The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(9)

“Thank you, Bamfield. As always, you seem to know what is best.”

Farleigh chuckled. “One only has to sniff the air to know you’re in dire need of a wash.”

“There is another matter, my lord.” The butler glanced briefly at Lord Farleigh.

“You may speak freely,” Vane said while offering an indolent wave. “After all, this is Lord Farleigh’s house, and you are his butler.”

He supposed he should return to his own house in Hanover Square. Now that he was no longer responsible for protecting Lillian, it didn’t matter if the world knew where to find him. Indeed, a few determined ladies had already made headway in that regard.

Bamfield inclined his head. “Wickett mentioned you received an injury to the head and advised I keep a close watch on you. Would it not be wise to send for a doctor?”

Damn. “And what else did Wickett say?” Perhaps hiring an honest man had been a mistake.

“Wickett said I am to remind you that you were keen to express your gratitude, by way of a letter, to those who stumbled upon you in the alley this evening. That it might ease any fears they may have for your welfare.”

Had he said that? He could not recall. But the couple’s timely arrival had sent the rogues running. The least he could do was allay their fears.

“Stumbled upon you in an alley?” Farleigh repeated sounding rather amused. “What on earth were you doing there?”

Vane sighed. “An elderly couple lost their way in the fog.” He chose not to mention his epiphany, or that he’d thought the white-haired man was the Divine. “The precise nature of events after I fell are still somewhat unclear.”

“And where was this alley?”

“St Giles.”

Farleigh inhaled deeply. Panic flashed across his face, but he said nothing.

Vane turned his attention to Bamfield. “Wickett mentioned he knew of their direction. Tell him he may deliver a note in the morning, assuring the Erstwhiles of my good health.”

From what he remembered they had appeared distressed, and so it was the gentlemanly thing to do considering their advancing years.

“Anyone who encounters you in an alley on a foggy night might think they’d stumbled upon the Devil,” Farleigh said.

In truth, he had looked more like a dazed drunkard than anything more dangerous. “The couple should be thankful they missed the wolfhound. The sight of black eyes and sharp teeth pouncing out of the mist would have given them nightmares for weeks.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but by all accounts, their granddaughter was the most distraught. The lady fled the scene in a state of panic almost as soon as Wickett arrived.”

“Their granddaughter?”

Damn Wickett. Vane recalled mumbling something about the angel fleeing. Now the coachman thought to use it as an opportunity to tease him. Perhaps he should replace his man with one who knew his place and kept his opinions to himself.

“According to Wickett, the lady feared you were dead, my lord. And in light of the fact she seemed to know you, Wickett thought a letter might prevent gossip in the salons.”

“You think I care about gossip?” Vane rubbed his temple. Something about this whole debacle bothered him. As did the fact he could not recall the event with clarity. But while Vane had granted Wickett permission to speak honestly in his company, he would not dare embarrass his master in front of Bamfield. Which meant one thing. They had both seen the same vision in the alley. “Send for Wickett. I want to see him.”

Bamfield blinked rapidly at the sudden request. “In the house, my lord?”

“I don’t care about muddy boots, fetch him now.”

Quickly masking his brief look of horror, Bamfield retreated.

“What is it?” Farleigh asked as they sat waiting. “Something has set you on edge.”

“I doubt you’d believe me if I told you. But when Wickett arrives, you may hear the conversation for yourself.”

They fell into a companionable silence.

Vane replayed the events of the evening in his mind. Had he seen their granddaughter and imagined a likeness to Miss Darcy? The thick fog had hindered his vision. The faces of those surrounding him had barely seemed real. Whenever he tried to picture the angel’s sweet face, he only saw Estelle.

Bamfield returned. “Wickett is just scraping his boots, my lord.”

Wickett appeared and came to stand between the two chairs, much to Bamfield’s chagrin. “You sent for me, my lord.”

Vane stood and placed his drink on the mantel. “When you entered the alley off Longacre, how many people did you see?”

Wickett frowned. “I saw you sprawled on the ground, and the old couple hovering near your body.”

“Anyone else?”

“Only the young woman.”

“The angel?” Vane attempted to clarify.

Wickett nodded. “She was a pretty thing, of that there’s no doubt. Soft skin, pink cheeks and full lips. Happen most men would describe her as such.”

“But not a real angel.” Lord, he sounded like a simple-minded buffoon, a bedlamite. “Not a heavenly vision.”

Lord Farleigh cleared his throat. “Perhaps Bamfield is right. We should send for a doctor.”

“Oh, she was a vision all right. Happen she knew you, though she’s not one of them hungry wolves hovering around the mews.”