Alex was across the room in two strides, his hand twisted in George’s cravat. He lifted him nearly off his feet. “If you go near her—if you even think of it—”

“You’ll what?” George choked out. “Kill me?” His mouth twisted. “Go ahead.”

Alex released him, stepping back as George fell to the floor, coughing. Rage surged through his veins, raw and primitive. He could have easily torn George apart. Part of him still wanted to. And for what? For merely mentioning Laura’s name?

What in blazes was wrong with him?

He didn’t lose control. Not ever. And certainly not over a woman.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “And I’m not going to permit you to kill yourself.”

George’s face crumpled. He put his head in his hands and began to cry.

Alex had met drunkards before. The kind of men who couldn’t go a day without a bottle of whiskey or gin. He hadn’t thought George was as far gone as that. In France, George had often been foxed, but he’d loved gambling as much as drinking. As for the opium he’d begun taking…

Oblivion or excitement, wasn’t that what he’d said?

As if he was trying to blot out reality. To erase all traces of natural thought or emotion.

Laura had accused Alex of doing the same. Of suppressing his feelings. Of never risking anything for fear of being hurt.

But he wasn’t the same as George, surely.

“It was a mistake to allow you to drink, even in small amounts. From now on, you’ll take no wine with dinner. No spirits of any kind.”

George looked up at him bleakly. “You’re a monster.”

“Rather the opposite,” Alex said. “This is me at my least monstrous. This is me trying to save your life.”

Two hours later, when the vicar finally returned from visiting sick parishioners in the village, George was in bed asleep.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” The vicar asked. “I can sense when the household’s been in an uproar, even if my servants don’t see fit to inform me of it. The expression on Mrs. Griffiths’s face… It can only be because of George.” He looked at Alex with weary eyes. “Will you join me in the parlor?”

Alex sat down with him in the same chairs they’d occupied the night of Alex’s arrival in Lower Hawley. Beeswax candles were lit on the mantel, casting the room in flickering shadows.

“Is it drink?” the vicar enquired. “Or something stronger this time?”

“Three bottles of sherry,” Alex said. “And a dose of laudanum.”

The vicar glanced to his drinks table, where the decanter that usually held his sherry now stood empty. “Is this how he comports himself when he’s away from home? Or is it worse?”

Alex didn’t answer.