Laura felt a flicker of unease. There were thieves on the continent. Alex had warned her to keep her wits about her. She took a step back. “Thank you. I certainly think so.”

“Are you English?” The lady had a voice like a crisp apple. Rather like a schoolmistress. A British schoolmistress, at that.

“I am,” Laura said. “As are you, I presume.”

“Indeed,” the gentleman replied. “We’ve recently come down from Paris, by way of London.” He paused before introducing himself. “I’m Thomas Finchley. And this is my wife, Jenny. We’re here on our honeymoon.”

Laura stared at him. “Thomas Finchley? Of Finchley and Fothergill?”

Mr. Finchley didn’t look at all surprised that she knew who he was. “That’s correct.”

“But what are you doing here?” She inwardly flinched at her own impertinence. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to be overbold. It’s just… This is rather extraordinary. I had an appointment with you little more than a week ago.”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t seem to recall—”

“I was obliged to write and cancel it.” She hesitated, somewhat abashed. “I’m Laura Hayes, of Lower Hawley in Surrey.” She offered her hand. “I enquired about a matter involving my solicitor, Mr. Weatherwax.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies, Miss Hayes. I was in my office for a limited number of hours in the days leading up to my wedding. It was all quite busy, as you can imagine.”

“Yes of course,” Laura said. “But it isn’t Miss Hayes any longer. I’m lately married myself. In fact, I’m here on my honeymoon as well.”

Mr. Finchley smiled. It was a pleasant smile. A kind one. But something in his face reminded Laura of Magpie when he had a bird in his sights. A flickering glimpse of a hardened predator about to pounce on its prey. “I believe, then,” he said, “that I must be addressing Mrs. Alex Archer.”

Chapter 22

Alex was up and dressed by the time Laura returned to their hotel room. He was irritated as well. He’d told her to wait, and she hadn’t listened. Grasse seemed safe enough, to be sure, but Laura had never been out of Lower Hawley. She shouldn’t be wandering about alone. Anything could happen.

The door shut behind her with a click. She stood with her back to it, one hand still on the doorknob. She was wearing neither her hat, nor gloves.

His chest tightened with emotion at the sight of her. Good lord, he was becoming sentimental. More than sentimental. Downright mawkish. How else to describe it when the mere sight of his wife disrupted the rhythm of his heart and breath? It was a physiological phenomenon. One he’d been gradually learning to accustom himself to. But just when he’d believed he was making some progress in that regard, she’d gone and told him that she loved him.

She loved him.