Max had his best horse readied straight away and he and Charlie hadn’t looked back. Etta had taken more than enough money to get a fair distance if she wanted to, but the coach was slow and they had an excellent chance of catching it before she left the country.
The two of them rode all night. They needed to rescue Etta – and now. Max shuddered to think about what could happen to her.
They made it to the docks and interrogated the clerk, but it seemed no woman of Etta’s description had boarded the regular crossing. As they left the office, their attention was drawn to a young man sitting on a mooring post.
‘Messieurs!’ The man removed a blackened pipe from his mouth and looked up at them, yawning. ‘Vous êtes Anglais?’ he asked. ‘You are English,non?’
‘Yes?’ Max said, at the same time as Charlie demanded, ‘Yes, but my god, how can you tell?’
The man shrugged. ‘The clothes. You English lack a certain …’
‘Je ne sais quoi?’ Max interrupted, more than ready to move on.
‘Non, I am not knowing either. But it is –’ the man waved at them judgementally – ‘unpleasant.’
Charlie looked outraged. ‘The bloody cheek! Did you stop us just to remark on our sartorial choices, my man, or did you have something worth saying?’
The man scratched his nose in perhaps the most French gesture either of them had ever seen, then shrugged. ‘I thought, per’aps, you might be looking for the mademoiselle without a ticket?’
Charlie dropped his hat, necessitating a dismount from his horse. ‘Bugger.’
Max ignored him, his attention focused solely on the Frenchman. ‘You saw her? Blonde, thin, freckles? Which way did she go?’
‘Oui, the hair, her face, same colour,non? Fascinating.’
‘Which. Way. Did. She. Go?’ Max ground out, as Charlie hoisted himself back onto his restless mount.
The man gestured towards a building across the docks. ‘That way, into the church.’
‘Much obliged, mon-sewer,’ Charlie yelled, as they simultaneously broke into a canter.
Chapter 49
1818
Etta opened her eyes and looked around. Oh yes, the church. She was safe, and she was dry, and she was angry. Very, very angry.
She stretched, feeling a rumble of hunger wrack her stomach, then counted her meagre possessions again. No money, no food, no hope. She was going to have to go crawling back to London somehow – probably a long, dangerous walk, with no Google Maps and with no food or water either.
She felt no small amount of self-pity, but even more anger. With herself, yes, for her rash decision-making. But also towards Max.
How dare he? How very, very dare he? He’d managed to avoid getting caught having a midnight tryst and insane drunken trifle sex with her, but he couldn’t avoid being seen snogging Clarissa Bloody Best in a corridor?
It was her own stupid fault she was here in this freezing cold church in Dover, she knew. She’d acted rashly and running away had never solved anything. But it was his bloody fault, too.
Etta got up, her back cracking in pain as she lowered her sore feet to the cold church floor, and looked around to seehimright there in the church doorway: the architect of all her woes. She leapt up from the pew, ready to take Max to task, but the world swirled around her, blood rushing to her head, sadness overtaking her rage. He was handsome. So very, very handsome. And so very, very not hers.
It was the last thing she thought before her legs went from under her.
The first face she saw when she opened her eyes was Charlie’s. ‘Good god, she’s dead! Don’t die, don’t die!’
She was lying on the ground, Max’s coat under her head. She recognised the smell of him, comforting, against her face.
‘She’s not dead, Charlie – she fainted. Here, she’s coming round.’
Charlie grabbed Etta into a hug, pressing her against him.
‘Don’t worry, Charlie, it wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry for leaving you. I was so upset, and then I was robbed and didn’t have any money to get back and … well, thank god you’ve found me, is all.’
