It was the truth.
She’d said yes to Alex’s proposal because she was fond of him. More than fond, if she was honest with herself. She actually liked him.
There were practical considerations, too, of course. Marrying him would help to smother some of the gossip that now surrounded the Hayes family. It would also ensure that at least fifty percent of the family business was out of Mr. Weatherwax’s control.
It was the latter which weighed most heavily on Laura’s conscience.
“Alex?”
He glanced down at her.
“Do you remember what I told you about my family’s perfume business? About how Teddy is meant to inherit the whole of it upon his majority?”
“Yes,” he said. “What about it?”
She slowed her pace. “There’s something else. Something I didn’t mention before. It hardly seemed relevant at the time. Indeed, until today, it had no bearing upon our relationship at all. But now…I can’t possibly marry you without you knowing.”
A wry smile flickered in his eyes. “A dark secret? You intrigue me.”
“Don’t tease. I’m trying to be forthright about all of this. It’s something that affects you, just as much as it will affect the rest of my family.”
His expression sobered. “Go on.”
She took a steadying breath. “There’s another element to my father’s will. A provision for me, in a roundabout way. It states that, if I marry before the age of five and twenty, I inherit half of the business.”
Alex stopped on the path to look at her.
She came to a halt, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “More to the point, my husband inherits half of the business.”
“Your husband,” he repeated.
“Papa didn’t believe that women should involve themselves in affairs of business. Not in a formal capacity.”
“What are you saying?”
“Only that, if you and I marry before Saturday, half of Hayes’s Perfumes will legally belong to you.”
Alex’s face was impossible to read.
She pressed on in spite of it. “I’d thought—or, rather, hoped—that once it did, you would permit me to manage it. I have plans, you see. Have had for the last three years. Teddy and I have been waiting for him to come of age so I can set those plans in motion. We never seriously considered my marrying. I hadn’t any desire to do so. But now—”
“Is this why you said yes to my proposal?”
She blinked up at him. “What? No. That is…I’m sure it carried some weight in my decision, but—”
“How much weight?” His voice was strange. Deeper than usual, with an underlying hint of…something.
“I don’t know. Does it matter?”
He said nothing for a long moment. And then: “No, I suppose not. This isn’t a love match, after all.”
Laura felt the sharp edge of his words all the way to her heart. Had he insulted her—rejected, or humiliated her—it couldn’t have hurt any worse. She looked ahead down the path, focusing on the trees and the shrubs, their leaves shimmering in the sunlight. “No,” she agreed at last. “It’s a marriage of convenience, that’s all. And one that will see you much better off than you anticipated.”
He folded his arms, staring down at her with that same unreadable expression. “How much better off?”
“Let me see.” She smoothed her skirts, vaguely registering that her palms were damp. “There’s the flower farm in Dorset—about two hundred acres, with an attached distillery. A factory in London. And a property in France—another flower farm with a distillery nearby.”
“Your family owns all of the land?” He sounded incredulous.
“Well…yes. How else do you think we earn enough to live on? Mr. Weatherwax leases out the land in Dorset to the farmer who owns the adjoining property. As for the London factory, and the distillery in France, they’ve been shuttered since my father died. Mr. Weatherwax has often tried to convince us to sell them, but Teddy and I have held firm.”
“What do you plan to do with them?”
“Open them back up, of course. And not for perfume production. We won’t make my father’s mistake. We’ll return to making lavender water. Only this time, we’ll have other fragrances available as well. Rose, orange blossom, and the like. All we need do is borrow the funds to get production started.”
Alex walked to the edge of the path and stopped. His back was to her, his shoulders taut beneath the lines of his coat. “And what’s to prevent me from selling my half share as soon as we marry?”
Her heart leapt into her throat. “You would never!”
He turned back to face her. A warm breeze ruffled his hair. The section he wore combed back from his brow, fell down over his forehead. “You don’t know that.”
She looked at him, speechless.
“You don’t know anything about me, Laura. Except that I’m a gambler and a fortune hunter. A man with no family, no friends, and no fixed address. Not the best credentials for a business partner.”
“No, but…you wouldn’t just be a business partner. You’d be my husband.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Worse and worse. Husbands routinely squander their wives’ fortunes.”
“I don’t have a fortune. Nowhere near it.”
“You have the potential for one. Much more than I knew.”
“Only if we work for it. Only if we take the risk. To simply sell the land and the distilleries would be a poor decision. One that would garner but a fraction of the income we could earn if we put them to use.”
“We,” he echoed. “You and Teddy?”
“You and I.” She took an uncertain step toward him. “Teddy wants no part in managing the business. He trusts me to do what’s right for us all.”
“And, in turn, you must trust me?” His lip curled in a sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
She closed the remaining distance between them, coming to stand in front of him, so close that her full skirts billowed against his legs. “Why are you being so disagreeable?” She laid her hand on his arm. “Is it because I didn’t tell you about all of this before?”
His gaze fell to her hand, lingering on the ruby ring he’d put on her finger. “I’m not being disagreeable. I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being perfectly churlish. Saying that you’ll sell my half of the business. That’s not realistic. That’s cruel. Whatever else you are, you’re not that.”
“You think not?”
“I know you aren’t. I’ve seen how you are with Teddy, and with Aunt Charlotte. Not to mention the fact that you risked your life to save mine. You’re no unfeeling brute. Not by a long chalk.” When he would have looked away from her, she lifted her hand to his cheek, gently compelling him to meet her eyes. “What is it you’re afraid of?” she asked softly. “Is it so unthinkable that you might have a life here?”
“Not unthinkable, no.” His voice went gruff. “It’s bloody terrifying.”
“Because you care for me?”
“If I didn’t, I’d have nothing to lose.”
Her heart twisted with sympathy for him. “I see.” She smoothed his hair from his brow. “In that case, you’re simply going to have to trust me.”
He bent his head to hers. “What about you? How can you trust me? How do you know I won’t squander your share of the business, and leave you no better off than you were before?” His gaze was troubled. “I don’t want to hurt you, Laura.”
“Then don’t.” She leaned against him. “I have faith in you.”
“You haven’t any reason to.”
“That’s what faith is, isn’t it?” She stroked his cheek. “Besides, you couldn’t be any worse than Mr. Weatherwax.”
Alex huffed a laugh. “If that’s the bar by which I’m being measured—”
�
��You’ve already surpassed it with miles to spare.”
“The man must be beyond all hope.”
“He’s insufferable and overbearing, is what he is. I’ve hated dealing with him these past years.” She couldn’t suppress a self-satisfied smile. “I can hardly wait to see the look on his face when he learns that I’ve managed to marry before my birthday.”
“Will you have to see him again?”
“I’m afraid I must. Not only to sort out the legalities for my half of the business, but to make another argument for Teddy’s half. I’ll have to go to London on Friday. I already have an appointment with another solicitor.” She frowned. “I wonder if I should keep it?”
“Is it purely to force Weatherwax’s hand?”
“That was the original idea. Unfortunately, Mr. Finchley isn’t able to represent me. He’s only agreed to see me in order to refer me to another solicitor. Still, I…” She trailed off. “What is it?”
Alex took a step back from her. “What did you say?”
Her hand fell from his cheek. She looked at him in bewilderment. “Which part? Was it about Mr. Finchley?”
He visibly flinched. “Is that his name?”
“Thomas Finchley, Esquire. That’s what his card says.” She searched Alex’s face. It was slowly draining of color. “Have you had dealings with the man?”
“Have you?” he returned.
“No. I haven’t even communicated with him. Not directly. The letter I received was signed by his clerk. It was he who set the appointment.”
“Cancel it.”
“But why—”
“It’s unnecessary.” He turned his back to her for a moment. Laura heard him take a ragged breath. She had the impression he was exercising brutal control over his emotions. “Whereabouts in London was this solicitor located?”
“On Fleet Street. Not far from Mr. Weatherwax’s office.” She touched his sleeve. “Alex…who is he?”
He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know. He might be no one. Or…”
“Or?”
“He might be a boy I knew once in the orphanage. A former friend.”
“You don’t wish to find out?”
“No.” He gave her a wry look. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
She frowned up at him. “Why do I have the feeling there’s more to this story?”
“That chapter of my life has been closed for a very long time. I’d rather not revisit it.”
She nodded slowly. “Very well. We don’t have to speak of it if you don’t wish to.”
“I don’t,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”
Tom Finchley was alive.
Not only alive, but alive and well, and apparently thriving—in Fleet Street, of all places. Only a short railway journey and a hansom cab’s drive away.
As Alex stood at the window of the vicarage parlor, waiting for the housekeeper to summon the vicar, the reality of it ran over and over again in his mind. He worried at it like a child picking at a slowly healing wound. Drawn to the pain of it. Unable to leave it alone long enough to heal.
What were the chances that returning to England—to Lower Hawley, of all places—would have thrown him so swiftly into Tom’s path? Surrey was a long way away from London, and an even longer way from North Devon. It had seemed a safe destination. An inoffensive place in which to marry and set down roots.
It had been a miscalculation of epic proportions.
Better he had stayed in France. Better he had never come back to England at all. But then…
Then he’d never have met Laura.
He cast her a brooding glance. She was seated on the sofa, hands folded neatly in her lap. The ruby ring glinted against her skin.
It was bad enough that she’d insisted on coming with him to the vicarage. Now she knew something of his past as well. The part of his past he was most ashamed of. His betrayal of Tom Finchley.
A former friend, he’d told her.
He could have more accurately described Tom as a brother.
There was a part of Alex that thanked God Tom was alive. In the days before Alex had left North Devon, Tom had been articled to a London solicitor. Of all of the orphans, his future has seemed the brightest. It was only fair. Tom had always been smarter than the rest of them.
“Just compensation for being small,” he’d told Alex once. “You, Justin, and Neville can carve out your futures with brute strength. I shall have to use my wits.”
Alex vaguely remembered being jealous of his friend’s good fortune. Unlike Tom, Alex had been apprenticed to old Mr. Crenshaw, the cantankerous apothecarist in Abbot’s Holcombe. Crenshaw had been poorly suited to train up a willful boy of twelve, choosing to communicate more with a crack of his walking stick across his apprentice’s back than with his words.
And then there were Crenshaw’s friends.
One fellow in particular who had patronized the apothecary shop. Gilbert Morley. A man who had been all too interested in Crenshaw’s young apprentice.
Alex had spent years erasing the events from his memory, but it was the work of seconds to call them back again. The leering looks. The sly innuendo. The feelings of powerlessness, and revulsion.
“What a strapping lad you are,” Morley had said the first time he’d seen him. He’d come into the shop when Alex was alone. Had backed him into a corner. “Anyone ever told you that?”
Alex’s gaze had darted to the door, willing Crenshaw to return.
“And such a handsome face.” Morley’s eyes had raked over him from head to toe. “I like a comely boy, meself. A healthy young lad like you.”
It had never gone any further than a single, encroaching touch. Alex had run away before it could. But if he’d stayed…
The reality of what might have happened to him turned his stomach.
Had Mr. Fothergill, the grim-looking solicitor who took Tom from the orphanage, been as unforgiving as Crenshaw? As despicable as Morley? Or had Tom been brought along in his profession with patience and kindness?
It seemed that some of their little brotherhood were destined to do well in life. Tom was a successful solicitor, apparently. And Justin was now married to an earl’s daughter. An heiress, in fact. He’d even gained ownership of Greyfriar’s Abbey.
And what of Neville?
Was he alive and well? Or had his fall from the cliffs at Abbot’s Holcombe ultimately killed him, or damaged him in some permanent way?
For over two decades, Alex had resigned himself to not knowing. But now…
“You’re very quiet,” Laura said.
He forced a half smile. “The calm before the storm.”
No sooner had he spoken than the parlor door swung open, and the vicar entered the room. He looked as he always did—his gray hair rumpled, his frock coat slightly worn, and his spectacles perched halfway down his nose. “Mr. Archer. Miss Hayes. This is a surprise.”
“Mr. Wright,” Alex said.
George trailed in after his father. His hands were thrust into his pockets.
The vicar motioned both men to sit. “There were many who thought we’d seen the back of you, sir.” He flicked a reproving glance at Laura. “Your aunt was among them.”
Laura didn’t appear surprised. “Aunt Charlotte’s predisposed to worry.”
“With good reason, it seems.” The vicar settled himself in a chair before once again addressing Alex. “My son has been telling me all sorts of things about you, Mr. Archer. Am I to assume that’s why you’ve come?”
Alex took a seat next to Laura on the sofa. “It is.”
“It’s none of your business, father.” George leaned against the mantel. His expression was sullen. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t know why I did.”
“Because you thought I wasn’t coming back,” Alex said. “But her
e I am, as you see.”
George scowled. “Where the devil did you get to? Had I known you’d return—”
“To London. To purchase a special license.” Alex took Laura’s hand in his. It was silky warm, her slim fingers threading through his. “Miss Hayes has consented to be my wife.”
Understanding registered in George’s eyes. Anger quickly followed. “What about Henrietta? You and I had a bargain—”
“George.” The vicar raised a hand to silence him. “Let us speak about this in a civilized manner. We are not savages.” He turned to Alex. “About this bargain…am I to understand that my son owes you money? A sum he lost to you at the gambling tables in France?”
“He does, sir.”
“And that the sum exceeds ten thousand pounds?”
Alex inclined his head.
The vicar’s eyes were suddenly weary. “You and I must come to terms then. We honor our debts in this household.”
“I told you, it’s nothing to do with you,” George said to his father. “I already negotiated a way to pay it back.”
“I know all about the way you arranged to pay your debt,” the vicar returned with uncharacteristic venom. “By sacrificing the life of an honorable young woman.”
“It was only an introduction. Henrietta wasn’t obliged to marry him.”
“That poor girl deserved better from you.”
George snorted. “That poor girl is three times as devious as I am, and twice as devious as Archer. If you can’t see that—”
“Enough, George. I won’t hear you justify your sin. All I require from you—”
“All you require is perfection. That I meet your unmeetable standards.”
“Not that you meet them, only that you aspire to them. The same thing I would ask of any of my congregation.”
“I’m not your congregation,” George said. “I’m your son.”
“Enough,” the vicar said again. “I won’t have us repeat this old argument in company.” He removed his spectacles. “Mr. Archer, I’m in no position to scold you when my own son is the architect of your transgression, but I must say that—”
A Convenient Fiction Page 20
