And so he had.
“Archer!” George Wright stood in the doorway, an uneasy smile on his lips. With his tousled blond curls and expressive brown eyes, he looked more like a romantic poet than the son of a humble country parson. “What in blazes happened to you?”
“A minor mishap.” Alex returned George’s smile with a dry one of his own. “The horse I hired is a menace.”
George gave a nervous laugh. He was always nervous in Alex’s presence, had been ever since the night they met in Marseilles a year ago, at one of the city’s most notorious gaming clubs. Alex had beaten George at cards rather badly that night, collecting what would be the first of his many markers.
“Why do you continue to play with the boy?” one of the club dealers had asked in a private moment. “You must know he’ll never make good what he owes.”
“He’ll pay,” Alex had vowed. “One way or another.”
It was that very payment which had brought Alex to Surrey.
“Is that old portmanteau all you’ve brought?” George asked. “Haven’t you a trunk? Or a valise?”
Alex followed him into the vicarage. It was a humble dwelling but a clean one, with a freshly swept slate floor and wooden furnishings polished to a high shine. The scent of beeswax and lemon oil lingered in the air. “I left them at the station.”
“You don’t intend to stay?”
“If you can arrange it so. Otherwise…”
“I have arranged it,” George said. “I sent a note round to Edgington Park this morning. Miss Talbot responded an hour ago. You can meet her this afternoon, providing she can procure a chaperone.”
“A chaperone?” Alex met George’s eyes with a flash of irritation. “You never mentioned your visits with Miss Talbot being chaperoned.”
“They haven’t been. But Henrietta and I practically grew up together. You, on the other hand, are a stranger. An unknown quantity, or so her father says. If she’s to go walking with us this afternoon, she must have a chaperone.”
“And who is this chaperone to be? A tale-bearing housemaid? A bulldog of an old maiden aunt? What else haven’t you told me?”
George backed up a step. “I didn’t lie, Archer. I swear to you. Miss Talbot has no female relations. No one who will interfere with your plans. She’s only summoning Miss Hayes. A local woman of no account. She lives not three miles from here, at the edge of Talbot’s Wood. Miss Talbot often relies on her for companionship.”
Alex went still. He was at once assailed by memories of the woman he’d encountered at Talbot’s Pond. The feel of her as he’d pulled her scantily clad body from the water. The look of her as she’d sat so demurely on the bank—like a mermaid combing out her hair. His brows lowered. “This local woman… She wouldn’t happen to be a raven-haired water nymph, would she?”
“What?” George gave a bark of genuine laughter. “Miss Hayes? Hardly. She’s a spinster. A regular dogsbody. She won’t do anything to cut up your peace, mark my words.” He motioned to the stairs. “Come. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Griffiths, has prepared a room for you.”
Alex grudgingly followed after him. The stairs creaked under his wet boots. “Where’s your father?”
“At the church, drafting his Sunday sermon. He’ll be back for supper. You can meet him then—unless we’re invited to dine at Edgington Park.” George led Alex down a short hall to a snug guest room, complete with a vase of daisies on the washstand. “Mrs. Griffiths looks after us. Has done for ages. If you require anything, just give a tug on the bell pull.”
“I need hot water to wash with.”
“Ah yes. Stupid of me. I’ll have her send some up. Is there anything else?”
“That depends. How soon are we to leave?”
“As soon as Miss Hayes can be summoned. It shouldn’t be long. It’s not as if the woman has a busy social calendar.”
Aunt Charlotte entered Laura’s bedroom, an open letter clasped in her hand. Her normally cheerful face was set into lines of grim resignation. “George Wright has come home.”
Laura sat at her dressing table, her head cocked as she dried her freshly washed hair with a piece of rough toweling. At the sound of Aunt Charlotte’s voice, she froze. “What?”
“He arrived yesterday morning on the train from London.” Aunt Charlotte paced to the window and back again. Her black taffeta skirts rustled along the worn Aubusson carpet that covered the equally worn floorboards.
Laura’s black-and-white tomcat, Magpie, watched Aunt Charlotte’s progress from his place on the bed, his tail thumping idly against the counterpane.
“He plans to stay the month,” Aunt Charlotte said. “Perhaps even longer.”
Laura’s heartbeat quickened in spite of herself. “Who says so?”
“Miss Talbot.” Aunt Charlotte waved the letter. “She’s sent you a note.”
The damp towel fell from Laura’s fingers. She didn’t regard it. “You opened it?”
“I should think I did. Henrietta Talbot has no right to summon you. You’re not her lady-in-waiting, whatever she might believe.”
Laura held out her hand for the letter.
Aunt Charlotte crossed the room to give it to her.
“When did it come?” Laura asked as she opened it.
“Not half an hour ago. You were still in your bath.”
Laura’s gaze swept over the brief missive. “Mr. Wright has brought a friend with him. Henrietta can’t accompany the pair of them without a chaperone. She requests I come directly.”
Aunt Charlotte came to stand beside her. She was a woman of magnificent size, and despite a general air of shabby gentility, as regal in her own way as the queen. “I trust you won’t oblige her.”
“I have no reason not to.”
“No reason! My dear girl, you’ve been half in love with George Wright since you were children. Why must you subject yourself to being in his presence?”
“Calf love,” Laura said dismissively. She folded the letter, setting it down on her dressing table between her matching silver-plated hair brushes and the single unopened bottle of scent left over from Papa’s last batch of fragrance. “I feel nothing for him now except friendship.”
It was the truth, though not the whole of it.
What she felt for George wasn’t love—nor friendship, either. What she felt was disappointment. Deep disappointment, not only in him, but in herself for ever having believed him worthy of her affection.
She’d had blinders on when it came to George, ever since she was a girl. Two years ago, those blinders had been unceremoniously ripped off. To see him again now would be uncomfortable, possibly even embarrassing. More so for him than for her, she’d wager. It was he who had inflicted the breach in their friendship. He who had issued the insult.
As for her own conduct, she had nothing to reproach herself with. Nothing save an excess of girlish romanticism and naiveté.
“If he treated you as a friend, I could bear it,” Aunt Charlotte said. “But he discounts you. Merely because our family has lately fallen on hard times—”
“It’s been three years since Papa died.” Laura gave her aunt an affectionate glance. “And times weren’t much easier then, if you’ll recall.”
Aunt Charlotte’s lips compressed. “I won’t agree with that. You may not have had much money, but when my brother lived, you had standing in this community.”
Laura didn’t argue with her aunt. What was the point? Aunt Charlotte preferred to live in denial of their present circumstances. In the past, when Laura had tried to discuss the family finances with her, it had only caused her distress. Nowadays, Laura kept such harsh realities to herself. Even Teddy wasn’t aware of how bad things really were.
“I’m the head of the family, Laura,” he was often wont to say. “It’s my burden to bear.”
But Teddy couldn’t bear it. The fever tha
t had taken Papa three years ago had left Edward Hayes confined to a wheeled chair, a thin wisp of an invalid who—but for the grace of God—would have already slipped away from them.
“I don’t suppose Miss Talbot has sent a carriage for me?” Laura asked. Henrietta was unreliable about such things. An heiress herself, it rarely occurred to her that others were not as fortunate as she was. “Or will I have to walk to Edgington Park?”
Aunt Charlotte huffed. “She’s sent a one-horse gig, driven by one of their tenants of all people. It’s meant as an insult, I know it. I came this close to sending him off with a flea in his ear.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the kitchen having a glass of lemonade. I knew you would insist on doing Miss Talbot’s bidding, if not for her, then to see Mr. Wright again.”
“Of course I’ll go,” Laura said. “Unless you or Teddy truly have need of me this afternoon?”
“Your brother is presently sketching a nest of birds which he’s spied from his window. Another day indoors, it seems. The poor boy has no color at all.”
At twenty, Teddy wasn’t a little boy any longer, though Aunt Charlotte was content to view him so. It didn’t help that Teddy had grown petulant of late, refusing to leave his room, and sometimes even refusing his meals.
“I’m henpecked to death here,” he would complain. “For the love of God, Laura. Just leave me alone.”
Laura was tired of it. Tired of managing her aunt and her brother and the remnants of their household. Tired of trying to stretch their meager income. There was never any progress—no spark of inspiration as there had been in the beginning. Now, one day was much like another. An endless repetition of stifling obligation. Of needs unmet, and wants which would never ever be fulfilled. Monotonous, that’s what it was.
Except for today.
The handsome gentleman at Talbot’s Pond had been something new. Something different.
But even that encounter had only lasted a moment. And now here she was again, trussed up by obligation and weighted down with needs, and wants, and monotony.
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.
“Archer,” George continued in the same artificially bright voice, “this is Miss Tal
bot, the loveliest lady in Surrey.”
Miss Talbot looked at Alex, her smile dimming. “Welcome to Edgington Park, Mr. Archer.”
Alex bowed. “Miss Talbot.”
“My companion should be here any minute,” she said. “Shall we walk down the drive to meet her?”
“She’s not here yet?” George’s lips thinned with annoyance. “When did you summon her?”
“I didn’t summon her.” Miss Talbot linked her arm through his. “I asked her.”
Alex clasped his hands at his back as he descended the stairs with George and Miss Talbot.
George hadn’t been entirely honest with him.
He’d said Miss Talbot was a neighbor. A childhood friend and nothing more. He’d never once admitted to her having feelings for him.
And, unless Alex was very much mistaken, Miss Talbot did have a fondness for George. Whether that fondness was mutual, it was difficult to tell. But if it was…
Good God, had George Wright offered up his own sweetheart to satisfy his debt?
“Is this your first visit to Surrey, Mr. Archer?” Miss Talbot asked, still clinging to George’s arm.
“It is, ma’am.”
“George said in his note that you’d only recently returned to England. Whereabout are you from originally?”
“London.” Alex came to walk at her opposite side. “My parents removed to Paris while I was still in leading strings.”
It was the same old lie. One he’d told countless times over the years. He’d almost begun to believe it himself.
“I can’t say I blame them,” Miss Talbot replied. “I don’t know how anyone can bear London. All that smoke and dust and fog. It plays havoc with my father’s health. It’s why we never go into the city.” She gave him a look of polite enquiry. “Do your mother and father still reside in France?”
“Regrettably, no. I lost them during the cholera epidemic of ’33.”
“Archer was raised by his godfather, Baron Reynard,” George said helpfully. “A gentleman of some repute.”
A Convenient Fiction Page 2
