Miss Talbot looked aghast. “One and twenty? Good lord. It makes me feel positively aged.”

George snorted.

“How in the world does he occupy himself?” Miss Talbot asked.

“Sketching and painting, mostly,” Miss Hayes said. “He’s become a competent landscape artist, and he’s quite skilled at sketching wildlife. I’ve encouraged him to submit some of his drawings to a natural science journal in Edinburgh.”

“Have you? Perhaps I shall hire him to paint my portrait one day.” She gave Miss Hayes a beneficent smile. “You may tell him so. It will give him something to aspire to.”

Alex wondered if Miss Talbot’s condescension rankled. Miss Hayes hadn’t yet shown any impatience with her friend. And there was no sharp edge to her tone when she addressed Miss Talbot. But Alex couldn’t imagine anyone not feeling some degree of resentment. He knew all too well what it was like to be of unequal status. A veneer of respectability—of wealth and reputation—had done nothing to quell decades of feeling inadequate.

He’d been only a stripling lad when he’d left North Devon, angry and desperate—willing to do anything to get away. He’d even been willing to betray his friends. What use were they when the rest of his life was a misery? Better to save himself. To find a way to forge ahead on his own.

He hadn’t reckoned on what his life would be like without them.

There was no one now who truly knew him. No one he could confide in. No one he could trust. His life on the continent had been that of a well-heeled vagabond. Alone in both good times and bad. A man with no purpose, except to survive.

Which is why he’d come home to England. If there was purpose to be found, it was here, in the land. Money couldn’t buy true belonging. For that, one needed property. A tie to the soil. Plenty of men had married country-bred heiresses to obtain it. Why shouldn’t he?

When Squire Talbot had taken him out to inspect the home farm, he’d regaled him with information about crop rotation, fertilization, and the various benefits of livestock feed. Edgington Park was a well-run enterprise. The workers seemed capable, and the tenants happy. Alex was certain that he could find happiness there, too.

He didn’t feel it now. He didn’t feel anything for the estate, truth be told. Nothing save the overwhelming determination to have it. As for happiness and contentment—that sense of connection, of being made whole—he trusted that would follow when at last the Park was his.

It had to.