“All you need do is say the word, and we’ll stay home. No one will think the worse of you.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “But if you choose to go, you may make some sketches of the sea and the seabirds. And if you become weary, you can doze in the sunshine, with the salty air on your face, and the sound of the water lapping on the shore to lull you to sleep.”

He laughed. “That’s your dream, not mine. All but the sketching. I would like to draw something new. If Alex is certain to be there—”

“He will be,” Laura said. “He promised me.”

Chapter 11

Alex nearly broke his promise to Laura Hayes.

The night before their trip to Margate, George drank all the sherry in the vicarage. And not just the kind the vicar was accustomed to offering his guests. George drank the cooking sherry, too.

And then he dosed himself with laudanum.

It had been prescribed to the housekeeper for an injury some years before. There was naught but a few spoonfuls left in the bottle. Not nearly enough for George’s purposes.

Alex found him ransacking the housekeeper’s cupboard for more, and hauled him upstairs to his room.

George paced the floor like a caged animal. “I must return to London. To St. James’s Street. I’ve two bottles of whiskey in my rooms. I need to get them. I need—”

Alex leaned against the closed door, arms folded. “You need to get control of yourself, before I begin to lose my temper.”

George flashed him a hunted look. “You have your blasted introduction. What more do you want from me?”

“I want everything you promised me.”

“Henrietta’s fortune? It could take weeks longer for you to win her. Months before you’re wed. Do you mean to hold those markers over my head until Judgment Day?”

“When I’ve married Miss Talbot, I’ll burn your markers. Until then—”

“You’ve made me your hostage.”

“Hardly. This is your home, not a prison.”

“A home I left two years ago! You can’t keep me here.” George picked up a teacup from atop a chest of drawers and flung it against the wall. It shattered with a crash, shards of porcelain exploding in every direction. “Tea! I’m sick to death of tea. Sick to death of this place.”

Alex observed George’s display, unmoved. “If you’re quite finished…”

“You don’t understand, Archer. These drips and drabs of wine and sherry won’t suffice. I must have something proper to drink. And in large enough quantities to settle my spirits. I need oblivion—or excitement.” His expression turned sly. “A woman would do. Perhaps I’ll have another run at Laura Hayes? She may be more amenable now she’s older.”