The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

“Mr Hungerford? The gentleman you conveyed to James Street?”

Wickett nodded. “The man dresses like a duke, but it seems to me it’s more about deception than making a good impression.”

“He dresses like a dandy, not a duke.” The Duke of Bedford would swoon at the comparison. “No sane gentleman co-ordinates beige, green and claret.” Vane had taken an instant dislike to Mr Hungerford but presumed it stemmed from jealousy — and yet at no other time in his life had he felt threatened by a rival.

“It’s clear

to me that he wants Miss Brown to think he has more about him, but his house tells a man all he needs to know.”

“Which is?” Vane was more intrigued by the minute. He’d been too preoccupied with his erratic emotions to pay attention to such things.

“I’ll wager he’s as broke as my granny’s teapot.” Wickett raised a knowing brow. “In the rookeries, he’d be a cove marked for purse-snatching. But one look at his house and we’d mark it a deadlurk — empty, not worth the risk.”

“You’re mistaken. The Erstwhiles dined there. I doubt they served themselves. Had there been anything untoward, Miss Brown would have avoided Hungerford’s company.”

“All I can tell you is there are no servants in that house, maybe one if you’re lucky. The place was cold, the windows dirty, the frames peeling and rotten. All the curtains were open. He let himself in with a key, but no one came to greet him with a lamp despite the hall being dark.”

Vane considered Mr Hungerford’s urgency to take a wife. Perhaps the man didn’t know how to run a house on his own. It couldn’t be that he needed a wife’s dowry as he believed Estelle was a mere shopgirl.

“Your insight is remarkable, Wickett. Thank the Lord you’re in my employ. Heaven help one of the wolves should catch wind of your mental discernment and try to steal you away.”

“Ladies of their ilk don’t want a man who tells the truth,” he said with a chuckle. “And talking of wolves, a carriage passed by while I was waiting. Happen it was the lady with the ugly pink hat you were speaking to outside the shop yesterday.”

“Lady Cornell? Did she see you?”

“I’d say so. She had her nose pressed to the window.”

“God damn.” The one advantage of moving back to Hanover Square was that it would take the wolves time to find him. “Let me know if it becomes a habit.” The sooner he dealt with Lady Cornell, the better.

“Right you are, my lord.”

Vane climbed into his conveyance, closed the door and settled back for the short journey.

Estelle’s jacket and bonnet lay on the seat opposite. He could almost smell the sweet scent of roses that clung to her skin, mingled with the aroma of sated desire. As the carriage rocked back and forth, his mind drifted to the moment he’d thrust into her body to satisfy his craving, a craving that had plagued him for so long.

Except that he hadn’t sated his need for Miss Darcy.

He had temporarily fed his addiction.

Now, the desire to claim her came upon him again. He wanted to see her silky locks splayed over his pillow, wanted to see the heated look in her eyes when she came apart on a bone-shattering shudder. But he wanted more than that. He wanted to unite with her body and soul, to love her and be loved in return.

When they reached Whitecombe Street, Vane was too impatient to wait for Wickett to descend his box. Instead, he gathered Estelle’s clothes, opened the door and marched into the apothecary shop.

Mr Erstwhile stood in front of the counter. He wore a monocle as he bent over a man seated on a wooden stool, the pair of tweezers in his hand hovering dangerously close to the fellow’s eye.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Mr Erstwhile called out while keeping his hand surprisingly steady. “It looks to be a splinter of wood,” he said to the terrified man with his eye held so wide it was almost popping out of its socket. “Now keep still. I think I have it.”

Vane couldn’t watch and so surveyed the shop by way of a distraction. There was no sign of Estelle or Mrs Erstwhile. Some of the herb drawers were still missing, and only a handful of glass bottles lined the shelves.

“There we are.” Mr Erstwhile held up the tweezers.

“Blimey, it felt like a dagger in my eye and yet it’s a tiny thing.” The man blinked several times in rapid succession.

“It might be sore for a few days.” Mr Erstwhile moved behind the counter, spent a minute or so creating a mixture and handed the bottle to the man waiting. “Bathe the eye three times a day for a week. The main ingredient is eyebright. The flower is known for its restorative qualities.”

“I’m not sure I can afford the tincture as well,” he stuttered.

Vane was about to reach into his pocket when Mr Erstwhile said, “There is no charge today. The eyes are the window to the soul, and I couldn’t possibly take a penny to heal something so vital.”