“If you’re going to tell me that I know nothing about him, and that he may very well be a fortune hunter, you may save your breath to cool your porridge.” Henrietta resumed walking to the barouche. The footman opened the door for her and assisted her up into her seat. “I have it all well in hand, Laura.”

Laura stood at the arched iron gate at the edge of the church’s small graveyard. Carriages and smaller gigs of every type jockeyed for position on the road—some coachmen waiting to retrieve their masters and mistresses, and some attempting to leave with their occupants in tow.

Parishioners were still spilling out of the church. Sunday services with Mr. Wright were generally well attended, but this Sunday it seemed the entire village had turned out to celebrate George’s return—and to get a glimpse of the mysterious friend he’d brought back with him from London.

When Squire Talbot finally arrived at his barouche, ready to depart, he wasn’t alone. Mr. Archer was with him, smiling at whatever it was the squire was telling him.

Laura’s fingers tightened on her prayer book. She felt a flicker of self-consciousness. Even more so when Mr. Archer’s gray gaze briefly fell to hers. He immediately looked away, but not before she’d seen that his smile of a moment before had disappeared.

“Miss Hayes,” Squire Talbot said. “Good day to you.”

“Good day, sir.” She doubted whether anyone heard her. Henrietta was immediately occupied with addressing Mr. Archer, and the squire was busy climbing up into the seat of his barouche and issuing instructions to the coachman.

Laura turned and went back into the church to collect her aunt. She found her slumped in the front pew, the vicar standing over her with a look of concern. “What is it?” Laura hurried up the aisle. “What’s happened?”

Aunt Charlotte waved her away. “Only a dizzy spell.” Her face was flushed, twin spots of color standing out on her cheeks. “I’m quite recovered now.”

“It’s the heat,” the vicar said.

“Is that all?” Laura sat down beside her. “Are you certain it’s not your heart, Aunt?”

“No. I don’t believe so. Though it is racing a trifle.” Aunt Charlotte gave her an apologetic look. “Perhaps we should summon Dr. Taylor?”

Laura rubbed a reassuring hand up and down Aunt Charlotte’s silk-clad arm. “Yes, I daresay we should.” It would be another expense, but Laura didn’t begrudge it. Some things were too important. “Where is your fan?”

“In my reticule.”

Laura retrieved it. It was a painted paper confection, more decorative than useful. She nevertheless snapped it open and waved it briskly in the vicinity of Aunt Charlotte’s face.

“Best take her home, Miss Hayes,” the vicar said, “and see that she has something cool to drink.”

“Are you able to walk back to the cottage?” Laura asked.