Page 110 of A Convenient Fiction

“But what are you doing here?” She inwardly flinched at her own impertinence. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be overbold. It’s just… This is rather extraordinary. I had an appointment with you little more than a week ago.”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t seem to recall—”

“I was obliged to write and cancel it.” She hesitated, somewhat abashed. “I’m Laura Hayes, of Lower Hawley in Surrey.” She offered her hand. “I enquired about a matter involving my solicitor, Mr. Weatherwax.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies, Miss Hayes. I was in my office for a limited number of hours in the days leading up to my wedding. It was all quite busy, as you can imagine.”

“Yes of course,” Laura said. “But it isn’t Miss Hayes any longer. I’m lately married myself. In fact, I’m here on my honeymoon as well.”

Mr. Finchley smiled. It was a pleasant smile. A kind one. But something in his face reminded Laura of Magpie when he had a bird in his sights. A flickering glimpse of a hardened predator about to pounce on its prey. “I believe, then,” he said, “that I must be addressing Mrs. Alex Archer.”

Alex was up and dressed by the time Laura returned to their hotel room. He was irritated as well. He’d told her to wait, and she hadn’t listened. Grasse seemed safe enough, to be sure, but Laura had never been out of Lower Hawley. She shouldn’t be wandering about alone. Anything could happen.

The door shut behind her with a click. She stood with her back to it, one hand still on the doorknob. She was wearing neither her hat, nor gloves.

His chest tightened with emotion at the sight of her. Good lord, he was becoming sentimental. More than sentimental. Downright mawkish. How else to describe it when the mere sight of his wife disrupted the rhythm of his heart and breath? It was a physiological phenomenon. One he’d been gradually learning to accustom himself to. But just when he’d believed he was making some progress in that regard, she’d gone and told him that she loved him.

She loved him.

It took all of his self-control not to react like some affection-starved madman.

He went toward her. “How long does it take to post a letter? I was just about to come looking for you.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

He took in her pale face and trembling hands in one comprehensive glance. His muscles tensed. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“You’ll never credit it. Mr. Finchley is staying here. At this very hotel.”

Alex stopped where he stood. Had she pulled out a pistol and shot him between the eyes he couldn’t have been more stunned. “Tom Finchley?”

She nodded. “He was in the lobby with his wife. He’s lately married. They’ve come to France on honeymoon, just as we have. Isn’t that a coincidence?”

Alex didn’t believe in coincidences. If Tom was here, he had a reason. “Does he know who you are?”

Laura gave another tense nod. She lifted her left hand, her thumb twisting her ruby betrothal ring on her finger. “He recognized my ring.”

His breath stopped in his chest. “Did he.”

“He asked if he had the pleasure of speaking to Mrs. Alex Archer. I told him that he did. I didn’t think—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong.” Alex closed the distance between them, but Laura seemed intent on preserving it. She moved away before he could reach her, walking to the hotel window, her arms folded at her waist.

“Where did this ring come from?” she asked.

He didn’t follow her. If she needed space from him, she could have it—within reason. So long as she didn’t leave him. “What did he tell you?”

“About the ring? Nothing. But it must be significant for him to have recognized it the way he did. I fear it has some sinister history you haven’t shared with me.” She twisted it again on her finger. “I suppose I should take it off.”

“Don’t,” he said sharply. Her eyes flicked to his, startled. He made an effort to soften his voice. “Please.”

She left the ring where it was. “You said Mr. Finchley was in the orphanage with you. That he was a former friend of yours.”

“He was.”

“And that’s all? Just a friend?”

Alex briefly looked away from her. The truth of his betrayal was an ever-present weight. It seemed to double now, in light of Laura’s question. To bear him down with the guilt and shame of it. “He was more than a friend,” he admitted. “We were as close as brothers. Finchley, me, and two other orphan boys. Justin Thornhill and Neville Cross. They were the only family I ever knew.”