Page 74 of A Convenient Fiction

Laura smiled. “Generous to a fault, just as I said.”

Henrietta’s cheeks dimpled. “Naturally. You’re my oldest friend. And we are still friends, aren’t we? Despite our quarrels?”

“I hope we are,” Laura said.

“I meant it about your wedding, you know. Though I don’t expect Mr. Archer will be your groom. George said he’s likely gone back to France. I daresay we’ll never see him again.”

Laura didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. Alex was coming back to Lower Hawley. He had to be. She needed him to redeem her reputation. To put things right with her family, and with the villagers. Without him, she was ruined. Everything was ruined. All of her hopes for the future. Her plans for the perfumery. Her very standing and credibility as a lady.

It was she who’d put it all at risk. And now it was up to him to make it right. To play the hero once more.

She prayed he wouldn’t let her down.

Wednesday morning, Laura ventured outside of the cottage for the first time since their return home. It was still hot as the dickens. Even the heads of the roses were drooping. She nevertheless twined her fringed silk shawl through her arms before stepping out the back door. The chill she’d received from her ill-fated swim hadn’t yet left her. She could still feel it all the way to her bones.

The back of the cottage was even more overgrown than the front. It sloped down in a wild tangle of fragrant blooms to a crumbling stone boundary wall at the bottom of the garden. Within its limits were dirt paths that wound their way beneath arbors sagging with the weight of climbing roses, and alongside iron benches that were nearly swallowed whole by untamed bushes of flowers and clusters of colorful weeds.

She looped a basket over her arm. It held a pair of gardening shears and the tattered old gloves she sometimes wore when cutting back the thorny branches of the rosebushes. But she didn’t feel much like gardening this morning. Her spirits were mired in the same despondency that had plagued her ever since they’d returned home from Margate.

It was only two days until her Friday appointment with Mr. Finchley. She had to find her way out of the doldrums before then. There was no question of forgoing the journey to London, and no one she could send in her place. She must go herself and see what Mr. Finchley advised them to do. It was their only hope for besting Mr. Weatherwax.

As for the possibility of her marriage…

It no longer merited thought. Her birthday was on Saturday. Even if she had a groom at the ready, there was no time left to journey to Gretna Green.

She wandered down the garden path, stopping next to a bush of red roses. They were as fragrant as the bottle of rose perfume on her dressing table. Full bodied and sweet, without being cloying. She broke one off at the stem and lifted it to her nose.

“Your aunt said I might find you here.”

Laura turned sharply.

Alex Archer stood inside the back gate. He was clad in riding clothes—dusty cord breeches, leather top boots, and a rumpled coat. His hair was windswept, his jaw darkened with several days’ worth of heavy stubble. He looked travel-worn and exhausted—and far more wolfish than usual.

Her basket slid from her nerveless arm.

He strode forward to catch it before it could hit the ground. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

She pressed a hand to her corseted midriff. “I feel as if I have.”

His mouth tugged into a rueful smile. “That shocking a sight, am I?”

Her heart thumped wildly. “You are, rather.” She sounded breathless, as if she’d just walked a brisk half mile. “When did you—?”

“I arrived at the front door not five minutes ago. Your aunt gave me a chilly reception. No doubt I deserve it. I hadn’t intended to be away so long. One night, at the most. But that’s London for you, especially when dealing with the clerks at Doctors’ Commons.”

Laura had no idea what he was talking about. Her head was spinning.

“Come.” He took hold of her elbow and directed her to a bench beneath the nearest rose arbor. “Sit down before you swoon.”

“I’ve never swooned in my life.”

“Humor me.”

She sank down on the bench, folding her trembling hands in her lap. “I didn’t know when you’d come back. Or if you’d come back. I was beginning to think—”

“What? That I’d fled? Never to be seen again?”

She bit her lip.