The Daring Miss Darcy (Lost Ladies of London #4)(5)
Estelle considered her options. The Erstwhiles were good, kind-hearted people. She should at least wait until they were home and settled before taking flight.
“Come, it is best we keep to the streets where the lamps are lit.” Estelle fell into a slow pace beside them. “I’m certain if we head this way we shall soon reach Leicester Square.”
A tense silence ensued.
Every step brought with it the fear of Ross trailing behind in pursuit, of him calling her name, of having to explain to the Erstwhiles that she was not the sweet Miss Brown they believed her to be.
Mr Erstwhile made an odd humming sound. “It just occurred to me that you called that gentleman by his name.”
“Did I?”
“You must have seen him before. Has he visited the shop? I’m sure I would have remembered such a prestigious client.”
Estelle’s pulse fluttered in her throat. “He reminded me of someone I once knew.” Someone from a different time, a different place. A love not destined for this life. “A gentleman from the same village, but clearly I was mistaken.”
That was enough information. He did not need to know any more, and she did not have the strength of heart to tell him.
Mrs Erstwhile’s frantic gaze darted left and right as the clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of rolling carriage wheels drew near. “We’re walking far too close to the road.” She ushered them to walk in single file away from the curb edge. “Oh, my poor heart cannot stand the strain.”
“My dear, if a carriage mounts the pavement, we’ll be lucky to escape alive let alone suffer a mangled leg.”
A hulking black shadow whipped past on their left.
“No doubt that’s his lordship’s carriage.” Mr Erstwhile came to stand at Estelle’s side once again. “It begs the question what was a gentleman from the upper echelons of society doing in an alley near St Giles?”
“Come now.” Mrs Erstwhile clutched her husband’s arm. “Many lords court actresses. Where better to find one than a stone’s throw from Covent Garden?”
Jealousy roiled in Estelle’s stomach. “Why would he court an actress?” She could not hide her disdain. “Such an upstanding gentleman must surely have a wife.”
Mrs Erstwhile tutted. “I should think as long as there’s an heir it wouldn’t matter. The aristocracy fail to adhere to the same moral code we do. Isn’t that so, Mr Erstwhile?”
Estelle silently scoffed. While that applied to some lords of the ton, Ross Sandford was not the sort to be unfaithful.
“Indeed.” He sighed. “Oh, to be an earl.”
Mrs Erstwhile coughed to express her displeasure. She coughed again although this time she pressed her fingers to her temple and winced.
“I merely meant it must be exhausting,” Mr Erstwhile said with a chuckle. “Keeping one lady happy is a task in itself. Attempting to manage two, would test any man.”
“Talking of gentlemen and their interests,” Mrs Erstwhile began. “Mr Hungerford’s reason for inviting us to dinner had nothing to do with learning more about the way we use St John’s Wort in our work.”
Estelle groaned inwardly. “On the contrary, I thought he seemed rather keen to discuss the process of making tinctures and tonics.”
Mr Erstwhile snorted. “I think he was more interested in why the son of a gentleman works in trade. He asked some rather impertinent questions.”
“Trade? You make us sound like market hawkers, husband. It takes skill and dedication to treat those with cramps and agues.” Mrs Erstwhile grunted. “Besides, Mr Hungerford has visited the shop three times this week when he could have easily sent a maid.”
She had been in many precarious situations during her eight years in France and knew enough about men to know the glint in Mr Hungerford’s eyes stemmed from more than an interest in the apothecary. Not that she would admit to it of course. Mrs Erstwhile needed no encouragement when it came to affairs of the heart.
“I think the man is besotted with our Miss Brown,” Mrs Erstwhile continued. “Besotted, indeed, and now his wife has passed, he’s free to marry.”
Mr Hungerford’s motives for entertaining them were of no consequence. Estelle could not remain in London. What if she saw Ross again? Tonight, she’d escaped before he’d regained full use of his faculties.
Returning to France was not an option. Faucheux had men watching the ports, had spies lurking in every dockside tavern. A stone-cold shiver ran across her back. God help her if the smuggler ever found the courage to travel to England.
No. As soon as they reached Whitecombe Street, and the Erstwhiles were tucked up in their bed, she would pack her meagre belongings and go somewhere far away from Mr Hungerford’s lustful gaze. Somewhere far away from the clutches of the cruel Faucheux. Far away from Ross Sandford, from the man who would always hold a piece of her heart.
Chapter Three
“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.”