The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(7)

“Good evening, my lord. Welcome home. May I take—”

“Don’t ask to take my hat and gloves as you can see I have neither.” Excess apparel proved cumbersome when battling beasts across town.

“No, my lord, though might I suggest a change of clothes before you greet Lord Farleigh.”

“Farleigh is here?”

Bamfield inclined his head. “His lordship arrived an hour ago and is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

The news came as some surprise. His friend had only recently returned to his country estate after his wedding north of the Scottish border. “And his wife and children?”

“Remain at Everleigh, my lord.”

Relief coursed through him. Although the house belonged to Farleigh, Vane had no desire to watch fawning lovers while in his current mood.

Shrugging out of his black coat in the hope it would rid him of the smell of the gutter, Vane brushed the lock of hair from his brow and entered the drawing room.

Lord Farleigh sat in the chair beside the fire, cradling a glass of brandy while gazing absently at the flames. The click of the door closing dragged the lord out of his dream-like state.

Farleigh placed his drink on the side table and stood. “Well, have you any news?”

“News?” Vane suspected Farleigh referred to the letter he had sent informing his friend that Lillian had been kidnapped by a pirate.

“Regarding Lillian.”

Vane strode to the drinks table. He sloshed brandy into a crystal tumbler, gulped it down and inhaled sharply. “Fabian Darcy kidnapped her.” He was not in the right frame of mind for lengthy explanations. Farleigh was an intelligent man, more than capable of filling in the rest for himself.

“Darcy?” Farleigh frowned. “But you were friends and neighbours. I assume it has something to do with him blaming you for what happened to Miss Darcy.”

Fabian blamed him for Estelle leaving England, blamed him for her death. Grief did that. Now it was somehow his fault the lady had supposedly survived and had not returned home.

“Fabian believes Estelle didn’t drown when The Torrens sank off the French coast.” It was a ridiculous notion. Vane cursed inwardly as his thoughts drifted to the vision in the alley. Now, as the heat of the brandy soothed his senses, clearly the knock on the head had played havoc with his imagination. For pity’s sake, he was a man of logic, not flights of fancy.

“Please tell me you don’t believe that. No one survived the shipwreck. They searched for days.”

And yet Fabian Darcy seemed certain his sister had. “One of his men is convinced he saw her in Paris. Fabian believes she boarded a ship for England. He wants my help to find her though I expect all efforts will prove fruitless.”

“And the fool thought that abducting Lillian might somehow persuade you to offer your services?” Farleigh gave a contemptuous snort. “Clearly the man doesn’t know you at all.”

“It is of no consequence now. Fabian and Lillian married and are living on an island off the Devonshire coast.”

Farleigh cast him a knowing grin. “At least he had the sense to do the honourable thing, though I don’t suppose you gave him a choice in the matter. Indeed, I’m surprised you let him live.”

Regardless of the scandal, Vane would never force his sister to marry for the sake of propriety. “On the contrary, they married before I arrived.” Before Vane had a chance to wring the pirate’s neck. “While I was busy courting Estelle all those years ago, Fabian carried a torch for my sister. She says she loves him.” Vane shrugged. “What could I do?”

Farleigh gave a weary exhale and dropped back into the seat. “And so it appears my attempts to race here and offer assistance are for naught.”

“Not for naught.” For once in his life, Vane was glad of the company. “I’m in need of a drinking partner this evening. Someone to share the decanter. Someone to ensure I don’t down the entire contents.” Vane held up his empty glass. “Time for another?”

Farleigh nodded. “There’s little point me riding back to Everleigh tonight.” The lord scanned Vane from head to toe. “And clearly I’m needed here as something is dreadfully amiss.”

“Why do you say that?”

Vane carried two tumblers over to the hearth, gave one to Farleigh, kept a hold of the other and dropped into the chair opposite.

“You have a bruise beneath your chin and a cut across your knuckles. Though your breeches might be black, they fail to hide the grime of the streets.” Farleigh paused as his curious gaze drifted over Vane’s face. “And you have the same look about you as when last I came.”

“Displeasure is a mask I often wear.” Despite Vane’s wealth and status, a restlessness consumed him — one that could not be sated. He craved something though knew not what. “As is one of discontent.”

“Then you should gaze into a looking glass for it is a far more dangerous expression than that. You have the wild, tormented appearance of an avenging angel. One who seeks to punish the unworthy. One eager for retribution no matter what the cost.” Farleigh raised a brow. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Vane had no reason to lie, not to Farleigh. Perhaps it was his friend’s name — Christian Knight — that instilled trust and confidence. The name embodied the loyal, upstanding gentleman seated before him. A man whose integrity knew no bounds and friendship had no limits.