Edgington Park was larger than Alex had expected. A sprawling Italianate residence of honey-colored stone, complete with arched windows and three imposing square towers, it stood in the midst of a manicured park, looking for all the world like one of Queen Victoria’s lesser palaces. Alex had never seen anything like it.

“It’s hideous, I know.” George peered out the window of the carriage as the antiquated vehicle came to a shuddering halt at the top of the drive. “The squire has no taste. He believes that the more something costs, the more desirable it is. Anyone could have told him to leave off one of those towers, and half of those windows, too. But would he listen?”

Alex’s gaze passed from the garishness of the house to the land that surrounded it. It was lush and verdant—and alive with industry. There were gardeners trimming trees and hedges, and pushing barrow’s full of earth. Even more men could be seen in the distance, toiling among the gated fields and various outbuildings, including one that looked to be an orangery.

A burgeoning feeling of satisfaction settled within his breast.

Edgington Park wasn’t merely a gentleman’s folly, then. It was a proper working farm. One with a vast acreage, if Alex was any judge. Vaster still if it encompassed the eponymous Talbot’s Wood.

“Squire Talbot must be a very rich man,” he said.

“He’s prosperous enough.” George opened the carriage door and hopped out. “But it’s his daughter who’s the wealthy one. She’s not only heir to Edgington Park, she’s heir to her late mother’s fortune as well. It’s held in trust for her until her marriage.”

Alex followed, shutting the carriage door behind him. George’s father, the vicar, was comfortably off, but he didn’t employ a footman.

“That he even keeps a carriage is nothing short of miraculous,” George had remarked earlier with a derisive snort. “Father prefers to walk. Says it helps him stay close to God.”

Alex wondered how much the pious country vicar knew about his son’s dissolute lifestyle. Was he aware that George gambled? That he drank, and took opium, and kept company with low women?

It was a wasted existence if Alex had ever seen one. Had he a loving father of his own—a home to come back to in a quaint country village like Lower Hawley—he’d never have squandered his life as George had done.

Then again, if it wasn’t for George’s vices, Alex wouldn’t have been given the opportunity to bend George to his will. That was something to be grateful for, at least.