Page 93 of A Convenient Fiction

“Miss Hayes—”

“Mrs. Archer. And I will see it in writing, sir. I have no reason to believe anything you say to me.” Laura stood abruptly. “I need a moment to compose myself before the guests arrive. Pray excuse me.”

Alex followed her from the bookroom, but not before shooting a warning glance at Weatherwax who was hovering above his chair. “Stay.”

Weatherwax slumped back down.

Laura walked quickly through the hall, making her way to the stairs. Alex caught her by the arm at the bottom of the steps and turned her to face him.

“Look at me,” he said.

She was biting her lip, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as they met his.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said gruffly. “Do you understand me? Everything is going to be all right.”

Her mouth trembled. “All of my plans—”

“Hush. Just…trust me. God knows I’m no saint, Laura, but I’m asking you to—”

“I do trust you.”

His heart clenched. “Good.” He brought his hands up to cup her face. “I’m going to have words with the fellow, and then I’m going to pitch him out into the street. Do you object to that plan, Mrs. Archer?”

“Alex—”

“Do you?”

Her throat rippled on a swallow. “No. I don’t suppose I do.”

Alex waited until she was safely up the stairs before returning to the bookroom. Weatherwax was still in his chair, the mantle of aggrieved solicitor firmly about his shoulders.

“Mr. Archer,” he said briskly, “I don’t know who you are or where you’ve come from, but I warn you, sir, I fully intend to find out. And if anything should strike me amiss—the slightest whiff of fraud or deceit—I’ll see that this marriage is annulled.”

Alex came to stand in front of Laura’s desk. “You’re welcome to try.” He leaned back against its edge, folding his arms. “But I wouldn’t advise it. Not when you’re guilty of fraud and deceit yourself.”

Weatherwax puffed his chest. “A slanderous charge. I could bring suit against you for that, sir. My reputation as a solicitor—”

“I wonder what another solicitor would have to say about your conduct?” Alex paused. It was a stab in the dark. “Tom Finchley, perhaps?”

The effect was instantaneous.

Weatherwax’s face changed color, and he sputtered his words. “A villain of the first order! And he’ll have no room to accuse me of anything unethical. The man put a spy in my office. The shameless guttersnipe stole a file from me, and then disappeared. It’s a dark game Finchley and Fothergill play. Everyone knows it. The very notion of Miss Hayes consulting with the man—”

“Mrs. Archer,” Alex corrected automatically.

The idea of Tom having grown up to be a villain both fascinated and disturbed him. Alex hadn’t parted from his former friend on the best of terms. He’d hurt and betrayed him. How much of that betrayal had shaped the man Tom was today?

It was a troubling thought.

“Mrs. Archer, then,” Weatherwax amended, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth. “You’ll forgive my skepticism. She said nothing of you at our last appointment. The very idea that there was time for the two of you to meet and marry—”

“A whirlwind courtship.”

“And now you summon me here to lay claim to half of the Hayes business. You don’t waste any time on pretense, do you, sir?”

“Which brings us to the crux of the matter,” Alex said. “How much of the business is left?”

The solicitor seemed to crumple. “The property in France is all that remains.”