Page 3 of A Convenient Fiction

“Doing what?”

“Holding your breath under the water.”

Her hand stilled on her comb. “I told you. I was strengthening my lungs.”

“Why?”

She had to stop herself from telling him. He was a stranger, for heaven’s sake, not her friend. “It’s no concern of yours, sir.”

He huffed. “Of course not.” He walked a few steps across the clearing, pausing to rake a hand through his damp hair. “Will you permit me to see you home?”

“Why should you wish to? I’m in perfectly good health.”

“You’re in no fit state to—”

“To what? Defend myself from strangers? I’m a little wet, that’s all.” She paused before adding, “Until you, no man has ever accosted me in these woods.”

He turned to face her. “I meant no disrespect. I—”

“Yes, I know. You only meant to rescue me. But I need no rescuing, as you see.”

“No, indeed.” His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. “I overreacted.”

Laura lowered her comb. She realized, for the first time, that her rescuer looked more than a little shaken. He was white about the mouth. And his hands were trembling. “There’s been no harm done.”

“No? I’m glad to hear it.” His mouth hitched in a brief, wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll bid you good day, then, before I compound my crime.”

She blinked up at him. But she didn’t dare ask what he meant. She was scarcely managing to keep her countenance as it was. “Good day to you, sir.”

He bowed. “Ma’am.”

And then he was gone.

Alex Archer stifled a groan as he dismounted from his hired horse. He was unaccustomed to riding. In the city he relied on hansom cabs, omnibuses, or—more generally—his own feet. But George Wright’s instructions had been clear: Alex was to take the London train to Lower Hawley, and from thence to hire a horse for the remainder of his journey to the vicarage.

“It’s not far,” George had promised. “Five miles of good road along the edge of Talbot’s Wood.”

Talbot’s Wood, indeed.

Had his horse not thrown him and bolted off into said woods, Alex wouldn’t be aching all over, and soaking wet besides.

He wasn’t a pauper. Not by any means. But when he thought of the amount of coin he’d expended on his clothing for this confounded venture… And now, to have ruined a new coat and pair of boots—he might as well have set his money alight.

But there was no turning back.

He led his horse down the gravel drive, and after depositing it in the vicarage stables, made his way to the front steps of the house. Sun glinted off the brass knocker on the red front door. It was a cheerful dwelling. The sort of happy home that housed an equally happy family.

The sort of home Alex had never had.

As he approached, his large frame blocked out the sun, casting an ominous shadow over the door. There was no need to ply the knocker. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, as if the occupant of the house had been waiting for him.

And so he had.

“Archer!” George Wright stood in the doorway, an uneasy smile on his lips. With his tousled blond curls and expressive brown eyes, he looked more like a romantic poet than the son of a humble country parson. “What in blazes happened to you?”

“A minor mishap.” Alex returned George’s smile with a dry one of his own. “The horse I hired is a menace.”

George gave a nervous laugh. He was always nervous in Alex’s presence, had been ever since the night they met in Marseilles a year ago, at one of the city’s most notorious gaming clubs. Alex had beaten George at cards rather badly that night, collecting what would be the first of his many markers.