The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(46)

“From the outcome, I imagine it was not a pleasant conversation.”

“No.”

“And yet I sense unpleasant is too mild a word.”

“Ross’ father came upon me in the orchard one morning. He made it clear that he had the power to prevent the match. Indeed, he presented a promissory note signed by my father, and said he would call it in unless I told Ross that I couldn’t marry him.”

Mr Erstwhile stared at her incredulously. “The marquess must surely have had a motive for his despicable behaviour.”

“Indeed.” The motive stemmed from jealousy and obsession. “Ross worshipped his parents. He often told me that he wished for a love like theirs. But it was perhaps the greatest deception. His father had kept a mistress for ten years. When Ross’ mother died, the marquess wanted to marry his lover, but she declined and only agreed to continue the relationship providing Ross marry her daughter.”

Mr Erstwhile’s mouth fell open. “The marquess wanted his son to marry a courtesan’s daughter?”

“No, the mistress was a lady, a widow of wealth and status. The daughter was the legitimate child of a member of the aristocracy. The marquess never mentioned the lady’s name. Perhaps he thought that to do so might give me a hand in the game.”

To use the word game implied a level of amusement — nothing could be further from the truth.

“Dear heaven above.” Mr Erstwhile pushed out of the chair. “I believe I need something stronger to drink than sherry.” He ambled over to the decanters and came back with a crystal tumbler half-full of brandy. “But you did not tell Lord Trevane that you couldn’t marry him.”

She could have never looked him in the eye and lied. “No. The marquess threatened to cut Ross off if we married. Said he would see to it that Ross lived the life of a pauper until he inherited. Equally, had he called in the promissory note, my brother would have lost any chance he had of making a decent life for himself.”

“And so you ran away to France.”

“Yes, with my maid, Maudette.” For some reason, she blurted out the tragic events that led to this point. Tears soaked her face. Some words choked in her throat. But it was a cathartic experience — a purging of her guilt and shame, a spiritual cleansing of sorts.

Mr Erstwhile came to his feet. He took her hands and held them tightly. “My dear, if anyone deserves love it is you. It breaks my heart to think of all you have been through. And yet I reserve some pity for Lord Trevane. For the man who has lived for eight years believing you indifferent when the exact opposite is true.”

Estelle remained silent for a moment while she tried to suppress the pain in her heart. “I never meant to hurt him. I only meant to give him the life he deserved.”

Mr Erstwhile shook his head repeatedly and sighed. “My dear, you have missed the point of life. Love is the only treasure. But it is a treasure without a map. A man may travel the oceans and seas for a lifetime and never find it. For those lucky few who do, well, it is like finding a heavenly island here on earth, and most men would die to defend it.”

Estelle came to her feet. “I seem to have made a terrible mess of everything.”

“And it is not too late to put things right.” He cupped her cheek and smiled. “I would wager Lord Trevane will call tomorrow. And you still haven’t told me what happened to poor Mr Hungerford this evening.”

Both men would call at the shop. But she needed time to think, time to decide how best to proceed. “Would you mind if I kept to my room tomorrow?”

“Will you keep to your room or board the next mail coach to Edinburgh?” He raised a suspicious brow.

“No. I am so tired of running but I would like a day to myself, without seeing anyone.”

A look of recognition flashed in his eyes. “Just remember, very little is needed to make a happy life. It is all within yourself, in your way of thinking.”

Estelle forced a smile. “What would I do without your wise words?”

Mr Erstwhile chuckled. “Oh, they’re not mine. They belong to Marcus Aurelius.”





Chapter Thirteen





After spending a sleepless night in Hanover Square, Vane decided to visit Whitecombe Street. Despite replaying the conversation with Estelle over in his mind, he could not fathom what he’d said to enrage her. Perhaps he would never understand the lady. Perhaps that was part of her appeal. Indeed, he could think of no other time in his life when he’d chased after a woman. They always came to him, begging and pleading, offering themselves up as sacrificial lambs.

Vane paused in the hall and gave his butler strict instructions regarding the procedure should any unchaperoned females call. Now he lived alone, some ladies would be keen to receive his hospitality.

The footman followed Vane to his conveyance and opened the carriage door.

“Any news from Mr Joseph?” Vane glanced up at Wickett sitting atop his box. “You did give him our change of direction?”

“No news yet, my lord, and I told Mr Joseph where he could find you.”

Vane wondered what his coachman made of the events of the previous evening. Wickett was used to dealing with a devil, not a lovesick pup. “I intend to visit Whitecombe Street, to return Miss Brown’s apparel.”

Wickett nodded, but from the wary look in his eye, something was amiss. “What is it, Wickett? Speak your mind and let’s get it over with.”