A Convenient Fiction

by Mimi Matthews

  “Well, there we are.” She looped her basket over her arm. “In any event, I’d hardly call it a kiss. It lasted all of two seconds. Scarcely worth remembering.”

  “Is that so?”

  Her stomach was trembling, as out of control as her hands. She was baiting a wolf, and she knew it. It was childish and stupid. But part of her wanted to hurt him, just as he’d hurt her. “I consider it no more memorable than a buss on the cheek from an aged uncle. Not half as memorable as the kiss I shared with George.”

  His mouth curled into a slow, sardonic smile. “Remind me to teach you not to overplay your hand.”

  She gave him an uncertain look.

  “George?” His smile broadened. “Really, Laura?”

  “He did kiss me.”

  “And you slapped him across the face. ‘With all of your strength,’ isn’t that what you told me?”

  It was her turn to frown. “You’re very smug.”

  “A lady like you isn’t likely to fancy a fellow like George Wright.”

  “What do you know of ladies like me?”

  “Enough to recognize that you’d never lose your heart to a wastrel.”

  “Is he a wastrel?” She walked past him. “When I was a girl, he seemed a perfect gentleman. I thought myself in love with him. Had he proposed marriage, I would have accepted him without hesitation.”

  “When you were a girl,” Alex repeated. “In your salad days.”

  She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Oh, do go away! I don’t know why you came here if you’re only going to tease and devil me.”

  “I’m not entirely certain myself.” He followed after her. His horse was tethered ahead.

  “You’d do better to avoid me completely,” she said. “Indeed, I wish you would.”

  His smile faded. “Do you mean that?”

  She turned back to him. There was nothing sardonic about his expression now. If she was disposed to girlish daydreams, she might almost fancy that he cared for her. “I don’t know. Meeting as we did…it’s given us a false sense of familiarity. But we aren’t friends, are we? We aren’t really anything to each other at all.”

  “I should like to be a friend to you,” he said.

  Her gaze briefly fell from his. It took an effort to keep her countenance. “I don’t think we can be friends.”

  His voice lowered to match hers. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not, if it’s true? Friends should be honest with each other. They should show each other who they really are. How is such a thing even possible with a man like you?”

  “A man like me.” His large frame loomed over her, as motionless as if her words had turned him to stone. “And just what sort of man is that?”

  “A chameleon,” she replied without hesitation. “You change yourself to suit your company. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. One moment you’re one way, the next another. As if you’re a completely different man. I can’t even be certain that half of the things you say aren’t elaborate fictions created to aid your deception.”

  “You think I’ve lied to you?”

  “Haven’t you?” Her gaze drifted over his face. He was so ruthlessly handsome. So pleasing in physical form and outward manner. But there was always something else there—something lurking behind his eyes. A secret self, hidden from the world.

  It was as if he wore a very lifelike mask.

  She’d only seen him without it on two occasions. The first day they’d met when he’d pulled her from Talbot’s Pond. That had been the real Alex Archer. That man, wet and shaken, standing over her on the bank.

  And then again, today, when he’d confessed to being an orphan.

  There had been a rawness to his countenance. A heartbreaking vulnerability.

  “That story you told us at dinner,” she said, “about the sharper you traveled with as a boy. Was there really such a man?”

  He fell silent for a long moment. “There was,” he admitted at last. “But his name wasn’t Giraud.”

  “It’s all a version of the truth, then. Not the whole truth.”

  His mouth quirked. “Does anyone ever tell the whole truth at a dinner party?”

  She refused to let him make a joke of it. “What about the things you’ve told Henrietta? You said that your parents died in Paris. That you were raised by your godfather, Baron Reynard. And now you tell me that you’re an orphan. That you have no family at all. I don’t know what to believe.”

  “What does it matter? You and I—”

  “The truth always matters.” A frustrated huff of breath escaped her lungs. “But as for the rest of it—” She shook her head. “You’re right. It makes no difference. After you marry Henrietta—”

  “Henrietta Talbot has nothing to do with it. I haven’t even proposed to her yet. Besides,” he added, “she may well refuse me.”

  A flicker of curiosity compelled Laura to meet his eyes. “What would you do if she did? Leave Lower Hawley, I presume.”

  “Probably.”

  “And then?”

  He gave an eloquent grimace. “Find another heiress.”

  “And a gentleman like George to provide the introduction?”

  “I don’t know about that. Gentlemen like George aren’t easy to come by.” He paused before explaining, “Wastrels who have more than a passing acquaintance with a marriageable young heiress. Meeting George in Marseilles was something of a godsend.”

  “I’m sure God had nothing at all to do with it,” Laura said.

  When Alex stopped to untie his horse, she continued down the path without him. The hurt and embarrassment she’d felt at his refusal were fading, but her pride still stung.

  Her momentary lapse of good sense stung even more.

  She had every reason to want to be married before her twenty-fifth birthday, but what in heaven had she been thinking to propose marriage to him? She hardly knew the man! Granted, he was handsome. And he had shown extraordinary kindness to Teddy and Aunt Charlotte. But was that all it took to win her heart? She wouldn’t have thought so.

  And yet, she’d asked him to marry her. Stupidly. Impulsively. Without a thought for reality.

  The words had just seemed to bubble up from an untapped well of feeling deep inside her. An emotional response to the way he’d described what he hoped to gain from Edgington Park.

  As if an estate—a soulless piece of property—could ever provide a true sense of belonging.

  Love and acceptance could only come from people. From family. Those nearest and dearest to one’s heart.

  But Alex didn’t have anyone near to his heart. He was alone. Entirely alone.

  And she’d ached to draw him into her life.

  But he didn’t want her, or her family. He’d rather have Henrietta and Edgington Park.

  Well, he was welcome to both, with her good wishes. As for herself, she needed more than kindness to her family. More than wolfish good looks. She needed a gentleman who would love her. Sacrifice for her. Give up his schemes, and choose her and her alone.

  It was never going to happen. Not with him.

  Alex Archer simply wasn’t that kind of man.

  “A letter came while you were out!” Aunt Charlotte called out as Laura entered the cottage.

  Laura stripped off her hat and gloves, and stepped out of her muddy half boots. She made her way into the parlor in her bare feet. “Something from Henrietta?”

  Aunt Charlotte was seated on the sofa, a paper fan in her hand. “No. That is, you did receive a note from Miss Talbot, but the letter I speak of is from London. I’ve put it on the mantelpiece for you.”

  All Laura’s anxiety over her ill-thought-out proposal to Alex Archer slipped away. She hurried to the fireplace and retrieved the letter from the mantel. The return address was written in heavy black ink, the name of the sender n
ot the one she was expecting. At least, not entirely.

  The Law Offices of Finchley and Fothergill

  She looked up at her aunt. “Finchley and Fothergill?”

  Aunt Charlotte wafted her fan. “I know nothing more than you do, my dear.”

  Laura opened the letter, devouring the contents where she stood.

  Dear Miss Hayes,

  I have your letter of the 15th inst.

  In reply thereto, I beg to inform you that Mr. Finchley, being currently engaged in a matter involving Mr. Weatherwax, is unable to represent you. He will, however, make himself available for consultation and referral on the 31st of August at the hour of half past eleven of the clock in the forenoon.

  Please respond to confirm your appointment.

  Sincerely,

  J. Poole, clerk

  Laura read the letter again before handing it to her aunt. “What do you suppose he means ‘engaged in a matter involving Mr. Weatherwax’?”

  Aunt Charlotte’s face clouded with worry. “Perhaps the two of them are working together?”

  “Or against each other,” Laura suggested.

  Her aunt didn’t seem to hear her. “He may have already told Mr. Weatherwax that you’ve written, seeking another opinion. And if Mr. Weatherwax knows—”

  “Surely that would breach some ethical rule or other? Communication with one’s solicitor is meant to be sacred, isn’t it? Like a priest and penitent, that’s what Papa used to say.”

  “But Laura, my love, Mr. Finchley isn’t your solicitor. Not yet.”

  Laura bit her lip. Had she already bungled everything before she’d even met the man? “If Mr. Weatherwax and Mr. Finchley are indeed working on a case together, I doubt Mr. Finchley would have offered to consult on the matter—or to refer me to another solicitor.”

  “I really couldn’t say, dear. I know nothing of solicitors and their ways. If your father were here…”

  “Don’t fret, Aunt Charlotte.” Laura pressed a swift kiss to her aunt’s cheek as she bent to retrieve the letter. “I’m going to tell Teddy.”

  Aunt Charlotte gave her an affectionate pat. “Order a bath as well. You smell of pond water.”

  Laura grimaced. She did, rather. “I’ll have Yardley bring in the tub.”

  Since Papa’s death, baths were taken behind a screen in the kitchen. Yardley carried in the tub and Mrs. Crabtree filled it with hot water from the fire. It wasn’t conducive to a leisurely soak, but it was efficient enough for washing. Even so…

  As she bounded up the stairs to her brother’s room, her skirts clutched in her hands, Laura imagined the additional staff they could hire if everything turned out the way she planned it.

  There would be a footman to assist Teddy, and to help Yardley haul the tub up the stairs. A housemaid to relieve Mrs. Crabtree of doing the laundry, dusting, and scrubbing the floors. And to relieve Laura, too, from all those hours spent in the kitchen each week clear-starching their muslins and lace.

  Perhaps, if the Hayes family’s finances were restored to some of their former glory, they might even afford a small open carriage, and a pair of horses, to take Teddy out for a daily airing.

  “Laura?” Teddy called as her footsteps sounded in the hall. “Aunt Charlotte said a letter came from the solicitor?”

  She entered his room smiling, determined to put as positive a light on the situation as possible. “It did. I’ve brought it for you to read.”

  He was at his desk, as always, garbed in an ink-stained linen shirt and dark woolen trousers. His black hair stood half on end.

  She ran her fingers through it as she came to sit down beside him. “It’s past time I cut this.”

  “Don’t fuss.” He took the letter from her and then waved her away.

  She watched his face as he read it. His reaction wasn’t very different from Aunt Charlotte’s.

  “I don’t know how you can smile,” he said when he’d finished. “For all we know, Weatherwax is about to cut our household allowance in half.”

  “I won’t believe that. Solicitors are bound by oaths of confidentiality.”

  “Like doctors?” Teddy snorted. “Someone should inform Dr. Taylor. He’s never hesitated to share the business of our family’s health with the entire village.”

  “Our family’s health isn’t exactly a secret.”

  Teddy gave her back the letter. “You’ll go to London?”

  “I will. At the very least, Mr. Finchley can provide us with the name of another solicitor.”

  “The 31st is the day before your birthday. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “I’m not likely to forget that,” she replied with a laugh.

  Teddy didn’t join in her laughter. “Laura…” He contemplated her for a long moment. “Do you wish you’d married?”

  “What a question!”

  “Do you?” he pressed.

  She looked at him, her smile fading. “What’s brought this on?”

  “Mr. Archer—Alex—seems a good sort of fellow. I did wonder—”

  “You may cease your wondering. Alex Archer hasn’t a grain of interest in me. Not in that regard.”

  “He does. The way he looked at you at dinner… I think he must be half in love with you.”

  Laura stared at her brother. The very idea of Alex being in love with her—half or otherwise—was enough to make her heart turn over.

  She wondered what Teddy would say if she told him that she’d proposed to the man. Proposed, and been unceremoniously rejected. No doubt her brother would expire from mortification—just as Laura had felt like doing the entire walk home from the pond.

  “He most certainly isn’t,” she said. “Of that, I can positively assure you.”

  “Why else would he help Aunt Charlotte? Why else would he help me?”

  “Because he likes you. And who wouldn’t? You’re the most intelligent, talented person I know. Anyone would be lucky to make your acquaintance.”

  Teddy turned red about the collar. “I don’t know about that. But I do like him, Laura. And so does Magpie. He doesn’t allow just anyone to pet him.”

  Laura glanced at her brother’s bed. Magpie was in his usual spot, stretched out asleep after a night of hunting. “How well I know it.”

  “He never liked George.”

  “No indeed.” She hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now, however, it struck her that cats could be uncanny judges of character. “It seems Mr. Archer has a way of getting around animals, as well as people.”

  “Is he coming back to visit?”

  “I believe he is. And not only that…” She told Teddy all about the proposed trip to Margate, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Won’t it be marvelous?”

  “And he’s going to spend the entire two days helping me?” Teddy looked doubtful. “Surely he’ll want to bathe.”

  “Oh no. He doesn’t care for the sea. He says he’ll be quite content to stay with you—if you can tolerate his company, that is. Besides, you’ll have Yardley to look after you. It isn’t as if Alex will have to do everything.”

  “Still…it sounds a big to-do. I don’t know if I…”

  “What?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t know if I have the strength. I haven’t done anything—gone anywhere—since the fever. What if—”

  “All you need do is say the word, and we’ll stay home. No one will think the worse of you.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “But if you choose to go, you may make some sketches of the sea and the seabirds. And if you become weary, you can doze in the sunshine, with the salty air on your face, and the sound of the water lapping on the shore to lull you to sleep.”

  He laughed. “That’s your dream, not mine. All but the sketching. I would like to draw something new. If Alex is certain to be there—”


  “He will be,” Laura said. “He promised me.”

  Alex nearly broke his promise to Laura Hayes.

  The night before their trip to Margate, George drank all the sherry in the vicarage. And not just the kind the vicar was accustomed to offering his guests. George drank the cooking sherry, too.

  And then he dosed himself with laudanum.

  It had been prescribed to the housekeeper for an injury some years before. There was naught but a few spoonfuls left in the bottle. Not nearly enough for George’s purposes.

  Alex found him ransacking the housekeeper’s cupboard for more, and hauled him upstairs to his room.

  George paced the floor like a caged animal. “I must return to London. To St. James’s Street. I’ve two bottles of whiskey in my rooms. I need to get them. I need—”

  Alex leaned against the closed door, arms folded. “You need to get control of yourself, before I begin to lose my temper.”

  George flashed him a hunted look. “You have your blasted introduction. What more do you want from me?”

  “I want everything you promised me.”

  “Henrietta’s fortune? It could take weeks longer for you to win her. Months before you’re wed. Do you mean to hold those markers over my head until Judgment Day?”

  “When I’ve married Miss Talbot, I’ll burn your markers. Until then—”

  “You’ve made me your hostage.”

  “Hardly. This is your home, not a prison.”

  “A home I left two years ago! You can’t keep me here.” George picked up a teacup from atop a chest of drawers and flung it against the wall. It shattered with a crash, shards of porcelain exploding in every direction. “Tea! I’m sick to death of tea. Sick to death of this place.”

  Alex observed George’s display, unmoved. “If you’re quite finished…”

  “You don’t understand, Archer. These drips and drabs of wine and sherry won’t suffice. I must have something proper to drink. And in large enough quantities to settle my spirits. I need oblivion—or excitement.” His expression turned sly. “A woman would do. Perhaps I’ll have another run at Laura Hayes? She may be more amenable now she’s older.”