“Good God, man. Do I look like a matron with failing health?” Vane batted Wickett’s hand away as the coachman tried to assist his descent from the carriage. “I took a knock to the head not a lead ball to the chest.”

Wickett raised a brow as he scanned the breadth of Vane’s shoulders. “Granted. But for a man so strong and robust, you’ve been mumbling gibberish ever since I carried you out of that alley.”

“You did not carry me.” Vane stepped down to the pavement outside his townhouse in Berkeley Square. He touched the tender lump on his head and winced. “And if I spoke nonsense, it’s because I was momentarily stunned. I would have beaten the life out of both rogues had that blasted dog not thrown me off my game.”

A wave of excitement washed over him as he flexed his fingers and recalled throwing a barrage of satisfying punches.

“Dog? I thought you said you were set on by a wolf.” A smile touched Wickett’s lips. “Happen the fog brings out all sorts of wild creatures.”

Vane sighed. “No one likes a pedant, Wickett. I clearly remember using the word hound.”

“Yes, my lord, you were attacked by a hound and saved by an angel.”

“It’s called an epiphany.” Lord, he knew better than to mention such things to his coachman, but after injuring his head, he’d taken to rambling. “It is a documented fact that, in a rare moment of weakness, one might encounter symbolic representations of one’s life.”

“Or you might have hit your head and been confused.”

For a man dragged up on the streets of St Giles, Wickett possessed more sense than most lords of the ton. Still, Vane liked to keep him on his toes.

“During my search for a coachman with a particular skill set, I do not recall adding brimming with condescension to the list.”

Wickett tipped his hat. “I’m not sure I know what that means. But you asked for an honest man, and that’s what you’ve got, my lord.”

“Indeed.”

“Now, keeping in mind that I’ve only got your best interests at heart, I feel it my duty to say you smell like you’ve been rolling about in a pigpen.”

Wickett was right. One whiff and the stench of piss and ale caught in the back of Vane’s throat.

“Trust me, over the years I have rolled around in far worse places.”

“Would that be with wolves or angels, my lord?”

Vane smiled. “I wish I could say it was the latter.”

It was not a coincidence that the vision he glimpsed in the alley, as he hovered on the brink of consciousness, bore a likeness to Estelle. Despite all attempts otherwise, hers was the image he conjured when slaking his lust.

“Talking of wolves, my lord, another lady came to the mews earlier this evening and asked me to pass you a note.”

“And I trust you read it and acted accordingly.”

His coachman knew to burn all letters inviting him to partake in secret assignations. Still, some ladies continued to risk their reputation. Only last night, he’d glanced out of the window and noticed a woman watching the house from the safety of her carriage.

Wickett nodded. “Your presence was required at a house in Burlington Gardens. Happen it would have involved more rolling around in disagreeable places if you take my meaning.” Wickett cleared his throat. “The lady was most insistent, having never met a man with your talents for rousing a howl.”

“You have such a way with words, Wickett.” Vane laughed but then winced when the pressure hurt his head. “Perhaps you should have gone in my place.”

“When a man can’t afford coal for the fire, there’s no time for lingering atop the bedsheets. Happen a lady of her quality was looking for more than a five-minute fumble in the dark.”

“Count your blessings.” Vane gripped his coachman’s shoulder. “Loose morals bring nothing but trouble. Why do you think I avoid such encounters?”

Vane had believed himself impervious to pain. A tour de force when it came to suppressing emotion. And yet a jealous husband had found the chink in his armour. In ruining his sister’s reputation, Lord Cornell had shot a barbed arrow straight through Vane’s heart. And by God, the man would pay.

“I’m not sure I’d have your strength of will, what with all the offers you get.”

“Now that my sister is married, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to partake in the odd liaison.” It would make a change from brawling in taverns and alleys, and yet he couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm.

“I don’t suppose you’ll have a problem finding a willing partner.”

“An excess of willing partners has always been the problem.” How ironic that the only woman he’d ever wanted proved elusive.

Wickett’s beady eyes moved to a point beyond Vane’s shoulder. “Perhaps a wolf followed your scent, my lord.” He gestured to the light spilling out from the drawing room window. “Either Bamfield has fallen asleep and forgotten to blow out the lamp, or one of your lady callers has knocked the front door and barged her way inside.”

Vane groaned. He was not in the mood for false displays of affection, for women too quick to fondle the bulge in his breeches in the hope of luring him into bed.

“You’d better see to the horses,” Vane said with a sigh, “while I dispose of our unwanted guest.”

Wickett nodded. “I’ll wait here until you’re safely inside. Wolves hunt in packs in case you’ve not heard.”

His coachman was full of amusing quips. And yet Vane couldn’t shake the sense that someone hid in the shadows, watching him, waiting to pounce.

* * *

Bamfield was not asleep. Like all good butlers, he opened the door before Vane reached the top step. Bamfield scanned Vane’s attire, his hooked nose twitching as he sniffed out the pungent scent of the streets.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

“Wolves?” Farleigh snorted. “In England? It seems your coachman has taken a knock to the head, too.”

It couldn’t be Estelle. The words echoed in Vane’s mind. Fate was not that kind. He was not that lucky. “But you have reason to believe the lady was a relative of the Erstwhiles.” Strange how he remembered their name.

“She looked too young to be their daughter.”

“Describe her. Describe this angel we both saw.”

“Black cloak with a gold lining, hair as dark as night.”

Vane caught his breath. “What else?”

“Eyes wide and just as dark.” Wickett touched his hand to his shoulder to indicate her height. “Small and slender, light on her feet. Called you by the name of Ross.”

Estelle!

Lord Farleigh inhaled sharply. He sat forward in the chair. “No one calls you by that name, not anymore.”

“No. They don’t.” Vane’s pulse thudded in his ears. Even his beloved sister, Lillian, called him Vane. “Wait here a moment.”

Vane strode from the room to the study further down the hall. Taking the key from the bookshelf, he opened the drawer and ferreted around inside. He tried to ignore the slight tremble of his fingers as he withdrew the miniature portrait.

Resisting the urge to look at the beautiful image encased in the gilt frame, he returned to the drawing room and thrust it at Wickett.

“Is this her?”

Wickett took the picture and studied it. “Looks like her. The lady went by the name of Miss Brown if I remember rightly.” When Wickett returned the portrait, Vane caught a glimpse of silky black hair before placing it face down on the mantel. “At first, I thought she was a maid or companion,” Wickett continued, “but she spoke proper, just like the elderly gentleman.”

“And you have their direction?”

“They were heading to Whitecombe Street, my lord.”

“And the number?”

The hour was late. Sleep would elude him tonight if he did not discover the truth for himself. In those dark, restless hours, he would replay every word spoken, every kiss he’d ever shared with Estelle Darcy. He had to know. And he had to know now.

Wickett raised a shoulder. “The gent didn’t say.”

A sudden sense of despair filled Vane’s chest. He would knock on every door, drag exhausted folk from their beds until he found the right house.

“If I had to guess I’d say Mr Erstwhile makes tonics or perfumes. He had that odd smell about him … sweet like flowers and herbs … and something sharper, almost bitter.”

“Take me to Whitecombe Street. You have fifteen minutes to ready the carriage.” Vane turned to Bamfield. “Call Pierre. I require a change of clothes, preferably black.”

The next fifteen minutes passed by in a blur. Vane bathed quickly, lost his temper with Pierre when he insisted on fussing with his cravat. In the end, Vane dressed himself. The same fiery excitement he’d experienced earlier in the evening surfaced again.

“You’re convinced it is her?” Farleigh said as Vane climbed into the carriage and settled into the seat opposite. His friend insisted on coming for fear Vane might venture to St Giles again, worried that another knock to the head might mark the end of him. “I find it hard to believe.”

“You heard Wickett. It is her.”

Hope sprung to life in Vane’s chest. Soon he would have the answers he thought lost to him. Why break a promise? Why profess to love a man only to abandon him the next day?

“But surely Miss Darcy would have sought her brother out.” In the dark confines of the carriage, Farleigh’s gaze searched Vane’s face and lingered on the bruise beneath his chin. “Forgive me if I sound cynical but if Miss Darcy survived the shipwreck why wait eight years before returning to London?”

“Well, we will soon know.”

Vane struggled to sit still.

In his mind, he imagined what he would say to her, although he would not give her the satisfaction of telling her she’d ruined his life.

Wickett slowed the carriage as they turned into Whitecombe Street and drew to a stop outside Marselles Perfumery. Beneath the light of the streetlamp, one could see the ornate walnut caskets in the window. The boxes were lined with burgundy velvet and held a glass bottle of unique design.

Vane rapped the roof. From what he remembered, heavy perfumes made Estelle sneeze, and so he doubted she lived there.

When the conveyance rolled to a stop opposite the apothecary shop, Vane’s heart lurched. Mr Erstwhile’s name was painted in gold above the door.

Vane sat there for a few minutes and stared at the facade.

What would he do if Estelle was inside?

What would he do if she was not?

“Is this the one?” Farleigh said, peering through the carriage window.

“This is the one.” Nerves pushed to the fore. Good God, what the hell did he have to fear? He had done nothing wrong. “Wait here. I doubt I’ll be more than a few minutes.”

Vane threw open the carriage door and stepped down. Candlelight filtered through the shop’s bow windows. Two figures busied about inside. Vane straightened his shoulders and inhaled deeply, ready to confront the ghost of his past.