The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

“Mr Hungerford.” Estelle approached and offered a smile.

The man looked pristine in his blue coat and mustard waistcoat. This evening he carried a silver-topped walking cane, though she doubted he had the courage to swing at Ross should the lord threaten him again.

“Miss Brown.” He inclined his head. “You look delightful.”

The gentleman was easily pleased. She wore a plain sapphire-blue dress that matched his coat to perfection and had tied her hair in a simple knot at her nape.

“Thank you. Will you stay for supper?”

“I thought we might go out for an hour. There’s a new coffeehouse on St Martins Lane that seems quite popular.”

“Will we get a seat? I imagine it will be rather crowded.”

“I’m sure we will.”

How different this man was from Ross. The thought drew her mind to Ross’ insistence they be alone, to the intimate way he held her close, the scandalous manner in which he kissed away her tears. She could never embrace Mr Hungerford in the same way.

“Are you certain you do not wish to remain here, sir?”

A smile touched his lips. “Mr Erstwhile may accompany us if you’d feel more comfortable.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Mr Erstwhile interjected, “but I must sit with my wife this evening.”

Mr Hungerford frowned. “I trust she is well.”

“Just suffering from a touch of fever,” Mr Erstwhile said with a smile, although Estelle noted the slight flash of fear in the poor man’s eyes. “I would rather not leave her alone if it’s all the same.”

“Of course.” Mr Hungerford turned to Estelle. “We shall walk to St Martins Lane, and if we cannot find a seat, we will return posthaste.”

Estelle suppressed a sigh. Perhaps she should force a confession from the man now, but Mr Erstwhile had enough worries without upsetting his best customer.

“Then give me a moment to collect my jacket.”

The sun was setting as they left, and still, the knife grinders and orange sellers were out touting for business.

They took a leisurely stroll to St Martins Lane. The slow pace meant but one thing. Mr Hungerford did not plan on remaining at the coffeehouse long. Indeed, it soon became apparent that their discussion was to take place during the journey.

What she found most odd was that he had made no mention of the incident earlier in the day, had not enquired how she knew a man as prestigious as the Marquess of Trevane.

“What has Mr Erstwhile told you about my late wife?” the gentleman asked, suddenly changing the topic of conversation from that of tinctures and tonics to one of a more intimate nature.

“Only that she died four months ago, and that she had been ill for two years or more.” No one mentioned the cause of the illness. “Was a diagnosis ever made?”

Mr Hungerford cast her a sidelong glance while walking. “As I know you will treat whatever I say with the utmost discretion, I must tell you that it was a condition of the mind as well as the body.”

“Oh, I see.” Estelle wasn’t sure what to say. To ask questions might bring painful memories to the fore. “It must have been a worrying time.”

“Indeed.” He fell silent for a moment. “Do you like children, Miss Brown?”

The muscles in her abdomen tightened. Like carefully manoeuvred pieces on a chessboard, this line of questioning would eventually lead to the subject of marriage. Estelle suspected that r

egardless how she answered, he would agree with her opinion and find a way to turn it to his advantage.

“Who does not love children?” she said with some reservation.

“I hoped to be blessed with a large family and dreamed of moving to Bath where the air is clean and the streets much quieter.” He sighed. “Alas, as the years pass I feel the dream slipping away.”

“One must never give up hope, sir.” The words left her mouth before she engaged her brain. It was the advice of a hypocrite.