one called him Ross — not a single living soul.

It was the name given at his baptism. The name spoken by his parents. The name that once breezed from Estelle’s lips when he dared to trace his fingers down the elegant column of her throat and press a tender kiss on her sweet mouth.

“Ross?” she repeated, not Vane, not the manufactured name he used as a shield. Not the name women breathed on a satisfied sigh or men cursed to the devil. With trembling fingers, she cupped his cheek. “What happened to you?”

You happened to me.

Was this the part where he confessed his sins? Were the golden gates about to appear through the mist? Was this to be a glorious epiphany, the moment when he discovered what the hell had happened all those years ago?

“We must leave now.” The white-haired gentleman stepped forward, his full beard and curled moustache a clear sign of his divinity. “We cannot afford to linger.”

“We cannot leave him here like this,” the angel, this beautiful version of Estelle, said.

Footsteps brought another figure: that of Wickett. “Begging your pardon, but I’ll take it from here.”

The angel straightened and shrank back into the shadows.

Don’t go!