“No need to wake George.” Alex downed the last of his coffee, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood. “I’ll see Miss Talbot. If you’ll show her into the parlor?”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Griffiths bobbed a curtsy before disappearing back through the door.

The vicar had departed for his office at the church well before breakfast. And George was still abed, having developed an acute case of nausea after his night of heavy drinking. The slightest movement provoked another episode of retching.

For all intents and purposes, Alex was on his own.

Miss Talbot couldn’t have called at a more opportune time. Despite his misgivings about her suitability—and about her relationship with George—Alex was still resolved to have her. Country-bred heiresses were thin on the ground. He didn’t have the luxury of being picky.

Besides, Edgington Park would make up for a wealth of minor deficits on the part of its mistress. Even if Miss Talbot was besotted with George, and even if she was a bit spoiled and frivolous, it was but a small price to pay for gaining control of such an estate—and such a fortune.

When he entered the parlor, she sprang to her feet in a rustle of ruffled Indian muslin. “Mr. Archer, is it true? Is George unwell?”

“A minor stomach complaint. Nothing a day in bed won’t cure.” Alex bowed over Miss Talbot’s outstretched hand. “You look very well today, ma’am.”

“In this old gown? It’s nothing very fine, though I did have it made in Paris.” She glanced impatiently about the room. “Is George’s father not at home? Has he not summoned the doctor?”

“The vicar’s gone to the church to work on his Sunday sermon.”

“He didn’t see fit to stay with George?” Miss Talbot’s bee-stung lips pursed with disapproval as she resumed her seat. “How very unfeeling.”

“He left at dawn. George was still asleep.”

“At least you’re here. That has to be some comfort to poor George in his time of need.”

Alex doubted whether George registered his presence at all. When last he’d ventured upstairs to George’s room, he’d found George heaving into a chamber pot, his countenance a distinctly yellowish hue.

“Do you expect he’ll be recovered by Thursday?” she asked. “I’d hoped we might have a picnic on the grounds of Edgington Park. I’ve already instructed Cook on what to make. But if George won’t be well enough to join us—”

“He’ll be well enough.” Alex debated whether to join Miss Talbot on the sofa or to take the chair across from her. He chose the latter. There would be time enough to press his suit during the next month.