The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

Silence ensued.

They stared at the flames for a while and sipped their drinks.

“Do you know what is strange?” Mr Erstwhile eventually said in the tone of a constable from Bow Street. “For the second time in two days, you have left the shop with Mr Hungerford and returned with Lord Trevane. I trust Hungerford acted the gentleman, and it was his lordship’s overbearing nature that led to this sudden change in circumstance.”

“You think Lord Trevane is overbearing?” she said defensively. She supposed Ross might appear arrogant, a little forceful of manner, but weren’t all deeply passionate men the same?

“He did admit to threatening Mr Hungerford.” Mr Erstwhile shook his head. “I cannot help but wonder what poor Mr Hungerford makes of it all. Equally puzzling is why a marquess is willing to brawl in the street for you, Estelle.”

Mr Erstwhile never used her given name and yet he’d made a point of stressing it twice now.

“Ah, I see the flicker of surprise in your eyes,” he continued. “After tonight, it is fair to assume that while Estelle is your name, clearly Miss Brown is not.”

Fear wrapped around her heart like a vine. This kind, honest man deserved to hear the truth.

“It was never my intention to deceive you.” She spoke slowly and with reservation. “But I could not return to London without assuming a false identity.”

Mr Erstwhile finished the remainder of his sherry and placed the glass on the table next to him.

“Falsehoods occur when one is hiding from the truth.” He stroked his white beard. “As an observer, the truth is that you were once in love with the marquess, and he was very much in love with you. From your elegant bearing, clearly you’re from good stock, as the matrons like to say. And so I must assume a terrible tragedy occurred. One that led to your separation.”

“I have lived in a constant state of mourning these last eight years,” she said softly. “Losing one’s true love evokes a pain deeper than any physical wound.”

“In that, we are agreed. I too struggled in turmoil for a while until I followed my heart.” He sat forward. “That same turmoil is like a tempest raging through you, shaking your branches. But the time for honesty is nigh. To understand a problem, one must dig down to the roots for more often than not the issue lies there.”

Estelle contemplated his comment.

Her problems began the moment she received an ultimatum and invariably made the wrong choice. Everything that happened afterwards was merely a consequence of that one action. It was too late to rekindle what was lost. Even so, she owed it to Ross, to Fabian and to herself to tell the truth.

Estelle stood, and Mr Erstwhile followed. “The time for introductions is long overdue.” She inclined her head. “Sir, my name is Estelle Darcy, sister to Baron Ravenscroft, and a lady lost these past eight years.”

A smile touched the old man’s lips. He bowed. “Miss Darcy. Thankfully, you have found your way home at long last.”

The word home roused a flutter in her stomach. The odd feeling came to settle in her chest, warm and comforting. England was home. She had lived by many names, had been but a ghost of her former self, but she owned the name Darcy.

Mr Erstwhile gestured to the chair, and they both sat.

“Some might think it an accident that we stumbled upon his lordship in the alley,” Mr Erstwhile said. “But I am more inclined to believe Fate guided our way.”

Many times since that night, she had pondered the same thing, too.

“Then Fate is cruel, sir, for nothing can eradicate the last eight years. Nothing can take me back to the life I long to live. Circumstance makes it impossible.”

Mr Erstwhile tutted. “Though I loathe quoting that blackguard Bonaparte, the man sometimes spouted sense. Impossible is a word found in the dictionary of fools,” he uttered in a French accent. “And you are by no means a fool, my dear.”

This wonderful man had a way of making her feel empowered, of making her believe anything was possible.

“And so we come back to the root of the problem,” Mr Erstwhile reminded her. “It is better to speak out than keep your troubles in, as my dear mother used to say, though she put it rather more eloquently. Now, I shall refill your glass while you compose yourself.” He stood, took her glass and ambled over to the sideboard.

Other than Maudette, Estelle had never told another living soul what had happened that day. During terrifying nightmares, one was aware of their nemesis, aware of the unbeatable monster sent to wreak havoc with their lives. But in reality, some monsters came in the guise of loving men. Behind their endearing mask, they were greedy, selfish, rotten to the core.

Mr Erstwhile returned with her sherry. She swallowed down the golden liquid and let it soothe her spirits.

“It’s a long story,” Estelle began as Mr Erstwhile sat down again.

“Then let us start with the fact that you and the marquess are in love.”

“Were in love,” she corrected, now it was more lust than anything else.