Page 62 of A Convenient Fiction

George’s lips compressed. And then: “I asked her to be my mistress.”

Alex’s hand froze on his cravat.

“She’d just come out of mourning, and there I was, half-seas over on Squire Talbot’s Christmas punch. I knew she’d always fancied me. Ever since we were children. So I kissed her, and I mumbled some rot about setting her up in a townhouse, after which she slapped me.” George slipped his waistcoat on over his arms. “And then I went to London, found a chorus girl to warm my bed, and congratulated myself on a lucky escape.”

“And now you’re back.”

“Not of my own volition.”

“I trust you have no intention of repeating your offer.”

“Do you want her? Is that it?” George turned from the glass. “Forgive me if I get confused. I thought it was an heiress you required. A lady with a substantial property. Henrietta Talbot, in fact.”

Alex didn’t reply. How could he when he didn’t know the answer himself?

“She is in the palm of your hand. If you don’t take her…” George huffed. “Well, it doesn’t seem fair, does it? That you should keep my markers when I’ve all but delivered Henrietta to you on a silver platter.”

Alex went to the washstand and filled the basin with water. “No, it isn’t fair. But life seldom is, is it?”

They dined in the hotel’s public dining room, all of them dressed in their evening finery. Squire Talbot presided over their party at the head of table. Alex was seated between Henrietta and Mrs. Bainbridge. Laura sat opposite him, between George and Teddy. There was no opportunity to speak to her. It would have been unseemly to talk across the table. Besides which, she was thoroughly engaged with her brother, discussing his progress at painting, by the sound of it.

She was also extraordinarily beautiful, garbed in a silk evening dress with a ribbon belt and a low, lace-trimmed neckline that revealed the curve of her porcelain shoulders and hinted at the swell of her bosom.

After a few brooding stares in her direction, Alex made a point of directing his attentions to Henrietta. She was equally lovely in a gown of printed pink, her golden ringlets pinned atop her head in a profusion of rosette-studded curls.

“I’d no notion it would be so crowded,” she said. “But it seems every London clerk and his wife has come to stay. And we must endure their company, both on the beach and here at the hotel.”

“You can blame the railway,” Alex said. “It’s democratized Margate.”

Henrietta raised a spoonful of soup to her lips. “To think this hotel was once patronized by royalty!”

Alex wondered what Henrietta would make of his own pedigree—or lack of one. He had no illustrious antecedents. No grand familial connections. Indeed, if he were to wager on his bloodlines, he’d bet everything he had on his mother having been a scullery maid, or a common prostitute. As for his father…

He’d long suspected that, like Justin Thornhill, he’d been sired by the notorious Sir Oswald Bannister, baronet. Sir Oswald had owned Greyfriar’s Abbey, a ramshackle estate in North Devon, situated high on a cliff overlooking the sea. Renowned for his drunkenness and lechery, he’d been one of the orphanage’s foremost patrons—which was no surprise when one considered that the place was populated with several of his bastards.

Justin had been one of those bastards. As a lad, he’d been tall, dark, and leanly muscled, just as Sir Oswald had been. He’d also possessed Sir Oswald’s distinctive gray eyes—as stormy as the fog over the Devon sea.

Alex had been blessed with many of the same features. Unlike Justin, however, Alex had never seen a scrap of proof that Sir Oswald was his father. He had only his instincts to guide him. Instincts that had told him, from a young age, that Justin must be his brother.

Since coming to Lower Hawley, Alex had been thinking of Justin more frequently. He’d been thinking of Tom, too. Of how he’d looked when last Alex had seen him; beaten, bloody, and betrayed. And of Neville, lying on his sickbed in the orphanage, unable to formulate even the simplest words without a struggle.

“I’m sorry,” Alex had whispered to him. “But I have to go. I have to get away from here.”

He’d been consumed by an almost feverish sense of urgency. There had been no time to wait on wiser counsel. No time to work things out with Justin or Tom. Alex had known how the story ended for boys like him. They were disposable—and he was more disposable than most. There was nothing special about him. He hadn’t Justin’s nobility, or Tom’s razor-sharp mind. He had only his good looks. A handsome face and figure that had ended up doing him far more harm than good.

He’d known then that, if he wanted saving, he would have to save himself. Even if that meant burning all of his bridges behind him. At the time, he’d believed he had no choice. All he’d been able to think of was getting away from there.

And he had got away. As far away as a boy could get with one hundred pounds in stolen gold coins.

It had turned out to be very far away indeed. So far that Alex had almost been able to erase the past. But the past was never really gone. Not when one had done what he had. The memories clung to him like ghosts. The specters of Justin, Tom, and Neville.

Laura had said he was looking for a family. But he’d had a family once. Had them, and thrown them away. Sacrificed them. All to save himself.

In his darkest moments, he’d begun to wonder if it had been worth it.

Shortly after eight o’clock, Squire Talbot and the rest of their party made their way to Cecil Square and the imposing stone-faced building which housed Margate’s public Assembly Rooms. The entrance was flanked with Doric columns through which ladies and gentlemen of every class poured into the ballroom.

Mirrors and stuccoed decorations adorned the walls, and in the corner a small but enthusiastic orchestra played reels, quadrilles, and waltzes.