“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.”
“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.”