The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(68)

“Wait for me,” he said before closing the door. He glanced up at Wickett. “No matter what happens, the lady is not to leave the carriage. Is that understood?”

“I can’t promise I can keep her in there, but I’ll not let her out of my sight. You have my word on that.”

“If you see Cornell leave before me, I suggest you send for a constable.”

Wickett’s expression turned grave. “Just have a care. Your mind’s not as focused as it used to be.”

Vane raised a brow. “As long as there are no hounds roaming the corridors I shall be fine.”

“Hounds or wolves?”

“Both.”

As per the instructions in the missive, Vane followed the wall until he came to the wooden service gates. He slipped inside, walked through the garden and entered the building.

Cornell asked Vane to meet him in the basement. It was where men spent hours huddled around the desks beneath the vaulted ceiling, examining relics from a bygone era. Should he meet anyone patrolling the corridors all he had to do was give Cornell’s name and his own calling card and no one would question his presence.

That fact made him doubt Cornell had sinister intentions.

Vane stepped stealthily down the stairs. Lord Cornell may have summoned him, but he would not put himself at a disadvantage by warning the lord of his approach.

He crept past the row of glass cases, past the table where someone had been taking rubbings from stone tablets, towards the glow of candlelight in the far corner. Cornell sat slumped over a desk, numerous implements laid out in front of him, while he used the pointed end of a tool on a decorative necklace.

Vane cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me?”

Cornell jumped up from his seat and bumped into the table. He dropped the tool, and it clattered on the floor. It took him a moment to find his voice.

“Trevane?” Blood crept up Cornell’s neck to flood his cheeks. The man’s bottom lip trembled. “You’re not allowed down here. It … it is strictly off-limits.”

Vane snorted with contempt. “Did you not send for me?”

“Send for you?” Cornell seemed confused. “No.”

“Don’t play games. I received your letter. The wax seal bore your crest. How else would I have known where to come?”

“There must be some mistake,” he said, draping a cloth over the gem-encrusted necklace he’d been working on. His hands were shaking, and he refused to meet Vane’s gaze. “What reason would I have for asking you here?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vane said arrogantly. “Perhaps you want to offer an apology for being the conniving bastard responsible for ruining my sister. Perhaps you want to explain why you paid a man to follow her to Raven Island. Or why you seem to think I’d be remotely interested in bedding your wife.”

Cornell fell silent, though he seemed more concerned with the items on the table than he did Vane’s accusations.

“Look, I acted out of spite and jealousy.” Cornell shivered visibly. He held up his hands in mock surrender, and yet he would not move from the table. Clearly he was hiding something. “Lord Ravenscroft made his position clear. Should I venture to injure the lady again that damn pirate will put a ball in my chest.”

“Yes, but not before I stuff your head up your horse’s arse.”

The man’s saggy jowls wobbled in fright.

“And so you didn’t summon me here to call me out?” Vane continued.

Cornell blinked rapidly. “Good Lord, no. Why on earth would I do that?”

Vane stared at the craven oaf. Perhaps he should give the lord a beating. Teach him a lesson. “If you didn’t send the letter asking I come here, then who did?”

A feminine chuckle sliced through the air. Lady Cornell stepped out of the shadows and aimed a pistol at her husband. “I think you’ll find that was me.”





Chapter Nineteen





Five minutes had passed since Ross entered the museum, yet every second felt like an hour. In her mind, Estelle concocted a host of scenarios. Lord Cornell, a jealous, obsessed husband, lay in wait ready to blow a hole in Ross’ chest. Or would Ross creep up on the man, punch him for his past misdeeds, deliver a fatal blow that would see him swing from the gallows?

Was it a trap?

An ambush?

With heightened anxiety, she opened the carriage door and stepped down to the pavement. Wickett climbed down from his box and was at her side before a word left her lips.

“I know what you’re thinking, miss, and his lordship will have my hide if I don’t persuade you to step back inside the carriage.”

“Something is wrong, Wickett.” Whether it be intuition or the bitter chill in the air, a shiver raced from Estelle’s neck to her navel. “I can sense it.”

From the flash of alarm in his eyes, she knew he sensed it, too.

“His lordship knows how to handle himself. I know I shouldn’t say this, but he enjoys a good fight.”

Estelle recalled tracing her finger over the scars on his arm and chest though she had been too preoccupied to ask how he came by them.

“Lord Trevane told me he was fighting in the alley on the night we met.”

Wickett pursed his lips. “That was one night out of many. He likes to prove no one can hurt him. Wounds heal. Scars fade. Still, nothing seems to calm the torment raging inside.”