Page 19 of A Convenient Fiction

Squire Talbot gave his daughter an indulgent glance. “Quite right, my dear. Plenty of time to talk about farming tomorrow, when I take Mr. Archer out on the estate.”

Miss Talbot was true to her word. She kept the conversation to fashionable topics, presiding over the remainder of their meal with all the aplomb of a society doyenne. And when they’d finished the final course, drunk their after-dinner coffee, and indulged in another round of soulful duets in the music room, it was she, and not her father, who walked them out to the drive and bid them adieu.

“Call on me again soon,” she said as Alex and George climbed into the vicar’s carriage. “When Miss Hayes is back from London.”

The carriage rolled away, the coachman clucking to the horses.

Alex settled back into the shadowy corner of his seat, arms folded.

“My father will be home,” George said with a hiccup. “Shouldn’t have drunk so much wine.”

“Does your father disapprove of drinking?”

“He disapproves of anything that brings a man pleasure.” Another hiccup. “Must be why he wants me to marry. Knows I’ll be miserable. Even if…”

“Even if what?”

George scrubbed at his face. “I wouldn’t marry her. Couldn’t.”

“Miss Talbot?”

“Miss Hayes,” George said, slurring his speech. “Laura.”

Alex’s gaze sharpened in the darkened interior of the coach. “What about Miss Hayes?”

“Made her an offer, last time I was home. Not at all the thing.” George’s mouth spread into a stupid grin. “She slapped my face. Hard. I fancy I can still feel it.”

Alex’s jaw hardened at George’s admission. The mere idea of it…George and Laura Hayes.

Not but that he hadn’t suspected something of the sort.

He’d have had to be blind not to recognize the dark undercurrents that ran between the pair of them. He would have liked to question George on the subject—to find out more about what had happened between him and the mysterious Miss Hayes. But mere seconds later, George was snoring contentedly, his head lolled against the seat.

It didn’t matter, in any case.

Alex hadn’t come to Lower Hawley to ensnare himself with a penniless water nymph. He’d come to ensure his future.

He’d acquired some degree of wealth in the years since he’d left North Devon. Substantial winnings in nefarious London gaming clubs, and at the tables in private gaming establishments all over France. It had been sufficient to assure his comfort in a suite of luxurious rented rooms, and to procure first-class passage on railways and steamships. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough without property.

Property was the thing.

And for a man of his pedigree, the only way to attain such property was to marry an heiress.

Fabricating his antecedents had been simple enough. He’d spent decades on the continent. Who was to say his parents hadn’t died during the cholera epidemic? As for Baron Reynard, should anyone go looking, they would find the old sharper alive and well in Biarritz—and more than willing to claim Alex as his godson.

All that had remained was to garner a proper introduction. An entrée into the world of some country squire’s daughter. A wealthy young woman Archer could woo and win.

When George had first described Henrietta Talbot, she’d sounded like just the sort of young lady Alex was looking for.

She was beautiful, and accomplished, to a degree. But she wasn’t as canny as she thought she was. Alex was confident he could catch her, by fair means or foul. Catch her, marry her, and secure his future.

The prospect should have been appealing. It certainly had been when he’d first conceived the idea. Now, however, a growing sense of unease had invaded his peace. Things weren’t as they seemed in Lower Hawley. He had the distinct feeling that he was rushing toward a destination that was spinning rapidly out of his control.

And he didn’t like to be out of control.

The carriage came to a rattling halt in front of the vicarage. He opened the door and jumped out before turning to assist George.

It wasn’t the first time he’d hauled George Wright’s drunken carcass out of a coach. At one time or another, Alex had delivered George back to his rooms reeking of alcohol, smoky with opium, or stinking of the cheap scent of a third-rate whorehouse. It all depended on the night of the week—and on how much ready coin George had in his pocket when that night began.