Estelle woke to the sun beaming through her bedchamber window. It was so bright she blinked numerous times before she could open her eyes sufficiently to see who was busying about in her room.

“Are you awake, Miss Brown?” Mrs Erstwhile’s voice penetrated Estelle’s drowsy mind. “I’ve brought you some tea. Mr Erstwhile says you’re starting with the sniffles and we don’t want you taking ill on us.”

Estelle shuffled up to lean against the pillows and drank in the welcome sight. “You look as bright as a button today. I know the stomach pains have subsided, but I didn’t expect to see you looking quite so cheerful.”

Mrs Erstwhile placed the cup and saucer on the side table and moved to the window to fuss with the curtains. “The restorative Mr Erstwhile made perked me up no end.”

Perhaps the tonic contained a secret ingredient, though Estelle knew it wouldn’t be anything sinister. Mr Erstwhile would never force his wife to consume anything without her knowledge.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see a rosy glow to your cheeks.” Had anything untoward happened to Mrs Erstwhile, Estelle would have felt compelled to remain at the shop indefinitely.

“I’m convinced it was something I ate, and yet we’ve all dined together this week, and I was the only one taken ill.”

“Except when we dined with Mr Hungerford,” she reminded Mrs Erstwhile. Estelle had told the gentleman of her dislike for macaroons, and yet he had presented them with a tower of biscuit treats. “You were the only one to eat from the plate of macaroons.”

Mr Hungerford had done his utmost to persuade Mr Erstwhile to try one. Feeling under pressure to please his host, Mr Erstwhile had taken a macaroon from the plate and nibbled on the corner. As soon as Mr Hungerford nipped out of the room, Mrs Erstwhile offered her assistance and gobbled it down.

Mrs Erstwhile slapped her hand across her mouth.

“From what I recall, you definitely had two,” Estelle said.

Guilt flashed in Mrs Erstwhile’s eyes. “It might have been more like five or six.” She shook her head. “But I’ve never known anyone become ill after eating a macaroon.”

Perhaps they were ill if they ate too many, Estelle thought.

“Thankfully, you’re better now and should not dwell on it anymore.” Estelle reached for the teacup and cradled it between her cold hands. “Can I ask you something? It is of a personal nature.”

With a proud smile, Mrs Erstwhile hurried over and sat on the edge of the bed. “My dear, we speak openly and honestly here. Ask away.”

Estelle wasn’t sure how to phrase her question without it seeming rude. “Did you ever have any doubts about your relationship with Mr Erstwhile? Was there ever a time when you felt … when your positions in society made you doubt if things would work?”

Mrs Erstwhile did not look the least bit offended. “Oh, many times. Even when we married I still feared the pressure might affect him. I never cared about myself.” She screwed up her nose and gave a funny wave. “It takes courage for a man to go against everything he’s been taught to believe.”

Ross possessed the courage of a whole battalion.

“Love finds a way.” Mrs Erstwhile patted her hand. “Is this about Mr Hungerford or the marquess? I hear both men called to see you yesterday, and both promised to return today.”

“It’s about the marquess.” And her ridiculous notion that she was unworthy of his affection. “I care nothing for Mr Hungerford and desire only to make my position clear.”

Mrs Erstwhile’s expression grew solemn, and she cast Estelle a look usually reserved for starving match girls. “Most gentlemen are not as understanding as Mr Erstwhile. Don’t expect too much.” She leant forward and rubbed Estelle’s arm gently. “It’s not for me to tell you what to do. But if you’re set against Mr Hungerford, you must tell him so at once.”

Estelle nodded. “I shall do so today, without delay.”

“Good. Now finish your tea and take a moment to clear your head. You’ll find eggs and toast on the table if you have a stomach for it.”

Her stomach rumbled at the mere mention of food. “I’ll dress and come straight down.”

Mrs Erstwhile stood and made for the door. “Take your time, dear. I have a strange feeling it’s going to be a hectic day.”

* * *

The hours from ten until one o’clock dragged. Customers came and went, with their wracking coughs and odd skin complaints. Every tinkle of the bell had her eyes fixed on the door. Every five minutes, Estelle glanced at the clock. Every half an hour, the chime from the one in the hall set her more on edge.

Who would call first?

She knew exactly what she would say to Mr Hungerford. But where on earth would she start when it came to Ross?

The answer to the conundrum appeared a little after one o’clock.

Mr Hungerford entered the shop, dressed elegantly in mustard trousers and a forest-green coat. Such a garish combination spoke of extravagance and a preoccupation with French fashion. Ross did not need grandiose displays to make a point. Power and wealth radiated from every fibre of his being.

“Miss Brown,” Mr Hungerford said after paying his respects to the Erstwhiles and asking after Mrs Erstwhile’s health. “May I say how marvellous it is to see you up and about. After getting caught in that dreadful downpour, I feared you would be abed for a week or more.”

“Not at all.” Estelle forced a smile. She imagined telling him that she worked with smugglers and was used to spending hours in the water helping to haul in stolen goods. “It was nothing more than a little sniffle.”

“Excellent. Then perhaps a stroll might do you a power of good. The sun is shining, and there’s not a cloud in sight.” He turned to Mr Erstwhile. “I trust you’re able to spare her for an hour.”

There was a time when to walk the streets without her maid would have been tantamount to a scandal. Now, her position came with a freedom she found equally constraining.

“Miss Brown is free to spend time outdoors if she so wishes.” Mr Erstwhile cast her a reassuring grin. “Indeed, I’m sure you have things to discuss.”

Was that a covert way of telling her to put the gentleman out of his misery? It had to be done, and now. A short stroll would make the task easier. He could hardly protest to any degree whilst out in public.

“A walk would be beneficial. Give me a moment to get ready.” An hour at most would suffice. Should Ross call, Mr Erstwhile would keep him entertained until she returned.

“I hope you can forgive me for my complete lapse in judgment the other night,” Mr Hungerford said as they walked along Whitecombe Street. “I should have stayed and taken supper, as you suggested.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I was just as foolish and should have insisted we return home.”

Estelle found his affable manner nauseating. If she were to marry, she wanted a man who made her feel safe without being controlling. He would need to be strong, exude a level of raw masculinity that made her knees tremble. In short, she wanted a man like Ross Sandford.

“Well, there is one consolation I suppose.”

“And what is that?”

“It gave me an opportunity to make a declaration. I can only put my lack of caution down to my pining heart.”

Oh, heavens. Someone pass her a chamber pot for she was liable to cast up her accounts.

Estelle stopped walking as they reached Princes Street. “Perhaps we should take a slow stroll back.”

“Why when it is but a short walk to a coffeehouse?” His childish pout made her want to hit him over the head with a chamber pot let alone use one to contain the evidence of her suffering. “At least let me buy you a hot beverage, to make amends for the dreadful events in that alley. And it will help to ward off a chill.”

“Sir, I fear there is something I must tell you.”

Mr Hungerford raised a hand to silence her. “If it is as I suspect, then at least let us sit down rather than discuss such a personal matter here in the street. I know of a tasteful establishment a little further ahead.”

Estelle suppressed a snort. The man was adept at speaking too intimately in public. Why the sudden change of heart now?

“Very well.” She sighed. “But I must return to the shop within the hour.” She hoped to be there when Ross called.

“Rest assured. I shall endeavour to ensure your needs are met.”

Estelle sighed inwardly. She would never get used to his odd phrasing.

They continued until Mr Hungerford directed her to a coffeehouse on Compton Street. He placed a hand at the small of her back — sending an icy shudder straight through her — and guided her into the premises. Every table was occupied. People huddled around the stone hearth, their drinks balanced on the mantel. Others crowded into every available space.

“And I thought Brandersons had the monopoly,” she said, hovering near the door. “Let us return to Whitecombe Street.”

“Never fear. I know the proprietor, and he will secure us a table.”

They shuffled and pushed their way up to the serving counter. The pungent smell of sweat-soaked bodies, mingled with the bitter scent of coffee, irritated her nostrils. As did the thick plumes of tobacco smoke lingering in the air.

Mr Hungerford summoned the proprietor and leant across the wooden surface to whisper something into the man’s ear. After accepting a few coins by way of a bribe, the man wandered out and headed to one particular table. He spoke to the group of men, who vacated their seats without so much as a cross word.

Mr Hungerford escorted her to the table and pulled out her chair. “I shall wait at the counter for our drinks else it will take an age to be served.”

He hurried away leaving her alone.

Being in the cramped place reminded her of the times she’d sat in the tavern in Wissant with Madame Bonnay simply to keep watch on the revenue men. Sometimes they approached and made lewd suggestions, but in the madame’s company, Estelle always felt safe.

And yet now, every instinct told her to run.

But was that not the tactic she used to avoid all awkward conversations?

Estelle spent five minutes contemplating whether to stay or leave before finally deciding to remain at the coffeehouse for ten minutes in order to decline the gentleman’s marriage offer.

Mr Hungerford came towards her carrying two pewter goblets. A gentleman nudged his arm as he passed, causing the liquid to slosh over the rim of one vessel, but Mr Hungerford said nothing.

Ross would have demanded an apology, but then she imagined one look at the marquess’ broad shoulders and men gave him a wide berth.

“The wait for coffee would have seen us sitting here for another hour, and I know how desperate you are to return to the shop.” Mr Hungerford placed the goblets on the table. “I ordered wine instead. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all.”

If anything, the potency of the beverage would give her the courage to get this matter over with, and so she took a sip straight away. It tasted a little sour, but she had long since given up being a connoisseur of fine wine or insisting she only take a drop with dinner.

Mr Hungerford spent ten minutes rambling on about the weather and about the benefits of inhaling the country air. Whenever she tried to speak, he mumbled about the merits of Bath, and she got the impression he was stalling.

“Sir, I believe we should get to the matter at hand,” she said, and then took another few sips to bolster her confidence.

“Can we not enjoy our drinks first?”

While some might imagine her plight had given her a level of self-assurance aristocratic misses struggled to possess, every role she’d played since leaving Prescott Hall had been a submissive one. Then, it suited her to remain inconspicuous. But now she was tired of playing the naive fool.

“No, sir, we cannot.” Estelle straightened. “I must tell you that I cannot possibly accept your offer of marriage. I do not love you, you see. And regardless of my position, I could not marry for anything less.”

She brought the goblet to her lips to mask a relieved sigh. Mr Erstwhile was right: the truth was better spoken aloud than left festering within.

Mr Hungerford fell silent.

“Will you not say something, sir?”

His features twisted into a sinister sneer, but the ugly expression faded. “I didn’t know you suffered from romantic delusions, Miss Brown. I hoped you might find me congenial, someone with whom you might have a comfortable life.”

Estelle shook her head. After giving herself to Ross in the carriage, she could never conceive doing so with any other man.

“You make love sound like a dream for fools.”

“In my experience, feelings change. Love comes and goes like flowers in spring. Marriage should be based on so much more. Do you not think?” His abrupt tone marked another change in him. Perhaps these conflicting emotions stemmed from frustration or disappointment.

“Infatuation is fleeting. True love lasts a lifetime,” she countered before finishing what remained in the goblet so she could be free of this difficult conversation.

He scoffed at that. “So, you intend to be the mistress of a marquess.”

“Mistress? What makes you think that?” The comment stung. It brought her mind back to Ross’ secret exchange with Hungerford outside his house in James Street. “Is that what Lord Trevane told you?”

“Why else would the marquess be interested in you?” he said with a level of contempt she had never heard in his voice until now.

Who was this man?

She thought she knew, but doubts surfaced.

“Is that what he told you?” She demanded an answer. The wine had given her a heavy head and more than a little courage. Indeed, she felt rather peculiar. “I want to know.”

“As a matter of fact, he did. In any event, I pointed out that you were far too principled to consider the position.”

And yet, like a naive fool, she had given herself to Ross in the carriage. For all intents and purposes, she had already embraced the role. “I must admit to being somewhat surprised. Lord Trevane is an extremely private man, not one who airs his business to all and sundry.”

Her world suddenly swayed, and she struggled to focus. The odd sensation stemmed from more than Mr Hungerford’s shocking revelation. Bright lights flashed in the corner of her eye. Everything seemed distant. It was as though she stood outside her body looking at herself seated at the table.

“What else did you expect?” he said, looking at her rather oddly. “He is a member of the aristocracy. When he marries, it will be to a lady of position and wealth.”

She possessed neither of those things and was desperately trying to think of a retort when a sharp shooting pain in her stomach drew her to her feet. Dizziness forced her to sit back down.

“You don’t look well,” Mr Hungerford said. He drained his goblet and stood. “Come. I shall see you safely home.”

“Just let me sit for a moment. It might pass. It’s rather hot in here, and there are so many people.”

Mr Hungerford studied her face and peered into her eyes. He checked his watch numerous times and glanced towards the door. Estelle thought about standing, but all she wanted to do was lay her head on the table and sleep.

“We should leave before your symptoms worsen,” he said.

“You’re right. We should go now.” If she did not move soon, she feared she might not be able to walk.

He rounded the table and brought her to her feet. “Take my arm. Grip it tightly.”

Estelle had to clutch his arm with both hands just to keep her balance. Her head pounded. She could hear voices but no words of clarity. Once outside, the blinding sun hurt her eyes, and she squeezed them shut as they ambled along Compton Street.

While his manner had been abrupt, stern almost, Mr Hungerford’s temperament suddenly reverted to the considerate gentleman who made her nauseous. As they continued, he whispered to her in a comforting voice.

“We will be home shortly,” she heard him say. “Hold onto me, and I shall steer you in the right direction.”

When Estelle finally opened her eyes, she was in a busy courtyard. Her vision blurred, but she saw horses, men carrying saddles and a row of yellow coaches.

A tall, scrawny man addressed Mr Hungerford. “We’ve loaded your luggage. Are you ready to leave now, sir?”

“Indeed. We are in somewhat of a hurry. My wife is unwell.”

His wife?

In a daze, she looked up at him. “You must take me back to Whitecombe Street. I need to go home.”

He patted her hand and gave a little chuckle. “You must forgive my wife,” he said. “I fear she is growing delirious.” Mr Hungerford met her gaze. “My dear, we are going home, home to Bath.”

Bath?

When the man moved out of earshot, Mr Hungerford whispered, “I enjoy a challenge, Miss Brown. I like a wife to be submissive. Once we’re in Bath, you will learn to do what I tell you and show respect and gratitude to your husband and master.”