Page 21 of A Convenient Fiction

She firmly believed that, even now.

A short time later, the cab came to a halt in front of Mr. Weatherwax’s office. It was a narrow white building with a polished brass nameplate and freshly swept steps. “Shall I wait, ma’am?” the jarvey asked.

Laura climbed out, giving her skirts a shake to dislodge the straw and other debris her hem had picked up on the floor of the cab. “That won’t be necessary.” She paid the man from the few coins in her reticule. “Thank you, sir.”

He tipped his hat to her before clucking to his horse and driving on. The rattle of the cab, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, echoed behind her as she climbed the steps to the door and firmly applied the knocker.

A young maidservant answered the summons, opening the door just a crack and peering out with wary eyes. She wore a mob cap atop her mousy hair, and an apron over a homespun gown.

“Miss Hayes to see Mr. Weatherwax,” Laura said. “I have an appointment.”

The maidservant drew back. “Best come in, then, miss. I’ll take you to him.”

Laura followed the maidservant through a narrow hall and up the stairs to Mr. Weatherwax’s office. He was just visible through his half-open door, sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, scowling over a document of some sort. When he saw Laura, he cast it away and stood, swiftly buttoning his waistcoat over the paunch of his stomach and shrugging on his frock coat.

“Miss Hayes.” He came to greet her. “Punctual as always.”

He extended his hand and she took it, ignoring the flicker of distaste that went through her when he pressed her palm a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.

“Mr. Weatherwax,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Good morning.”

“It certainly is now.” He turned to address the maidservant who remained lingering by the door. His countenance darkened. “Fetch the tea tray, Patience. And don’t dally.” And then, more sharply, “Off with you, now!”

Patience—if that was truly her name—shot out of the office with the speed of a startled hare.

“A workhouse indigent,” he said by way of explanation. “I’ve taken her on as a maid-of-all-work. Just on trial, mind. But it isn’t ideal. Not by any means. The stupid creature can scarcely brew a proper pot of tea.”

Laura felt a pang of sympathy for the frightened girl. Mr. Weatherwax could unsettle anyone. One always had the impression that he was a hair’s breadth from losing his temper. “I have no need of refreshment,” she said.

“Naturally you do. You’ve come all the way from Surrey. You must be parched as well as fatigued.” He ushered her to a chair across from his desk, standing over it as she sat down. She glanced up at him in question.

“Forgive my impudent stares, Miss Hayes. It’s been two years since last we met. I’d quite forgotten what you looked like.”

Laura folded her hands primly in her lap. She hadn’t forgotten him. He was sporting the same sparse, oily beard and mustache that he had on her previous visits. The only difference was that now the hair on his head was thinning to match. To compensate, he’d combed it across his scalp, anchoring the brown strands with a thorough application of pomade. “Yes, it’s been a very long while, sir. And I haven’t a great deal of time to spare—”

His gaze flicked to her valise. “You’re staying overnight?”

“At Mrs. Swan’s Hotel for Ladies. I’m catching the train back to Lower Hawley first thing in the morning.”

“Have you plans for dinner this evening? I expect Mrs. Swan serves an adequate meal, but it will be nothing to dining at Claridge’s. If you would join me—”

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” Laura said quickly. Dine with Mr. Weatherwax? Good gracious. The mere idea of it was enough to send a tremor of revulsion through her. But she didn’t dare offend the man’s pride. “That is, perhaps some other time? The rail journey has been rather taxing.”

He frowned down at her a moment before his features softened with masculine condescension. “I forget how fragile you are.”

Her spine went rigid. Fragile, indeed! “Mr. Weatherwax, you are very civil, but if we could please address ourselves to the matter at hand—”

“Yes, yes.” He went to the great leather chair behind his desk and took a seat. The upholstery creaked beneath his weight. “You wish to discuss your father’s will.”

Laura saw no need to beat about the bush. “My brother comes of age next month. He’ll be one and twenty on the seventeenth.”

Mr. Weatherwax steepled his fingers in front of him. “And how is your brother faring? Is his health much improved?”

“It’s improving steadily.”

“But not enough for him to come here today.”

A vague sense of foreboding made her hesitate. “As to that…”