Chapter Four #2
“She sent a missive that my oldest friend had risen from the dead and I should come collect him.”
Bloody hell.
“Imagine my surprise to find she was speaking the god’s honest truth.”
Bishop stared into the dark gaze of his childhood friend, Brent Madden, the Marquess of Knoxley, known to his friends as Knox.
The man might as well have shoved a fist through his chest, grabbed hold of his heart, and squeezed.
Almost the same as with Alyssia but also completely different.
In one day, he’d come face to face with all he’d been robbed of twelve years ago.
Knox moved farther into the room, stopping beside the window where the curtains were drawn half open. He gave him another quick once over. “You look like hell.”
“Feel like it, too,” Bishop muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
“Good, seeing as you were meant to be dead. Did the devil not want you and spit you back out?”
Bishop gave a humorless laugh that turned into a cough. “Something like that.”
Knox’s jaw clenched. “I spent half the night convincing myself you’re a ghost and I’ve entered a nightmare.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
“You think this is damn funny? In twelve years, you couldn’t send a bloody missive that you’re alive?”
Bishop sighed. “Could I? You must have figured out my uncle’s hand shaped all this. I couldn’t take the chance.”
“So you waited twelve years?”
“Should I have come back as a boy with no power?”
“You have power now?” Knox taunted.
He possessed more now than he had before he met the Duke of Crane, before he learned who the man’s half-brothers were.
The seven Furys. The Bastards of Brighton.
He might not need to call in a favor, but he would if he had no other choice.
Also, if he married Alyssia, he would have the backing of her father.
That was, if her father forgave him. But Bishop would rather not count on his in-laws.
Then there was Knox. “I have you.”
The man snorted. “Aren’t you a lucky one.”
“Aren’t you one of the reasons my uncle’s petitions to claim my title have been blocked? I imagine he declared me dead after seven years.”
“Naturally, but enough uncertainty lingers that I’m not the only one. Your uncle hasn’t gathered a full house of support, and while Dare and I are still alive, he never will.”
“If I were a weaker man, I’d shed a tear at your support.”
“Blackguard.”
Bishop hitched up his lips. He’d kept tabs on the situation in London through Crane’s name and knew what Knox said was true.
He supposed he’d have to send word back now to explain himself and tell the duke that he would have to find another man of affairs.
However, Crane was no fool. He had long suspected Bishop’s identity was not as simple as it seemed.
“Good a name as any to call me. How have you been all these years?”
“Don’t you dare turn the conversation back to me. I’ve been well. What were you doing at the Lyon’s Den? How long will you be here? Have you returned for good?”
“I’m back for good and wedding in a few days. Perhaps you could help me procure a special license.”
Knox arched a brow. “Dove-Lyon?”
Bishop nodded.
“Who’s the unlucky chit?”
“Alyssia.”
Knox’s second brow joined the first, then understanding dawned. “I see how it is. She went to Dove-Lyon and you per chance met there.”
“Then you know of her situation?”
Knox shrugged. “There are rumors of an indiscretion, but I don’t make a habit of speculating whether there is any truth to them or not. So you found your way back to each other. That’s good, I suppose. What were you doing at the Den?”
Bishop flung his legs off the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. “Handling business for someone.”
“Fate truly is a damnable thing. So is Dove-Lyon, knowing enough to send for me.”
“Won’t argue with you there.”
“It’s almost as if she wants you to reclaim your title.”
Indeed. Even he had to admit, it seemed rather calculating, the way she’d called him Your Grace. Deuced terrifying, in fact. “Perhaps my uncle has earned her displeasure.”
“He wouldn’t be the first,” Knox said with a wry twist of his mouth. “So what will you do about your uncle?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“The moment he discovers your return, your life may be in danger.”
And Alyssia’s. Damn it. He hadn’t thought about anything beyond the need to win that blasted game.
“You can stay here for the time being,” Knox said, as if reading his mind. “Until you reclaim what’s yours.”
“Your house?”
“Just one of several I own in St. James.” Knox flicked a gaze around the room. “Where else will you settle with your sweet new bride?”
Bishop shook his head, his voice filled with mockery, “You always did have a way of making generosity sound like an insult.”
“I call it practicality. You still have to decide whether you’ll slit your uncle’s throat or unseat him politely.”
“Polite isn’t in my vocabulary when it comes to him.”
Knox’s grin was brief. “Rest, plan, and when you’re ready, go take back what’s yours.”
Bishop leaned forward, eyes half-closed. Take back what’s yours. How simple that sounded.
His gaze snapped back to Knox. “The person involved in the rumors with Alyssia. Who is he?”
Knox’s face darkened. “You don’t know? Cecil Rafferty.”
His mouth moved before his brain. “Who the devil did you say?”
“Couldn’t claim I was surprised, honestly,” Knox drawled. “He always coveted your belongings.”
For a moment, Bishop could only stare.
Rafferty.
The name crawled from memory like rot under stone. His face hardened.
Indeed.
Another man to deal with.