The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(6)

“You did not carry me.” Vane stepped down to the pavement outside his townhouse in Berkeley Square. He touched the tender lump on his head and winced. “And if I spoke nonsense, it’s because I was momentarily stunned. I would have beaten the life out of both rogues had that blasted dog not thrown me off my game.”

A wave of excitement washed over him as he flexed his fingers and recalled throwing a barrage of satisfying punches.

“Dog? I thought you said you were set on by a wolf.” A smile touched Wickett’s lips. “Happen the fog brings out all sorts of wild creatures.”

Vane sighed. “No one likes a pedant, Wickett. I clearly remember using the word hound.”

“Yes, my lord, you were attacked by a hound and saved by an angel.”

“It’s called an epiphany.” Lord, he knew better than to mention such things to his coachman, but after injuring his head, he’d taken to rambling. “It is a documented fact that, in a rare moment of weakness, one might encounter symbolic representations of one’s life.”

“Or you might have hit your head and been confused.”

For a man dragged up on the streets of St Giles, Wickett possessed more sense than most lords of the ton. Still, Vane liked to keep him on his toes.

“During my search for a coachman with a particular skill set, I do not recall adding brimming with condescension to the list.”

Wickett tipped his hat. “I’m not sure I know what that means. But you asked for an honest man, and that’s what you’ve got, my lord.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, keeping in mind that I’ve only got your best interests at heart, I feel it my duty to say you smell like you’ve been rolling about in a pigpen.”

Wickett was right. One whiff and the stench of piss and ale caught in the back of Vane’s throat.

“Trust me, over the years I have rolled around in far worse places.”

“Would that be with wolves or angels, my lord?”

Vane smiled. “I wish I could say it was the latter.”

It was not a coincidence that the vision he glimpsed in the alley, as he hovered on the brink of consciousness, bore a likeness to Estelle. Despite all attempts otherwise, hers was the image he conjured when slaking his lust.

“Talking of wolves, my lord, another lady came to the mews earlier this evening and asked me to pass you a note.”

“And I trust you read it and acted accordingly.”

His coachman knew to burn all letters inviting him to partake in secret assignations. Still, some ladies continued to risk their reputation. Only last night, he’d glanced out of the window and noticed a woman watching the house from the safety of her carriage.

Wickett nodded. “Your presence was required at a house in Burlington Gardens. Happen it would have involved more rolling around in disagreeable places if you take my meaning.” Wickett cleared his throat. “The lady was most insistent, having never met a man with your talents for rousing a howl.”

“You have such a way with words, Wickett.” Vane laughed but then winced when the pressure hurt his head. “Perhaps you should have gone in my place.”

“When a man can’t afford coal for the fire, there’s no time for lingering atop the bedsheets. Happen a lady of her quality was looking for more than a five-minute fumble in the dark.”

“Count your blessings.” Vane gripped his coachman’s shoulder. “Loose morals bring nothing but trouble. Why do you think I avoid such encounters?”

Vane had believed himself impervious to pain. A tour de force when it came to suppressing emotion. And yet a jealous husband had found the chink in his armour. In ruining his sister’s reputation, Lord Cornell had shot a barbed arrow straight through Vane’s heart. And by God, the man would pay.

“I’m not sure I’d have your strength of will, what with all the offers you get.”

“Now that my sister is married, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to partake in the odd liaison.” It would make a change from brawling in taverns and alleys, and yet he couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm.

“I don’t suppose you’ll have a problem finding a willing partner.”

“An excess of willing partners has always been the problem.” How ironic that the only woman he’d ever wanted proved elusive.

Wickett’s beady eyes moved to a point beyond Vane’s shoulder. “Perhaps a wolf followed your scent, my lord.” He gestured to the light spilling out from the drawing room window. “Either Bamfield has fallen asleep and forgotten to blow out the lamp, or one of your lady callers has knocked the front door and barged her way inside.”

Vane groaned. He was not in the mood for false displays of affection, for women too quick to fondle the bulge in his breeches in the hope of luring him into bed.

“You’d better see to the horses,” Vane said with a sigh, “while I dispose of our unwanted guest.”

Wickett nodded. “I’ll wait here until you’re safely inside. Wolves hunt in packs in case you’ve not heard.”

His coachman was full of amusing quips. And yet Vane couldn’t shake the sense that someone hid in the shadows, watching him, waiting to pounce.



Bamfield was not asleep. Like all good butlers, he opened the door before Vane reached the top step. Bamfield scanned Vane’s attire, his hooked nose twitching as he sniffed out the pungent scent of the streets.