Page 31 of A Convenient Fiction

“No,” Laura said. “We haven’t much to recommend us, have we? And we’ve very little time before my birthday arrives. Not even enough time to call the banns.” She moistened her lips. “Which is why…I think we’re going to have to settle for option two. We’ll consult with another solicitor.”

“How?” Teddy wondered. “You’ve already said we haven’t the money for it.”

“I’ll ask Henrietta to lend it to us. Just the consulting fee, mind. We don’t even know yet if we have a case against Mr. Weatherwax. I don’t want us pressing forward with no hope of success. There are unscrupulous solicitors who would happily wring every last penny out of us in pursuing fruitless claims. We must proceed with caution.”

“Perhaps we should speak with a local solicitor?” Aunt Charlotte suggested. “Someone in Guildford or—”

“No, it must be London. We need a solicitor who’s canny, as well as capable.” Laura reached for her reticule. “A maidservant at Mr. Weatherwax’s office recommended someone.”

“A maidservant!” Aunt Charlotte’s brows shot up. “What would a maidservant know?”

“I haven’t any idea. But she gave me a solicitor’s card.” Laura withdrew it from her reticule and handed it to her brother. “Someone in Fleet Street.”

Teddy looked it over with a frown. “Thomas Finchley, Esquire.”

Laura nodded. “The best solicitor in London, apparently. I shall write him a letter this very afternoon. Then, in the morning, I shall call on Henrietta and broach the subject of a loan.”

Aunt Charlotte’s face creased with worry. “And if Mr. Weatherwax finds out?”

Laura rose from her chair. “We shall simply have to pray that he doesn’t.”

Alex leaned back against the trunk of the oak tree under which Miss Talbot had spread out their picnic blanket. Or rather, one of her footmen had. The liveried servants had followed along behind them from the house, carrying plates, cutlery, and provisions, as they traipsed the grounds of Edgington Park looking for the perfect picnic spot.

Henrietta Talbot was in her element. Kneeling in a heap of fine muslin skirts and ruffled petticoats, she doled out cold roast chicken and other comestibles from a hamper. “For you, George.” She handed him a plate heaped with food.

George took it, barely succeeding in hiding a flinch. At the vicarage, he hadn’t been able to keep down his breakfast. “What I need,” he’d said earlier that morning, “is the hair of the dog that bit me.”

“What you need,” Alex had returned, “is to attend to your debts.”

It had been enough to sober George. And when Miss Talbot’s invitation had arrived from Edgington Park, summoning the pair of them to a picnic on the grounds, he hadn’t dared to refuse.

Alex’s gaze drifted over him before settling, once again, on Miss Hayes. She was resting on her hip not far from Miss Talbot, her more modest spill of linen skirts bunched up about her ankles, revealing a glimpse of well-worn leather half boots. Since her arrival, only minutes before they’d departed the house, she’d been assiduously avoiding meeting his eyes.

While he couldn’t seem to stop himself from looking at her.

It was aggravating at best. Infuriating at worst. When it came to Laura Hayes, he appeared incapable of exercising control. By rights, he should have been angry at himself. Instead, he was irritated with her.

The plaguing female.

There were faint shadows under her smoke-blue eyes, and a general air of distraction to her manner. She’d hardly strung five words together since they’d sat down.

“You’re peaky, Laura.” Miss Talbot passed her a plate of food. “You must eat something.”

George picked at the chicken on his own plate with a grimace. “No one could eat the amount you’ve given us, Hen. You’ve been too generous, as always.”

“I suppose you’d rather I brought something from Papa’s cellar,” Miss Talbot said. “But you can’t drink your meals, George. You’ll make yourself ill.”

“By the by, what have you brought to drink?” George asked. “Lemonade, I suppose.”

“Naturally. And a bottle of elderberry wine—”

“Aha!”

“—of which you may have one glass. Really, I don’t know what sort of dissipated life you’ve been leading in London, but you’re home now, and you can’t make such a spectacle of yourself as you did when you came to dine at the Park.”

“Every fellow drinks to excess on occasion,” George grumbled. “Even your father, I daresay.”

Miss Talbot glanced at Alex. “Even you, Mr. Archer?”