The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London Book 4) Read online

  The Daring Miss Darcy

  Lost Ladies of London Book 4

  Adele Clee

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission. Distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement.

  The Daring Miss Darcy

  Copyright © 2018 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-9998938–0-4

  Cover designed by Jay Aheer

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  Books by Adele Clee

  To Save a Sinner

  A Curse of the Heart

  What Every Lord Wants

  The Secret To Your Surrender

  A Simple Case of Seduction

  Anything for Love Series

  What You Desire

  What You Propose

  What You Deserve

  What You Promised

  The Brotherhood Series

  Lost to the Night

  Slave to the Night

  Abandoned to the Night

  Lured to the Night

  Lost Ladies of London

  The Mysterious Miss Flint

  The Deceptive Lady Darby

  The Scandalous Lady Sandford

  The Daring Miss Darcy

  Avenging Lords

  At Last the Rogue Returns

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Thank you!

  At Last the Rogue Returns

  Also by Adele Clee

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The black unmarked carriage rolled to a stop on the corner of Longacre, a street north of Covent Garden. Here, so close to the narrow lanes and crooked timber buildings of St Giles, the night was anything but still. Drunken quarrels tumbled out from packed taverns onto the streets. The deep rumble resonated like that of a tenor singing the restless song of the poor. The soprano came in the form of women hawking their wares, of stray dogs whining and children crying.

  Ross Sandford, Marquess of Trevane, Vane to his friends and enemies, shuffled to the edge of his seat and extinguished the candle in the lantern hanging from the roof of his conveyance. At night, a man could embrace the cold emptiness filling his heart. And yet the need to rouse a flicker of emotion in his lifeless chest had drawn him out from his house in Berkeley Square to this dirty and dangerous part of town.

  Dressed in black, Vane opened the door and stepped down to the pavement. After straightening his coat, he jerked his head to his coachman, Wickett.

  “Wait here. Twenty minutes is all I need.”

  That would be enough time to lure a rogue or two out from the shadows, enough time to heat the blood as it rushed through his veins.

  Wickett stared at the fog-drenched street and shook his head. “Ten minutes should be plenty, my lord. Every light-fingered cove in the district will be out on the hunt tonight.”

  Vane knew that. Why else would he have come if not to practice his pugilistic skills? Pity the fool who thought him easy pickings.

  “Strange, I do not recall asking for your opinion.”

  “If you wanted a simple coachman, you would have hired one from The Dog and Duck.” From atop his box, Wickett inclined his head respectfully. “You wanted a man who isn’t afraid to take a shot. A man who can sew a wound as good as a French modiste sews silk. You wanted a man who can change your shirt so your sister won’t notice the blood, who can tie a cravat—”

  “Yes, yes, Wickett. You have made your point.”

  “Then as a man who’s survived these streets and has a need to protect his master, take heed. No more than fifteen minutes else I’ll be carting home a dead man.”

  Vane inhaled deeply as a flash of excitement sparked. Death might bring the answer to the questions plaguing his waking thoughts, and those disturbing his dreams, too. Had Estelle Darcy survived the shipwreck? Was she out there somewhere, living and breathing? Did she ever think of him? Had she cared for him at all?

  Vane shook himself and focused on the lithe, athletic figure glaring wide-eyed from the box seat.

  “What’s wrong, Wickett?”

  “Wrong?”

  “You have the look of a man waiting to watch his friend dangle from the scaffold. Where is your faith in my ability to ward off an attack?”

  “It’s no good looking for trouble when your mind’s not in the game. Ever since you came back from visiting Lord Ravenscroft, you’ve not been yourself.”

  No, he was not himself.

  The pledge he’d made to find Estelle Darcy and prove she was alive and well, gnawed away at his conscience like a starving rat with razor-sharp teeth. But he’d abandoned all hope of success. All leads led to naught. The runner he’d hired had sent him on a fool’s errand to Canterbury and then to Maidstone. An acquaintance in Whitechapel sent him to a woman on Upper Newman Street. While she had a smart mouth, and had recently returned from France, it soon became apparent that Estelle was her working name.

  “Of course I’m not myself. My sister married a blasted pirate.”

  That was not the reason for his morose mood. Ravenscroft had proven himself worthy. Anyone who saw Fabian and Lillian together could not question the depth of their love. Still, it was as good an excuse as any, and it would stop his coachman’s carping criticism, for now.

  Wickett bent his head. “You miss Lady Lillian that’s for sure, but it’s no reason to dice with death at every given opportunity.”

  Hell, he missed Lillian more than he could say. But after eight years spent learning to live with loss, suppressing pain was not a new concept.

  Vane’s mind drifted from thoughts of his own sister to the miniature portrait of Ravenscroft’s sister locked away in his desk. Why would he want to remember Miss Darcy’s likeness when he’d spent an eternity trying to forget her?

  “I suppose you think me foolish.” Vane tugged his coat sleeves and flexed his fingers.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, my lord. I’ll never understand the minds of intelligent folk.”

  Intelligent?

  Only an imbecile would enter an alley in this part of town, at this time of night. But he’d rather partake in a fistfight than hover on the verge of consciousness in a laudanum-induced state. Besides, was a beating not a form of self-flagellation, punishment for his incompetence?

  Through the thick, smothering cloud, Fate’s finger beckoned him, taunted him to step towards the alley.

  “If I fail to appear in fifteen minute
s, I suggest you come and find me.”

  Wickett turned his head and muttered something into the raised collar of his driving coat. “Fifteen minutes,” Wickett repeated. A weary sigh left the coachman’s lips, the white mist joining the thousands of other frustrated breaths that made up this foggy night. “But then I’ve never been good at telling the time.”

  “And yet you’re always there when I need you.”

  Wickett tipped his hat. “Let’s hope you’re in need of my services long after tonight.”

  “Indeed.”

  The coachman would continue to complain until Vane returned unscathed.

  Squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck, Vane strode towards the narrow passage, pulled by an invisible rope. One thing was certain. Regardless of what happened in the next fifteen minutes, he was guaranteed to feel something.

  Vane paused at the entrance.

  He strained his eyes and peered through the white mass swirling in ominous shapes towards him.

  Danger lurked within.

  He could feel it, smell it, taste it.

  Like a panther on the prowl, he honed his senses. Three long, sleek steps and he noted movement. Dull, grey shadows drifted into his field of vision. The stench of the streets wafted over him: grime and sweat and stale tobacco. The choking bitter scent of fog.

  His heart raced as the need for vengeance coursed through his veins.

  Footsteps shuffled closer. The faint shadow before him grew in height and breadth.

  “What ’ave we ’ere then?” The rough, gravelly voice echoed in the confined space. “You seem to ’ave lost yer way, guv’nor.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Vane noted another figure push out from a doorway to his right and skirt around to stand behind him. Excellent. Two made for a more satisfying challenge.

  “Oh, I’m not lost.” Vane clenched his fists at his sides. “I know exactly where I am.” Arrogance dripped from every word.

  “Happen you know what’s coming then.”

  The man stepped forward with the confident swagger of someone who’d grappled on the streets many times before. Upon witnessing the rogue’s slender frame, some men might breathe a sigh of relief. But this thug would be light on his feet, fast with his fists.

  “And I would wager twenty guineas you don’t have the first clue what’s coming.” Vane enjoyed taunting them. Despite offering himself as bait, he refused to throw the first punch.

  The rogue flexed his bristled jaw. A line of spittle flew from his mouth to land on Vane’s boot.

  “Give us yer watch, seal and coin purse, and then you can be on yer way.”

  A firm hand from behind gripped Vane’s shoulder. “Do as ’e says and you might get to keep them shiny boots.”

  Vane snorted with contempt. “If you want anything from me, you’ll have to take it by force. And I suggest you tell your accomplice to remove his hand else I’m liable to break his fingers.”

  Both rogues chuckled.

  “This swell cove has a tongue what would whip the shirt off yer back, make no mistake.”

  Vane firmed his jaw. When it came, the jab would be quick. “I am simply giving you a choice.” Estelle Darcy had not afforded him the same courtesy. She had struck his heart without warning. A blow so swift and sudden he had not seen it coming. “Step aside, or raise your fists.”

  “This ain’t one of yer fancy fighting clubs.”

  “And this is not the first time I’ve brawled in an alley.”

  “Prancing about in stockings and slippers ain’t brawling. There ain’t no rules on the street.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  A growl signalled the first punch.

  Vane dropped his weight, elbowed the man standing behind hard in the stomach, driving him back in order to miss the hit from the rogue in front.

  The man behind crumpled to the ground with a groan. Vane dodged another flying fist and followed it with one of his own, a solid smack to the rogue’s cheek that whipped the fool’s head back.

  Damn, it felt good.

  The other man scrambled to his feet, swung his arm wide and caught Vane just below the ear. The dull thud rang through his head causing a momentary loss of balance.

  Vane’s mocking laugh sliced through the air.

  This was what he wanted, what he needed. Pain. Physical suffering. Emotional torment. Hot blood awakened every fibre of his being.

  God, he had never felt more alive.

  “Come on!” Vane cried, beckoning the rogues to take their best shot. “You can do better than that.” The burning need for satisfaction proved overwhelming.

  The scrawny one took a swipe. Vane ducked and threw all his weight into a hard uppercut just below the ribs, robbing the ruffian of breath.

  “Why, you filthy—” The other man jumped on his back, and Vane reached behind, grabbed the miscreant’s neck and flipped him over his shoulder to land on the ground.

  Vane could have ploughed into them, finished it there and then. But he wanted his fifteen minutes’ worth and so padded lightly on the balls of his feet while he waited for them to recover. Men of their ilk did not walk away.

  They gathered themselves, but then a growl from behind forced Vane to glance back over his shoulder. Black eyes appeared through the mist, eyes partially obscured by grey fur. Another growl brought a flash of pointed teeth. A wolf — a hound of sorts — stalked closer.

  Both rogues took advantage of the distraction. They lunged forward, tackled Vane to the ground, their jabs lacking skill and precision. Delivering one blow after another, he fought back. The crack of bones reached his ears. Blood dripped from one man’s nose onto Vane’s cheek.

  Breathless pants filled the air.

  A manic euphoria flooded his chest.

  The wolfhound barked and bared its teeth.

  One thug dragged Vane to his feet. “Hit him, Davy, and have done with it. That mangy mutt looks like it ain’t eaten for weeks.”

  Davy looked nervous. Blood stained his lips. One eyelid had swollen to the size of a plum. And yet he found the strength to draw back and release his clenched fist.

  The uppercut made contact with Vane’s chin, the power of it knocking his teeth together. His legs buckled, and he fell back, smacking his head hard on the ground. The thud echoed in his ears. Spots of light danced before his eyes. A fog of confusion clouded his mind. He couldn’t focus. The world swayed.

  Loud voices and the clip of footsteps near the entrance caused both rogues to jump up and take flight. The hound chased after them, snapping at their heels.

  Strange voices rent the air.

  “Turn here, Mr Erstwhile. Turn here. This is Bedford Street. I’m convinced of it.”

  “Where? My dear, I cannot see the tip of my nose in this dreaded fog.”

  “There is little point patting the air. Look for a sign, Mr Erstwhile. A sign.”

  “I fear you are mistaken.” The sweet feminine voice floated towards him on a gentle breeze to stir his muddled senses. “We are heading in entirely the wrong direction.”

  “What did I say?” Mr Erstwhile complained. “Why walk when a hackney cab is by far the better option?”

  “In this weather?” came the matron’s horrified reply. “Have you seen Mrs Pritchard’s leg?”

  “Thankfully, I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  “Mangled is the only way to describe it. Mangled. And how did she end up in such a sorry state?”

  “Yes, you have told me five times within the space of an hour. Her hackney mounted the pavement and crashed through the chandler’s window.”

  “Precisely, and—”

  “Wait.” The feminine gasp sounded so close and yet so distant. The toe of a boot hit Vane’s leg. “There’s a body … on … on the ground.”

  “A body?” the matron shrieked. “Good heavens. Come away at once. Lord knows what ails him. Disease is rife in these parts.”

  Vane blinked to clear his blurred vision. His head felt thick and
heavy and while he could hear their words he struggled to form a reply.

  A woman wearing a dark cloak with the hood raised came closer, her pretty face and ebony hair framed in a golden halo. It was a face he’d seen before, long ago, a face seared into his memory lest he ever try to forget. It was the face of an angel.

  Estelle?

  How could it be?

  Death really had claimed him this time, and now he lay at the foot of heaven’s door. The thought banished the cold from his hollow chest. Contentment settled in its place, so warm, so comforting.

  “Leave him be,” the gentleman instructed. He stepped forward to tug on the young lady’s arm. “Clearly, there’s been a disagreement of some sort. We should find a constable.”

  The lady snatched her arm free and dropped to her knees beside him. Heaven was but an arm’s length away. All he had to do was reach out and touch it. The Lord had heard his prayers.

  “Ross?” The angelic whisper brushed his cheek.

  No one called him Ross — not a single living soul.

  It was the name given at his baptism. The name spoken by his parents. The name that once breezed from Estelle’s lips when he dared to trace his fingers down the elegant column of her throat and press a tender kiss on her sweet mouth.

  “Ross?” she repeated, not Vane, not the manufactured name he used as a shield. Not the name women breathed on a satisfied sigh or men cursed to the devil. With trembling fingers, she cupped his cheek. “What happened to you?”

  You happened to me.

  Was this the part where he confessed his sins? Were the golden gates about to appear through the mist? Was this to be a glorious epiphany, the moment when he discovered what the hell had happened all those years ago?