“Rubbish,” the squire said. “There’s nothing more civilized than orderly crops, healthy livestock, and modern machinery. Prosperous farms like Edgington Park are the backbone of England. Your father understands that well enough. He’s often complimented my methods of—”

“I beg you, Papa,” Miss Talbot interrupted. “No more talk of farming. Not when our guests have only lately returned from the continent. I’d far rather hear about Paris than pigs.”

Squire Talbot gave his daughter an indulgent glance. “Quite right, my dear. Plenty of time to talk about farming tomorrow, when I take Mr. Archer out on the estate.”

Miss Talbot was true to her word. She kept the conversation to fashionable topics, presiding over the remainder of their meal with all the aplomb of a society doyenne. And when they’d finished the final course, drunk their after-dinner coffee, and indulged in another round of soulful duets in the music room, it was she, and not her father, who walked them out to the drive and bid them adieu.

“Call on me again soon,” she said as Alex and George climbed into the vicar’s carriage. “When Miss Hayes is back from London.”

The carriage rolled away, the coachman clucking to the horses.

Alex settled back into the shadowy corner of his seat, arms folded.

“My father will be home,” George said with a hiccup. “Shouldn’t have drunk so much wine.”

“Does your father disapprove of drinking?”

“He disapproves of anything that brings a man pleasure.” Another hiccup. “Must be why he wants me to marry. Knows I’ll be miserable. Even if…”

“Even if what?”

George scrubbed at his face. “I wouldn’t marry her. Couldn’t.”

“Miss Talbot?”

“Miss Hayes,” George said, slurring his speech. “Laura.”

Alex’s gaze sharpened in the darkened interior of the coach. “What about Miss Hayes?”

“Made her an offer, last time I was home. Not at all the thing.” George’s mouth spread into a stupid grin. “She slapped my face. Hard. I fancy I can still feel it.”

Alex’s jaw hardened at George’s admission. The mere idea of it…George and Laura Hayes.

Not but that he hadn’t suspected something of the sort.

He’d have had to be blind not to recognize the dark undercurrents that ran between the pair of them. He would have liked to question George on the subject—to find out more about what had happened between him and the mysterious Miss Hayes. But mere seconds later, George was snoring contentedly, his head lolled against the seat.

It didn’t matter, in any case.

Alex hadn’t come to Lower Hawley to ensnare himself with a penniless water nymph. He’d come to ensure his future.

He’d acquired some degree of wealth in the years since he’d left North Devon. Substantial winnings in nefarious London gaming clubs, and at the tables in private gaming establishments all over France. It had been sufficient to assure his comfort in a suite of luxurious rented rooms, and to procure first-class passage on railways and steamships. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough without property.