The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(8)

“No, you’re not wrong.”

“Then I would hate to be the man on the receiving end of your wrath.”

“Who said a man had roused my ire?” Perhaps he wanted vengeance on a ghost, on an angel.

“You forget how well I know you.” Farleigh raised his glass in salute. “You’ve never given a damn about any of the women who’ve warmed your bed. And so I ask, who is he? Who is sitting at home oblivious to the fact the Devil is about to come knocking?”

“It is someone you know.” Lord Cornell’s saggy jowls and sour face flashed into Vane’s mind. The man was a snake, a slithering coward who preyed on the weak and feeble. Vane sipped his brandy to calm the raging storm within. “I promised Fabian I would search for Estelle, and I have. I will.” It was hopeless. He’d contacted an acquaintance in the rookeries, called at every inn en route from Dover to London, questioned every landlord. How did one go about finding one particular pebble on the bottom of a vast ocean? “But another matter takes precedence.”

“One of revenge?”

“Indeed.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” Bitterness dripped from his words. “Lord Cornell bribed Lord Martin to ruin Lillian.” It didn’t matter that Lillian was married now, or that Fabian had threatened Lord Cornell to within an inch of his life.

Farleigh frowned. “Cornell? But how? Why?”

“Out of spite and jealousy, and because his wife concocted a ridiculous story, and he believed her. And so he hurt Lillian to hurt me.” Vane would not rest until he’d brought Cornell to his knees.

Farleigh leant back in the chair. “Then I must caution you to have a care.”

That was the point; he didn’t care. Now that Lillian had Fabian’s protection, Vane could do as he damn well pleased. Bugger the consequences.

“You place too much faith in Cornell. The man is a coward.”

“Agreed. Cornell is a weasel. But it is for your soul I fear. When you have your retribution, what then? Will you be forever chasing those men who want to see you suffer? Will your heart ever be at peace?”

Vane had felt peace once in the last eight years: an hour ago in an alley in St Giles. “I’ll be at peace when I’m dead.”

“Can you not put this behind you?” Farleigh pressed his point. “Forget Cornell. Take a wife. Sire an heir. Move to the country. Find some semblance of happiness in all that family brings. Love will find you again if you open your heart to the possibility.”

“Love?” Love had cast him aside long ago. Vane squirmed in his seat as he searched for his impenetrable mask. The one that showed he didn’t give a damn about anything. The one that said he preferred a life of solitude. “Good God, you sound like my sister.”

“Then perhaps you should listen to those who know you well enough to offer advice.”

“I have always been my own man. My conscience carries the loudest voice, and so I must do what I feel is right.”

So why did the wise mutterings in his head speak of finding Estelle, not seeking vengeance? The lady’s image lived permanently in his mind. The strange events of the evening had awakened something else in him. A longing he’d suppressed. He’d gone looking for a fight to appease his demons and caught a glimpse of heaven.

“Damn it, Vane, you’re the most obstinate man I know.”

As always, Farleigh spoke the truth.

Vane considered his options.

Two roads lay ahead. Should he focus his efforts on finding a ghost? Or should ruining Cornell be his priority? Perhaps he should leave it to Fate to decide.

They sat in quiet contemplation, watching the flames dance in the hearth. Farleigh’s sighs and incoherent mutterings conveyed his frustration.

“Marriage suits you,” Vane eventually said. “You look invigorated.”

“Rose suits me. I’m happy to report that true love is all the poets claim it to be.”

Vane forced a smile, but jealousy slithered through his veins. In his youth, the love of one particular woman was all he lived for.

“Then what are you doing here when you should be at home in bed, making love to your wife?”

Farleigh swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Must you torment me? One night away from Rose is akin to spending a week on the rack.” When Vane frowned, Farleigh added, “It’s the worst kind of torture.”

Torture? His friend should try spending eight years pining. “Then why stay? I am quite capable of getting drunk without you.”

“Having seen you like this, I cannot leave now. Rose saved me from a miserable, lonely existence. I would not be a good friend if I did not try to do the same for you.”

The comment was like an ice pick chipping away at Vane’s frozen heart. For a few seconds, the words found a way through the thin cracks. Farleigh was his only friend. But one trustworthy companion was worth more than a thousand fake admirers.

“I’m beyond saving or haven’t you heard.”

A knock on the door brought Bamfield. “I have taken the liberty of having a bath drawn, my lord, should you wish to change your clothes.”

The thought of relaxing his tired muscles proved inviting, but bathing alone gave a man nothing to do but think. Due to the ache in his head, his mind was still somewhat muddled, and all thoughts would invariably lead back to the vision of Estelle.