Chapter Seven
Steam curled from the teacups, but it was Alyssia who was in danger of boiling over. “The man is utterly unrestrained with his teasing!”
Across from her, Annabelle took a sip of tea, eyes glinting with amusement. “Seems to me that he is flirting with you.”
“Flirting? Hah! You don’t know that man at all!”
“I take this to mean the marriage was not consummated?”
“Annabelle!”
“What? You never know. The two of you have history, after all.”
History or not, his teasing had crossed the line! Should she have left the moment she’d discovered him in a tub? Yes. However, had that last bit of wheedling to bathe together been necessary? No!
Alyssia steeled her mind to focus on the matter at hand, reading over the gossip column again.
It was already noon, so she could just imagine the flock that had tried to call on her this morning after reading about her mysterious marriage.
While the columnist did “announce” her wedding, it also came with speculation about the reason.
No matter.
Wed was wed.
When Giles claimed his title back, she had no doubt that romantic tales would be spun about their wedding.
And they would be completely wrong.
Again.
“One of my maids has a friend who has a friend in Rafferty’s household. Apparently, after reading the paper this morning, he threw a teacup against the wall.”
Alyssia set down the paper and reached for her tea. “Is that so?” The corners of her lips twitched.
Annabelle nodded. “I wish I could have seen it firsthand.”
“Me too,” Alyssia echoed the sentiment. It would have gone a small way to smoothing the hurt he’d caused.
“Have you told your husband about what happened?”
Alyssia grimaced and shook her head. “No, and I’m not going to tell him.”
“Whyever not?”
“Giles has his own troubles to deal with.” She didn’t need to add any of her own. Besides, hers didn’t matter anymore. She was done. What was done was done. All she wanted to do now was move on from the ordeal.
“They were friends years ago, were they not?” Annabelle asked. “He’s going to find out one way or another. He might already know.”
That gave her pause. Giles might already know? He would have said something, she was sure. But then, she didn’t know him well enough anymore to claim that, did she? “If he knows, then he knows.”
“My mother always says that the key to an amiable marriage is conversation. One must have conversations with one’s partner every day.”
Even if it felt as though her teeth were being pulled?
Liar. That’s not how you feel at all.
It was how she felt. A little bit.
“Make sure to take your mother’s advice in the future,” Alyssia murmured, taking a sip of tea.
Her friend scoffed. “What will you do if your husband rekindles a friendship with Rafferty? Have you thought about that? A conversation would clear it all up.”
She had thought about it, and then promptly decided not to think about it any further.
That was a matter to deal with when it came.
At the moment, only a handful of people even knew about Giles’s return, so there was no use in dwelling on certain things now.
“Let us have that conversation later, then.”
Annabelle shrugged. “It’s your choice. Have you penned a note to your father?”
Alyssia nodded. “This morning.” She shuddered. “He will not be happy.” Hopefully, he didn’t come rushing back to London. She’d done her best to reassure him without giving away too many of the details.
“Yes, well, there is nothing he can do about it unless he discovers you haven’t consummated the marriage and wants to try to force an annulment.”
“Aren’t you a marvelous ray of sunlight, Annabelle?” Could her father do that? There was no way for him to discover the truth.
“Come now, no need to sound to put out. I am merely the voice of reason and consequence.”
“What’s the use of there being two such voices?” She was well aware of her own situation.
“To bounce ideas off each other?”
Alyssia shook her head. “You are both impossible.”
Annabelle set her cup aside. “Birds of a feather flock together.”
Heh. “So you are saying I’m impossible too?”
Her friend grinned at her. “Exactly. Speaking of which, where is your husband?”
“He and Knoxley left together an hour ago for a meeting or some such.” She didn’t want to think about who they were meeting, which was why she hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t elaborated beyond informing her they’d only be a few hours, standing far too close and whispering in a hushed tone that made her heart react riotously.
Scoundrel.
Annabelle raised an arch brow. “Curious, are you?”
“Why would I be?” Alyssia denied. “He is not obliged to report to me his every movement.”
Annabelle laughed. “But you worry.”
“You are imagining things.”
“Am I? You have been fidgeting since I arrived. And don’t you dare try to deny it!”
“Fine, I worry. What of it?”
“Am I just saying there’s nothing a conversation cannot fix.”
Alyssia’s retort withered on her tongue, and she settled for rolling her eyes.
Should she have a conversation with him, after all? Just imagining the teasing that would follow . . . So vexing! No. Better not.
Annabelle gave her a knowing look. “You always roll your eyes when you care more than you wish to admit.”
Alyssia folded her arms. “I am not some love-struck girl sighing after her husband’s whereabouts.” But since learning about his uncle, how could she not worry?
“I know.”
“Good.” She tried to appear perfectly at ease, smoothing her skirts over her knees, but her hand trembled ever so slightly.
Blast him. Why did his absence unsettle her more than his presence?
When he was near, she could at least pretend complete irritation and detachment.
When he wasn’t, she had nothing but silence, and in silence, her mind betrayed her.
It conjured him far too easily: that maddening half-smile, the faint stubble on his jaw, the low rumble of laughter that should have grated but somehow soothed. She could almost hear it now, see the way his eyes darkened when amused.
How utterly vexing.
Her mission of marriage having been accomplished, her only aim now was to keep it conveniently in name only and perhaps help Giles with his mission.
If he would allow her. It was a tidy, reasonable plan.
Safe. Sensible. And yet, even as she told herself so, something within her refused to settle.
Because she knew, deep down, that nothing about Giles Bishop had ever stayed tidy, reasonable, or safe.
Bishop could have walked into his old home blindfolded, his body remembering what his mind would rather forget.
The voices of his parents seemed to echo in the walls—their laughter, their quarrels, their life.
Even the old butler, Hodgins, remained in employ.
Shock alone had prevented the man from barring his path when Bishop had asked for his uncle’s whereabouts.
Instead, the butler had stammered out the answer, eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost.
He could not, however, allow his focus to falter. To do that would be to invite remembrance, and to remember would be to bleed. His purpose was clear, his steps steady, as he strode toward the drawing room Hodgins had mouthed.
Without pausing, he entered, eyes falling on the two occupants. He wouldn’t have minded if they’d had callers. It might even have been more fun that way. Alas.
“Uncle, Aunt.” He greeted them much more easily than he’d imagined he would even though the sight of them hit like several fists to his guts.
Rage and discipline warred in his chest. Bishop’s fingers twitched, aching for violence, but a sweet, if defiant, voice in his head kept him calm.
Alyssia’s. He could not afford to lose himself here.
Their faces, on the other hand? Worth the wait.
These people murdered his parents. “Or should I say Your Graces? Do forgive my intrusion. How have you been these past twelve years?”
His uncle spluttered first. “You’re . . . you’re dead.”
He allowed himself a small smile as he crossed the carpet and sank into the nearest chair, studying their satisfying reactions.
For an instant, the room condensed. He saw himself as a boy, lounging boredly on the very sofa where his aunt now perched, swinging his legs and wishing the afternoon guests would leave so he could sneak off to play on his own.
His gut clenched. “As you can see, I’m very much alive, not dead, though not for your lack of trying. ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his uncle burst out, face as white as a blank sheet of paper.
So they were going to play it that way. “Oh? You did not order the murder of us? Please, Uncle, Aunt, do not look so horrified. If I had proof, we wouldn’t be conversing here. But I do have something, though: right. The right to this title you’ve been clinging on to, and I want it back.”
His aunt put a hand to her throat. “We don’t know you,” she said faintly. “Our nephew died in a carriage accident. The boy and his parents, God rest their—”
“God will as His will promises,” Bishop said. “As for us men, we are much less single-minded, aren’t we?” He crossed his legs at the ankles. “But I’m hurt. How is it that old acquaintances recognize me immediately, but my own family does not?”
The old man’s throat worked. Color crept back to his uncle’s face in a blotched tide. “Theodore?”
Bishop laughed. “In the very flesh.”
“How . . . how is this possible?” his uncle asked.
“You’re really asking me that?”
The old man flinched as if struck. “You cannot prove anything.”
Ah, the words of a guilty man. Fury exploded inside him.
Mercifully, Alyssia’s face rose in his mind.
Her voice. She would have told him to keep his temper, to save the blow for where it would bruise most. Yes, keep your cool, Bishop.
He’d imagined this scene for twelve years.
In his head, he’d throttled his uncle thousands of times.
He’d ended his life a thousand ways. Looking at him now, the man before him was just a man.
An old man.
Still an opponent not to be underestimated.
Bishop tapped a finger against his knee. “You disappoint me, Uncle, or should I say, Winterbourne. I looked up to you as a boy. And all the while you were coveting your brother’s title.”
“This is madness,” his aunt cried. “Some cruel jest.”
“Ah, yes,” Bishop drawled. “I’ve returned from the dead to haunt you.”
“Enough,” his uncle said sharply, though his voice trembled on the last notes. “You cannot come into our home and accuse us of—of—”
“Murder?” Bishop supplied. “Say it, uncle. It doesn’t grow less ugly when whispered.”
The fan his aunt had been clutching snapped open with a nervous flick. “You speak abominably. We are people of faith.”
“Faith?” He gave a soft laugh. “Forgive me if I fail to see it. People of faith, dear aunt, would have demanded justice for my parents. Instead, you buried them with lies and took their home as a prize.”
His uncle surged half to his feet. “Enough!”
The old man’s shout echoed through the room, bouncing off portraits of people long dead—his father and mother among them.
Bishop rose slowly, gaze never leaving his uncle’s. “No need to ruffle your feathers. I’ll admit, I’ve had years to envision what I’d say when I met you again. And now that I have . . . I find words are woefully inadequate.”
His uncle swallowed hard. “If you mean to threaten us—”
“I already have,” Bishop said simply, “by existing. Isn’t that so? So shall I end your life here and now, or do you wish for me to draw it out?”
His aunt gasped softly, hand to her mouth.
Bishop chuckled. “Do not fret, Aunt. I haven’t come to see you hanged. Not yet, in any case.” He paused for a moment for that to settle. “I imagine you’ve grown rather fond of your comforts. The title, the estate, the income. I will take great joy in stripping you of it all.”
“You think the Crown will take your word?” his uncle rasped. “You are nothing but an imposter!”
“I think the Crown will take the word of all those who vouch for me rather than those who do not. Shall we test whose truth carries farther?”
The old man paled again. His aunt had gone quite still, too, save for the quiver of her fan.
“Good,” Bishop said with a nod. “You understand, then. I’ll reclaim all you have taken from me,” his gaze flicked between them, cold and unrelenting, “and you will have the satisfaction of living to witness my return.”
He turned and strode to the door, pausing at its threshold. “Do convey my regards to your son. How old is he this year? I’d hate for him to meet the same fate as myself.”
Bishop didn’t wait for a response before marching off. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d gotten their hackles raised and set things into motion. Now, he’d love nothing more to return to Alyssia and sink his head onto her shoulder and breathe in her intoxicating scent.
Home.
She was his home now.
But first, Knox.
Then he’d find Alyssia, and nothing would stop him from taking her into his arms.