Page 6 of A Convenient Fiction

She pasted on a smile. “Will you help me plait my hair, Aunt?”

Aunt Charlotte gave her a long look. “It’s too wet to be seen in public.”

“It will finish drying on the drive to Edgington Park. Haven’t you been outside today? The sun is fairly blazing.”

“And you without a hat or a parasol.” Aunt Charlotte moved behind her, and picking up the comb, began to skillfully divide and twist Laura’s hair into a plaited roll at the nape of her neck. “You haven’t freckled yet, by some miracle.”

“Not yet.” Laura glanced at herself in the mirror. Her skin was still as pale as porcelain. Perhaps even as pale as alabaster. An enviable complexion, she knew, and one she’d done very little to earn. “Though I daresay I will eventually.”

“Can a person freckle when submerged in a pond, I wonder?”

“Anything is possible under the water.”

“Hmm.” Aunt Charlotte sounded doubtful. “I shall brew up some strawberry water for you. You can apply it to your face when you return home this evening.” She met Laura’s eyes in the mirror. A shadow of worry clouded her brow. “You’ll be home before nightfall, won’t you, my dear? You have an early day tomorrow.”

As if Laura could forget. She reached up to clasp her aunt’s hand. “I’ll be home by dinner,” she said. “I promise.”

Edgington Park was larger than Alex had expected. A sprawling Italianate residence of honey-colored stone, complete with arched windows and three imposing square towers, it stood in the midst of a manicured park, looking for all the world like one of Queen Victoria’s lesser palaces. Alex had never seen anything like it.

“It’s hideous, I know.” George peered out the window of the carriage as the antiquated vehicle came to a shuddering halt at the top of the drive. “The squire has no taste. He believes that the more something costs, the more desirable it is. Anyone could have told him to leave off one of those towers, and half of those windows, too. But would he listen?”

Alex’s gaze passed from the garishness of the house to the land that surrounded it. It was lush and verdant—and alive with industry. There were gardeners trimming trees and hedges, and pushing barrow’s full of earth. Even more men could be seen in the distance, toiling among the gated fields and various outbuildings, including one that looked to be an orangery.

A burgeoning feeling of satisfaction settled within his breast.

Edgington Park wasn’t merely a gentleman’s folly, then. It was a proper working farm. One with a vast acreage, if Alex was any judge. Vaster still if it encompassed the eponymous Talbot’s Wood.

“Squire Talbot must be a very rich man,” he said.

“He’s prosperous enough.” George opened the carriage door and hopped out. “But it’s his daughter who’s the wealthy one. She’s not only heir to Edgington Park, she’s heir to her late mother’s fortune as well. It’s held in trust for her until her marriage.”

Alex followed, shutting the carriage door behind him. George’s father, the vicar, was comfortably off, but he didn’t employ a footman.

“That he even keeps a carriage is nothing short of miraculous,” George had remarked earlier with a derisive snort. “Father prefers to walk. Says it helps him stay close to God.”

Alex wondered how much the pious country vicar knew about his son’s dissolute lifestyle. Was he aware that George gambled? That he drank, and took opium, and kept company with low women?

It was a wasted existence if Alex had ever seen one. Had he a loving father of his own—a home to come back to in a quaint country village like Lower Hawley—he’d never have squandered his life as George had done.

Then again, if it wasn’t for George’s vices, Alex wouldn’t have been given the opportunity to bend George to his will. That was something to be grateful for, at least.

He straightened his waistcoat as he climbed the front steps. After washing, he’d changed into a fresh suit of clothes—dark trousers, a loose-fitting sack coat, and a white linen shirt with a simply tied cravat. It wasn’t too dissimilar from what George was wearing, though perhaps less colorful than his garish plaid.

They’d scarcely ascended halfway up the stone steps when the front doors opened and a young lady emerged. She was garbed in a frothy, striped muslin gown with skirts of a wholly impractical size. The same voluminous skirts that Empress Eugénie of France had made popular some years before. They floated along behind her as she bounded down the steps, her golden ringlets gleaming in the sun.

“George! I thought I heard a carriage. And here you are at last.” She stopped in front of George, a brilliant smile lighting her face. “You’ve finally come home.”

Alex regarded Miss Talbot from a short distance away. Like Edgington Park, she wasn’t what he’d been expecting. She was pretty enough, to be sure—if one liked peaches-and-cream English misses with dimpled cheeks and melting brown eyes. Not that he was wholly averse to such wholesome charms. Indeed, if all went according to plan, he’d have to accustom himself to them. Even so, he’d thought to feel something. A flicker of attraction. The merest frisson of warmth in his breast—or in his loins.

But he felt nothing. He was, as always, quite cold to the heart.

“Henrietta.” George clasped the young lady’s hands. “You look splendid. Do you never age, my dear?”

“By the year, sir. As you’d know if you’d come to my birthday celebration last autumn. Have you no time for your friends anymore?”

“An entire month. And I mean to spend it all in your company.” George turned her attention to Alex, his smile a trifle strained. “May I present my good friend Mr. Archer?”

Alex was amazed George could utter the words without choking on them.