Estelle should run. She should pick up her skirts and run as far away as her legs could carry her. But already her breath came in rapid pants. Her heart raced so fast it hammered in her chest. The acrid fog clawed at the back of her throat. This must surely be the reason her eyes stung.

A tear fell, and then another.

Ross!

So many years had passed since she’d last seen him. He looked the same and yet so different. The same lock of ebony hair hung rakishly across his brow. Those piercing blue eyes still possessed the ability to muddle her mind though they were colder now — distant. Broad, muscular shoulders filled the slender more athletic frame she remembered. The same square jaw marked him as handsome although it held a defiant, rugged edge often common in those with a life blighted by hardship.

But what did Ross Sandford know of hardship?

Despite the changes, one thing remained irrevocably the same. The intense longing for him still burned deep in her core. Eight years apart and still her heart ached.

Oh, this was impossible.

“Miss Brown, wait!” Mrs Erstwhile’s concerned voice reached Estelle through the fog. “Wait, else we will lose you.”

But Estelle could not wait. With any luck, Ross had failed to recognise her. Why would he when she was a ghost to those she once knew? No doubt he had forgotten her face. No doubt he’d married, and love for another filled his heart now.

A sharp pain stabbed her chest.

Hopefully, he had not thought of her since that fateful day when she’d fled Prescott Hall knowing he was to come and offer marriage. And yet not a minute passed when she did not dream of what might have been.

“Miss Brown!”

Estelle glanced back over her shoulder and quickened her pace. The clip of footsteps chased behind.

Panic flared.

Ross!

What would she say to him? Too much had happened. How could she possibly explain?

Firm fingers gripped her elbow. “My dear, this is not the place one wanders alone.” Mr Erstwhile drew her back as he gulped for breath. Being short in stature and large around the middle he suffered easily from exertion. “One wrong turn and we might lose you for good.”

One wrong turn had brought the past hurtling to the present. What could be worse than that?

“Heaven knows what unsavoury characters linger in the shadows.” Mrs Erstwhile came to stand at her husband’s side. She put her hand on her chest to calm her ragged breathing. “You saw the state of that poor gentleman. Beaten and left for dead and all for a guinea.”

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.