Page 115 of A Convenient Fiction

“Do you imagine I don’t remember what you were like? It’s clear as day to me. To Justin and Neville, too. Why do you think they asked me to find you and bring you home?”

Alex bent his head. He felt a muscle spasm in his jaw. The very idea that they had been looking for him was as bitter as it was sweet. “Devon was never my home.”

“And France is?”

“No. I haven’t had a home. Not until now.” Alex looked up at him. “I’ve finally found some semblance of happiness. I can’t put it at risk. I can’t go backward.”

“You speak as though you have to choose between your past and your future. It doesn’t have to be that way. You must realize that.” Tom smiled. “Why else would you have given your wife that ring?”

With Alex gone, Laura had nothing to do to occupy her thoughts. She paced the hotel room, a mass of anxiety throwing sparks in her chest. She sifted through all that her husband had told her. All the things he’d done as a boy in order to save himself. He’d beaten Tom Finchley. Had robbed him of a treasure trove of money and jewelry. Had run away, and never looked back.

Or so he said.

But something in Alex’s confession rang false to her. She was reminded of his history of half-truths. Of convenient fictions. The way he had of glossing over those chapters of his life that were too painful. Too difficult to face.

And this was surely one such chapter. The darkest yet, she’d wager. She’d never seen him so rattled before. So haunted.

What if he hadn’t gone to meet Mr. Finchley? What if he’d left Grasse?

What if he’d left her?

Her hands clenched at her sides as she walked the carpeted floor. She did trust him. She trusted him to come back for her—to keep his word. But she hated her lack of control over the situation. It made her want to scream.

And she might have done, had a knock not sounded at the door.

She opened it to find Jenny Finchley standing on the threshold. She was garbed in a stylish caraco jacket with a poplin skirt, her thick auburn hair arranged in intricate plaits at the back of her head.

“Mrs. Finchley,” Laura said. “I wasn’t expecting—”

“Pardon the intrusion. I thought we might talk while the gentlemen are away.”

“Of course.” Laura welcomed her in, shutting the door behind her. “Forgive me. I’m not in the best of moods at the moment.”

“Quite understandable. And do call me Jenny. We’ve no need to be formal, given the circumstances.”

“I suppose not.” Laura gestured to one of the chairs near the window. “You may call me Laura, if you like.” She went to the bell pull. “Shall I ring for coffee? Or tea, if you’d prefer?”

“Tea would be splendid.” Jenny sat down, fluffing her skirts, while Laura summoned a hotel footman and placed their order. “My husband said he might be gone for hours. I expect he and your husband are going to have a nice long reminisce about the past.”

Laura sank into the chair opposite her guest. “You make it sound very cordial.”

“My husband bears no ill will.”

“Should he?” Laura asked. “I understand the two of them parted badly, but it was many years ago—”

“Mr. Archer broke my husband’s nose. He still bears the scar from it.”

Laura didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t mean it as an accusation,” Jenny said. “Only to explain that the past casts a very long shadow. Especially where our husbands and their friends are concerned.”

“Do you know their friends? The other boys from the orphanage?”

“Indeed. I used to be companion to Lady Helena, daughter of the Earl of Castleton. She married Captain Justin Thornhill last year. It’s through him that I met my husband.”

“And the other boy?”

“Neville Cross? He resides with Lady Helena and Captain Thornhill at Greyfriar’s Abbey, their estate on the North Devon coast. He had a bad fall in his youth. Your husband rescued him. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the story? It was all very heroic, or so I understand. My own husband speaks of the incident in tones of awe.”