Page 105 of A Convenient Fiction

He shrugged. “Why not?”

“Oh, Alex.” Her eyes shone soft as velvet. “I—”

“Vous êtes arrive, monsieur,” the coachman said. The carriage slowed to a halt in front of a modest building of cream-colored stone. It was set halfway up a hill, with an iron fence about it, and a small courtyard leading to an entryway flanked by palm trees. The same stately palm trees that lined many of the streets in town.

Laura’s words were left unfinished.

Alex didn’t press her. They hadn’t the privacy for it.

He leapt out of the carriage to hand her down. She was wearing a dress he’d bought her in Paris. A beribboned affair of striped grenadine, with an overskirt of fine French muslin, and a silk sash at her waist. The matching leghorn hat—a dainty scrap of femininity—was pinned to her ebony hair, a white ostrich plume curving gently along its edge.

He’d have liked to have had more time with her in Paris. A chance to purchase her a whole new wardrobe. Something better than a few dresses pilfered from another lady’s order—gowns Alex had had to bribe the modiste to part with.

His wife shouldn’t have to wear last season’s fashions. He wanted her to have the best. Not just of clothing and millinery, but of everything.

He wanted to be the best for her.

A better man, at least, than when he’d commenced this mercenary enterprise with George.

The coachman called out again in rapid French.

“What did he say?” Laura asked.

“He wants to know if he should wait for us.” Alex addressed the coachman. “Revenez dans une heure.” He tucked Laura’s arm through his. “I told him to come back in an hour.”

She gazed up at the façade of the building as they walked across the courtyard. “It looks empty.”

No sooner had she spoken than the front door was pushed open. An older man in a homespun linen shirt and trousers emerged. He removed his cap, mopping his brow on a beefy forearm. When he saw them, he stopped and scowled.

“Qui êtes vous?” he demanded. “Que faites vous ici?”

“Je m’apelle Alex Archer et voici ma femme,” Alex replied. “Son nom de jeune fille était Laura Hayes.”

“Hayes?” the man repeated. “Are you English?”

“We are,” Laura said. “We’ve come to see my father’s factory.” She offered him her hand.

The man wiped his hand on his trousers before he shook it. “I was grieved to hear of his passing. A fever was it?” The man shook Alex’s hand as well. “Quel dommage.”

“And you are?” Alex asked.

“Gabriel Marchand.”

Alex recognized the name from Weatherwax’s documents. “You’re the caretaker.”

“Oui, Monsieur. I worked for Monsieur Hayes for many years. On his death, Monsieur Weatherwax hired me to look after the property.”

Laura’s expression tightened. “Mr. Weatherwax is no longer involved in any aspect of my family’s business. My husband and I have charge of things now. We’d like to see inside.”

Marchand bowed. “It would be my pleasure to show it to you.”

Laura followed along after Monsieur Marchand, taking in the vast emptiness of the building. It bore no resemblance to the distillery in Dorset. There were no stills or steam-powered machines. No great vats filled with rose petals, peppermint, or stalks of lavender. And no jars containing the precious residue produced from distillation. Only a lingering floral scent hinted at what it once had been.

“The equipment—” she began.

“Sold,” Monsieur Marchand said. “On Monsieur Weatherwax’s instructions.”

Anger boiled in Laura’s veins. She felt the reassuring weight of Alex’s hand at her back. “How long ago?”