The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London 4)

“We should have a doctor look at the knife wound to your stomach,” Estelle said.

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.” He cast her a sidelong glance. “You can tend to it for me.” From his blunt tone, and stone-like countenance, he was not himself.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Angry? No. Livid? Most definitely. One mistake and that woman would have taken your life.”

“Where to, my lord?” Wickett said as they approached the carriage, unaware of their little spat.

“I imagine Miss Darcy is keen to return to Whitecombe Street,” Ross said. “I’m sure the people who care about her would like to know she is safe.”

“I shall tend to his lordship’s scratch before we set off.” It would leave more time on the journey home to work on soothing his temper. Else he might seek to take his frustration out on rogues in an alley. “And then you may head to Whitecombe Street.”

“Right you are, miss.” Wickett opened the carriage door and gave a knowing grin. “Shall I take the scenic route? Happen there’s a lot to discuss, considering what happened in the museum.”

“Yes, Wickett,” Estelle said, trying not to look at Ross as she could feel her cheeks flame. “His lordship has a voracious appetite for conversation.”

Chapter Twenty

Their amorous antics in the carriage on the journey home went some way to calming Ross’ temper. Though it wasn’t anger that gripped him when he recalled the memory of Estelle creeping up on Lady Cornell while wielding the knife — it was fear.

Being inside Estelle’s warm body banished all irrational thoughts of losing the only thing that mattered. But as he could not keep her prisoner in his bed, he knew he had to get his erratic emotions under control.

After a day spent giving statements and answering Sir Malcolm’s questions until the magistrate was satisfied, Vane suggested it was time to put Fabian out of his misery, and Estelle agreed.

“You’re quiet,” Estelle said as they sat in his carriage rattling along the coastal road on the way to Branscombe in Devonshire. “You’ve hardly spoken since we stopped to change the horses in Weycroft. Have the events of the last week finally taken their toll?”

Vane had pushed thoughts of Mr Hungerford’s nefarious deeds from his mind. Cornell was dead, and his wife would hang for his murder. It should have brought an element of satisfaction — but it did not. So many lives destroyed, and for what?

Greed?

Obsession?

Certainly not love.

The suspicious part of his nature wondered whether Sir Malcolm wanted Lord Cornell to die. Five days had passed since the incident in the museum and there had been no mention of the jewel thefts in the broadsheets. If people were to learn that a lord stole from the Crown, it would only shake stability amongst the ranks. Now it was but a simple case of a marital disagreement escalating to murder.

Not that it mattered. Their part in it was over.

Vane glanced at the woman he loved with every fibre of his being. She was nervous. He could tell. The tears she’d shed upon leaving the Erstwhiles had long since dried, but her lips were drawn thin. She nibbled the inside of her cheek and fiddled with the hem on her jacket.

“I was just thinking about Fabian,” Vane said, hoping it would prompt Estelle to reveal her troubles. “Eight years is a long time. I know he will be waiting on the dock, eager for your arrival.”

“That is if he received your letter.”

Estelle had taken to inventing problems in her mind. Fabian would be away on a long voyage. The inclement weather would prevent them from crossing to the island even though there wasn’t a cloud in sight.

“Fabian received the letter,” he reassured her, “and we will be with them in a matter of hours.” The thought of seeing Lillian brought a warm glow to Vane’s chest.

“Does he look the same?” Estelle glanced out of the window at the calm sea stretching out to the horizon. “I keep picturing the young man with hope in his eyes and so much love in his heart.”

Vane could hear the silent words lingering within the comment. What she really wanted to know was if Fabian had been tainted by his experiences. Had grief stripped away all that was good and left him bitter, resentful.

“He looks every bit a pirate.” Vane chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood. “His hair is far too long, and he exudes a devil-may-care attitude that frightens most men. But his eyes carry the same look of hope. His heart is still full of love.”

She smiled, and a contented sigh breezed from her lips. “I wonder if it will be awkward between us, strained even, if he might struggle to suppress his disappointment in me.”

Vane crossed the carriage and settled beside her. “Please stop worrying.” He took her in his arms and kissed away her fears. “You survived four years with a gang of smugglers. You can survive a reunion with a stubborn pirate.”