The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

Wickett took the picture and studied it. “Looks like her. The lady went by the name of Miss Brown if I remember rightly.” When Wickett returned the portrait, Vane caught a glimpse of silky black hair before placing it face down on the mantel. “At first, I thought she was a maid or companion,” Wickett continued, “but she spoke proper, just like the elderly gentleman.”

“And you have their direction?”

“They were heading to Whitecombe Street, my lord.”

“And the number?”

The hour was late. Sleep would elude him tonight if he did not discover the truth for himself. In those dark, restless hours, he would replay every word spoken, every kiss he’d ever shared with Estelle Darcy. He had to know. And he had to know now.

Wickett raised a shoulder. “The gent didn’t say.”

A sudden sense of despair filled Vane’s chest. He would knock on every door, drag exhausted folk from their beds until he found the right house.

“If I had to guess I’d say Mr Erstwhile makes tonics or perfumes. He had that odd smell about him … sweet like flowers and herbs … and something sharper, almost bitter.”

“Take me to Whitecombe Street. You have fifteen minutes to ready the carriage.” Vane turned to Bamfield. “Call Pierre. I require a change of clothes, preferably black.”

The next fifteen minutes passed by in a blur. Vane bathed quickly, lost his temper with Pierre when he insisted on fussing with his cravat. In the end, Vane dressed himself. The same fiery excitement he’d experienced earlier in the evening surfaced again.

“You’re convinced it is her?” Farleigh said as Vane climbed into the carriage and settled into the seat opposite. His friend insisted on coming for fear Vane might venture to St Giles again, worried that another knock to the head might mark the end of him. “I find it hard to believe.”

“You heard Wickett. It is her.”

Hope sprung to life in Vane’s chest. Soon he would have the answers he thought lost to him. Why break a promise? Why profess to love a man only to abandon him the next day?

“But surely Miss Darcy would have sought her brother out.” In the dark confines of the carriage, Farleigh’s gaze searched Vane’s face and lingered on the bruise beneath his chin. “Forgive me if I sound cynical but if Miss Darcy survived the shipwreck why wait eight years before returning to London?”

“Well, we will soon know.”

Vane struggled to sit still.

In his mind, he imagined what he would say to her, although he would not give her the satisfaction of telling her she’d ruined his life.

Wickett slowed the carriage as they turned into Whitecombe Street and drew to a stop outside Marselles Perfumery. Beneath the light of the streetlamp, one could see the ornate walnut caskets in the window. The boxes were lined with burgundy velvet and held a glass bottle of unique design.

Vane rapped the roof. From what he remembered, heavy perfumes made Estelle sneeze, and so he doubted she lived there.

When the conveyance rolled to a stop opposite the apothecary shop, Vane’s heart lurched. Mr Erstwhile’s name was painted in gold above the door.

Vane sat there for a few minutes and stared at the facade.

What would he do if Estelle was inside?

What would he do if she was not?

“Is this the one?” Farleigh said, peering through the carriage window.

“This is the one.” Nerves pushed to the fore. Good God, what the hell did he have to fear? He had done nothing wrong. “Wait here. I doubt I’ll be more than a few minutes.”

Vane threw open the carriage door and stepped down. Candlelight filtered through the shop’s bow windows. Two figures busied about inside. Vane straightened his shoulders and inhaled deeply, ready to confront the ghost of his past.

Chapter Four

All hopes Estelle had of fleeing London were dashed upon her return to Whitecombe Street.

In their absence, someone had entered the apothecary shop through the back door, smashed glass bottles and emptied the drawers of dried herbs over the floor. The sweet aroma lingered in the air to irritate her nostrils. A bookshelf lay upturned, the precious pages of text ripped from their bindings and strewn about the room. And yet amid the chaos, there seemed something orderly about the mess, something structured, purposeful.

“Oh, Mr Erstwhile, who would do such a terrible thing?” Mrs Erstwhile swayed as she struggled to stand.