A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (4 page)

She pulled the locket from her pocket and thrust it at him. “Because I am his daughter.”

Francie thought she saw him falter, just a slight clench of his jaw as the meaning of her words sank in, before he recovered and then retrieved the locket from her outstretched palm. It looked small and fragile in his big hand. He turned it over several times, his eyes narrowed on the tiny picture of Lord Montrose.

“I fail to see the resemblance.” He thrust the locket back at her, his voice chilling her more than the wind seeping through the rented carriage had.

“But don’t you see?” Her gaze darted from the red-haired man in the locket to the dark, formidable one seated before her. “We’ve got the same red hair, curls as well. And our eyes... they’re the same blue. Surely you can see that.”

She may as well have spoken to a stone statue. “I see no resemblance,” he repeated.

“But—”

“None.”

She hesitated a second, wondering if she should try another tactic to see the earl.
Perhaps pleading or tears. No. She would not beg or cry in front of this man who watched her with such arrogance and disinterest. Francie stuffed the locket in her pocket and grabbed her bonnet. She would leave with dignity. Without saying a word, she pulled on her gloves.

“Good luck with your search for your father.” Insincerity filtered his voice. He didn’t believe her story. He probably thought she was trying to cheat the earl out of a piece of his vast wealth. As though money or the like mattered to her.

It had been a mistake to come. A mistake to hope the embers of a long-lost love might still flicker. If the earl were anything like the uncaring man before her, she should count herself lucky to have been spared another humiliation.

Somehow, she’d find a way to help the women of Amberden wage a battle against Jared Crayton. As for the father she never knew, well, one couldn’t miss what one never had. She clutched the locket, squeezing so hard the broken hinges dug into her palm once again.

Francie squared her shoulders and met the man’s hard gaze across his desk. He’d been studying her those few seconds she’d given up to thought and disappointment. Had he detected her intense dislike of him? A tiny part of her hoped he had because good breeding forced her to bid him a proper farewell, despite his rudeness toward her.

“Thank you for your time, Mr....” She floundered, searching for a name. But there was none. They hadn’t even been properly introduced.

“Bishop,” he supplied.

“Bishop,” she repeated, nodding her head. “Good day.”

And then, before she suffered any other manner of insolence or deviation from proper comportment at the hands of the man called Bishop, she turned on her heel and left.

***

Alexander Bishop maintained his air of assumed arrogance until the door clicked and he heard Francie Jordan’s footsteps fleeing down the hall. Then he let out a deep breath and sank back in his leather chair.

What the devil!
He ran his hands over his face and thought of his encounter with the red-headed stranger. She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. With her tumbling fiery mane and brilliant blue eyes, the woman was the type who could weave truths from lies and capture the heart of any unsuspecting fool. Not him, of course. He’d never been considered a fool.

Alexander rose from his chair and turned toward the cherry sideboard.
Whiskey
. Exactly what he needed. He lifted a crystal decanter, poured two fingers in a glass, and downed the amber liquid in one swallow.

What the devil!
He couldn’t get the woman’s face out of his mind. The red hair. The blue eyes. The light dusting of freckles on her nose. He poured another drink. Full lips. Fair skin. Not to mention the tall, slender frame.

She could not be Philip’s offspring
. She was probably nothing but a greedy little chit, looking to capitalize on an old man’s failing health and fading memories.

No one would take advantage of Philip Cardinger. Not even a beautiful mystery woman who professed to be his daughter.

He enjoyed the burn of one more whiskey before he straightened his cravat and quit the room. He had a sudden desire to visit Philip, just for a minute or so, to be certain he was feeling well today.

And to assure himself Francie Jordan’s hair was not the same shade of red as Philip’s, but rather a bit lighter with a hint of gold. And her eyes, a deeper, brighter blue.

By the time he reached Philip’s door, he had a dozen or so physical traits he wanted to compare.
Blast the woman!

Alexander entered the master bedroom, adjusting his vision to the dim interior. The cream damask draperies shut out the afternoon’s sunny greeting, lending a soothing quiet to the room. Philip slept late these past few months, ever since he’d taken ill with a severe cold that settled in his lungs. The cough persisted still, turning at times from a dull hacking to a fierce hoarseness that made his fair skin ruddy from exertion.

Philip Cardinger was a big man, thick and bulky, though in recent months his face had grown leaner, his cheeks hollowed out and pale. He’d come to rely on the ebony walking stick Alexander gave him to move about Drakemoor. When he exerted any type of energy, his tall frame leaned on the stick, his breath coming in short little puffs as he maneuvered from room to room.

He was a sick man and the last thing he needed in his life was an upset of any kind, especially one involving a possibly illegitimate daughter.

“Do you plan to stand there and watch me all day, boy, or help me get up?” a gruff voice called from the bed.

Alexander met the older man’s gaze and smiled. He hadn’t missed the tender familiarity when Philip called him
boy
. He was the only one who could get away with calling him that, or Alex, as he often did. Others referred to him as Alexander, but most addressed him as Mr. Bishop.

“You should be sleeping, Philip.”

“Sleep. Sleep.” Philip let out a big yawn and stretched his long arms over his head. “All I do is sleep.” He rubbed his eyes. “Open the drapes. At least let me see light.”

Alexander obliged, moving toward the draperies and fastening each one back to emit a shock of light into the room.

“Better.” Philip sighed as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “Much better.” He coughed twice, the hoarse sound filling the room. “Damnable cough.”

“Would you like me to send Thomas in to help you dress?”

“No. I can dress myself.” He pulled at the top of his nightshirt. “I’m not an invalid yet.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. It’s perfectly acceptable for a man of your position to use a valet,” Alexander said, easing into a chair near the bed. “We’ve gone over this countless times.”

“Then you should understand my answer by now, Alex.” He took a deep breath and said in a firm voice, “I can dress myself.”

Ornery old cuss
. “Fine.” Alexander preferred the use of a valet to assist him with his wardrobe. Pristine shirts. Countless numbers of them. Shiny Hessians. Ten or more pairs. Lint-and wrinkle-free jackets. Hand-tailored, of course.

But some days, despite the refinement and luxury, he still felt the dirt under his nails, still remembered the grime clinging to his breeches. It had been years since Philip lifted him from the edges of depravity, rescued him from a hopeless existence as an orphaned stable boy and offered him a new life. Alexander had grabbed on, held tight, refusing to look back and dwell on the death of his parents as anything more than a blessing.

They had never shown him love or taught him about family or duty. Those lessons came from Philip. The only thing Alexander’s father left him was the jagged scar running down the right side of his face, a remembrance from a man who spent more days drunk than sober.

Trust no one. Love no one. They will only hurt you. They will always betray you
.

This was the lesson Alexander’s father embedded in his brain, seared into his skin, clawed into his heart. Only Philip breached this barrier and gained his love.

“So tell me, how much money did we make today?” Philip asked, drawing Alexander out of his dark thoughts.

“Just the usual,” Alexander said. “The market looks good. But it’s our ships I’ve got my eye on.” He settled back in the overstuffed chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “We should see quite a profit when they return with the French lace. The silks and satins will up the ante as well.”

Philip let out a short laugh, followed by a fit of coughing. “Well done, my boy. Well done. Glad to see the Oxford education hasn’t gone to waste.”

A faint smile played about Alexander’s lips. “Sorry to disappoint you, Philip, but you, not Oxford, taught me everything I needed to know about trade and commerce.”

His words made the old man smile and puff out his large chest with pride.

“Thank you, son.”

Son
. It was one of the greatest compliments Philip could pay him. He’d called him that for years, but still it warmed Alexander’s heart to hear it. And sometimes, if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough, he could almost imagine himself as Philip’s
real
child instead of the gutter rat offspring of a drunken groomsman and his over-obsessing wife.

That thought made him think of someone else who claimed the position.
Blast the woman
. He’d clear the matter up in his mind once and for all. Then he could stop thinking about the red-haired little chit.

“Philip, do you know anyone by the name of Jordan?” He’d never heard the name himself and doubted Philip had either. After all, she was a commoner.

The blood drained from the older man’s face at the mention of the name. “Bernard?” Philip whispered, leaning back against the bedpost.

“No,” Alexander said, shaking his head. “It was a woman. Not much more than a girl, actually. Odd creature. Very strange.”

“Where is she?” Philip asked, his blue eyes bright.

“She...” He hesitated. “She made some rather bizarre statements.”

“Where is she?” the older man persisted.

All of a sudden the room grew stifling. Alexander pulled at his cravat, loosening the folds. Why was Philip so intent on the woman? “I sent her away.” He shifted in his chair as his gaze darted back to the bed. “She presented herself and delivered this preposterous story. It was incredible. Totally unbelievable.”

“What did she say?” The words fell out in slow, even puffs.

“Philip, she was a commoner. Dressed in rags. She was probably trying to get some coin out of you.”

“What did she say?” Philip repeated, his voice more demanding.

Alexander ran a hand through his perfect hair. Blast the woman. She was lying. She had to be.
Just a little money-hungry creature trying to get her greedy hands into Philip’s pockets. The words didn’t come easily. He had to drag them from the depths of honor and duty. “She said she was your...daughter.” There. He’d said it.

Philip stared at him as though he hadn’t heard or couldn’t comprehend the words.

“It’s all a lot of bunk. I know that. She just wants a piece of your wealth.” He slashed a hand in the air and settled back in his chair. “Just because she possesses red hair and blue eyes means nothing. And that ridiculous half-broken locket with your picture in it—”

“Find her!” Philip demanded, an unnatural strength vibrating through his words. “Find her,” he repeated with less force, his long, bony hands balled into white fists.

Alexander sprang from his chair and leaned over the older man. “Philip? Don’t upset yourself.”

“Find her, Alexander. Now.” The earl’s eyes grew stark,
desperate
, like frozen waters in winter. Alexander hadn’t seen that look in years. Not since shortly after Philip found him in the stables and brought him into the big house. In the early days, the earl had been gentle but quiet, with a haunted look about him. As though he’d lost something very valuable. Or someone.

He had that look about him now. In all their years together, Philip had never asked Alexander for anything. But today he asked him to do something that, if proven true, would change their lives forever.

Alexander had no choice. Philip had taught him about duty and honor and responsibility. He grasped the old man’s hand and squeezed. “I’ll find her,” he vowed. “I promise you.”

***

“He all but threw me out on my ear,” Francie muttered.

Bernard stroked his beard. “You said his name was Bishop?”

“Yes. Rude, insufferable man.”

“There were Bishops at Drakemoor years ago. I believe the husband was a groomsman and the wife a scullery maid.” He paused a second and added, “And there was a boy.”

Francie let out a harsh laugh that sounded more like a bark. “It wouldn’t be this Mr. Bishop, I assure you. He’s the image of starched perfection. I doubt he’s ever seen a stable, let alone cleaned one out.”

“Hmmm.”

“He did study the locket, I’ll give him that,” she said. “But then he thrust it back at me as though it might dirty his hands if he held it too long, and told me he saw no resemblance.”