The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

Wickett bent down, lifted Vane’s lids and moved a bony finger back and forth. Satisfied, he patted Vane’s chest, dabbing and inspecting the pads of his fingers, no doubt looking for blood.

Vane groaned when the coachman pushed against his ribs.

“My lord, are you hurt?” Wickett’s face blurred and drifted in and out of focus. “Can you hear me, my lord?”

Oh, he could hear him, but why he was still clinging to life when heaven was but a few feet away was a mystery.

“Let’s get you into the carriage. It seems you’ve taken a mighty bump to the head.” Wickett stood over him, one foot planted on either side of his chest. He grabbed the lapels of Vane’s black coat and hauled him to his feet. “Right you are. Steady now. We don’t want you falling and taking another injury.”

“I … I assure you, I am perfectly capable of … of standing.”

The urge to sleep came upon him. The strain to keep his eyes open proved too taxing. He searched for the angel, but she had disappeared into the mist, the beautiful dream lost to him. The gates to paradise barred to him for now.

“Do you need assistance?” Mr Erstwhile stepped forward. “He’s too large a fellow for one man to carry.”

“Happen you should get yourselves off home, and quickly if you want to keep hold of that tidy watch and walking cane.”

“Listen to the man,” Mrs Erstwhile said in a mild state of panic. “We must make haste.”

“I can take you as far as Piccadilly,” Wickett said. “Don’t suppose his lordship will mind under the circumstances.”

“Well, we would not wish to impose. We only need to go as far as Whitecombe Street—”

“Come, Mr Erstwhile, we shall lose Miss Brown if we linger.” The woman tugged her husband’s arm. “And I can feel one of my migraines coming on.”

“Thank you, but we will walk. My wife finds carriage rides in the fog somewhat unnerving.”

“As you please.” Wickett firmed his grip on Vane’s waist and clasped the arm draped around his shoulder. “Turn left at the end of the street, and you’ll find yourself on St Martins Lane.”

The couple bid farewell and disappeared into the night.

“This is what happens when your mind’s on other things,” Wickett complained as he assisted Vane across the road to his carriage. “Count yourself lucky the rogues didn’t have a blade else they’d have gutted you like a fish.”

“I would have finished them both were it not for that blasted wolf.”

“Wolf, you say?” Wickett chuckled. “No one has seen a wolf in England for three hundred years, let alone one wandering the streets of St Giles.”

“A hound, then.” The haze in Vane’s mind was clearing. A large mouthful of brandy would numb the pounding in his head. “The damn animal came from nowhere.” Perhaps that, too, had been a figment of his imagination, a symbolic representation of a hound from Hell.

And yet it had all seemed so real.

The Devil’s beast had come to claim him. The Lord’s angel frightened it away to offer him a better alternative.

But what did it all mean?

Was seeing a vision of Estelle’s sweet face a clear sign that all was lost and he should abandon his search? Or was the illusion meant to bring her to the forefront of his mind?

Not that he needed reminding.

The portrait might be locked in a drawer, but her image haunted every cold corridor of his mind, still haunted the lonely chambers of his heart.

Chapter Two

Estelle should run. She should pick up her skirts and run as far away as her legs could carry her. But already her breath came in rapid pants. Her heart raced so fast it hammered in her chest. The acrid fog clawed at the back of her throat. This must surely be the reason her eyes stung.

A tear fell, and then another.

Ross!