The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(54)

He rounded the table and brought her to her feet. “Take my arm. Grip it tightly.”

Estelle had to clutch his arm with both hands just to keep her balance. Her head pounded. She could hear voices but no words of clarity. Once outside, the blinding sun hurt her eyes, and she squeezed them shut as they ambled along Compton Street.

While his manner had been abrupt, stern almost, Mr Hungerford’s temperament suddenly reverted to the considerate gentleman who made her nauseous. As they continued, he whispered to her in a comforting voice.

“We will be home shortly,” she heard him say. “Hold onto me, and I shall steer you in the right direction.”

When Estelle finally opened her eyes, she was in a busy courtyard. Her vision blurred, but she saw horses, men carrying saddles and a row of yellow coaches.

A tall, scrawny man addressed Mr Hungerford. “We’ve loaded your luggage. Are you ready to leave now, sir?”

“Indeed. We are in somewhat of a hurry. My wife is unwell.”

His wife?

In a daze, she looked up at him. “You must take me back to Whitecombe Street. I need to go home.”

He patted her hand and gave a little chuckle. “You must forgive my wife,” he said. “I fear she is growing delirious.” Mr Hungerford met her gaze. “My dear, we are going home, home to Bath.”

Bath?

When the man moved out of earshot, Mr Hungerford whispered, “I enjoy a challenge, Miss Brown. I like a wife to be submissive. Once we’re in Bath, you will learn to do what I tell you and show respect and gratitude to your husband and master.”





Chapter Fifteen





Vane was lounging in the copper tub recalling the delicious memory of the moment he plunged into Estelle’s warm, welcoming body. In his licentious years, he had never craved the same woman twice. As soon as they proved inferior, as soon as they failed to raise a flicker of emotion in his chest, he moved on to the next one. It was a fool’s game; he knew now. A ridiculous plan to deal with rejection and grief.

He had allowed his life to be steered off course by one woman. Love truly was as powerful as the poets proclaimed — and he was still deeply in love with Estelle Darcy.

A knock on the door dragged Vane from his reverie. Pierre entered. The petite Frenchman came towards him in the effeminate way he did when in a state of panic.

Pierre’s hands flapped as he clutched a letter. “My lord, I must give you this at once. Wickett, he says it cannot wait.”

Vane reached for the towel on the floor and dried his hands.

Pierre stepped closer and presented the letter with trembling fingers. “It is urgent, my lord, urgent indeed.”

“Yes, Pierre, you have told me twice.” The absence of a wax seal told Vane it was from Mr Joseph. The scrawled words were a little difficult to decipher. Upon the second read, the gravity of the situation gripped him by the throat and forced him to charge up out of the water. “God damn. Fetch my clothes. I must leave at once.”

“Mon Dieu!” Pierre grabbed the towel and dabbed the floor as water cascaded over the sides of the tub.

“Leave it,” Vane commanded. “There is no time to lose.” He climbed out, crumpled the letter in his fist and hurled it into the hearth. He snatched another towel from the chair and dried his body. “Hurry.”

Pierre ran to the dressing room, stopped and turned back. “But you have not said what you wish to wear, my lord.”

“Does it matter?” Vane paused. Knowing Pierre’s taste for foppish fashion perhaps that was not a good idea. “I’ll wear black.” They were the clothes he wore when out on the hunt. And by God, murder was the only thing on his mind.

Wickett had readied the carriage and was waiting atop his box when Vane raced from the house, followed by a footman.

“I thought you’d want to leave right away, my lord.”

“When did you receive the note from Mr Joseph?”

“Minutes before I sent it up with Pierre. Hungerford is on the move. Seems the gentleman asked for the post-chaise to be ready to depart at three o’clock instead of six. Mr Joseph said he dropped his luggage there earlier.”

Vane dragged his watch from his pocket. “It’s almost two. Get me to Whitecombe Street as quickly as possible.”

“Aye, my lord. The Devil himself won’t stop me when I’m in a mind to hurry.”

Vane climbed into his conveyance. As soon as the footman closed the door, the vehicle jerked forward. Wickett’s cries to the team of four rent the air. The tension mounted.

What was Hungerford about?

Was it a case of him growing frustrated by the competition and so he’d decided to leave? Or would Vane arrive at Whitecombe Street to find Estelle clutching her valise?

He pressed his fingers to his closed lids to relieve the pressure.

Would there ever be a day when life was simple?

Would he ever wake in the morning with a clear mind?

The carriage raced at breakneck speed, jolting, swerving around corners. Vane sat forward and clung to the leather strap overhead to steady his balance as he watched for the familiar buildings of Whitecombe Street. Wickett’s curses reached Vane’s ears as the coachman weaved around handcarts and dodged crossing sweepers.

The vehicle creaked to a halt opposite the apothecary shop. Vane composed himself. After all, the stories he had concocted in his head were just that — figments of his wild imagination. Until he spoke to Estelle, he knew nothing of her true intentions.