“What is it, James?”
The butler tapped his foot five times. Very fast. Tap five times. Rest. Tap five times. Rest. After the third set, Alexander drew in a sharp breath and glared at the man’s bony face. James’s foot arrested in mid-air.
“Well? Out with it, man.”
“There’s a young woman, sir,” James began, his small, beak-like nose twitching as he spoke. “It’s quite curious actually. Quite curious indeed,” he said, nodding, his sparse brown hair separating with each movement.
Alexander cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, there’s a young woman in the gold salon who insists on seeing Lord Montrose.”
“And you interrupted me to tell me that?” He turned back to his ledger. “Send her away.”
“But sir, she insists it’s of dire importance and must speak with him at once.”
“Impossible.”
“But, sir—”
“Do I not pay you an adequate wage to perform the task of butler of Drakemoor?”
“Yes, sir. Indeed, sir. But—”
Alexander slashed a hand in the air. “Then earn your keep. Get rid of her.”
James’s foot tapped five times. “She...refuses to leave, sir.”
“Refuses to leave?” The words fell off his tongue in a soft, melodic tone. Only those who knew him well, and they were few, would recognize the controlled anger in his voice.
“Says she won’t leave until she’s spoken to Lord Montrose,” James finished, stammering on his last words.
Who in the devil would be so bold as to present herself uninvited, and demand to see the earl?
“What’s her name?” Alexander asked, torn between annoyance and grudging curiosity.
“Miss Francie Jordan.”
“Never heard of her.”
“No, sir.”
Who in the devil was Francie Jordan? Moreover, how was it she possessed the temerity to present herself to one of the wealthiest men in the countryside without invitation? Alexander rubbed his jaw. Interesting. He’d handle her himself.
“Show her in, James.”
“Yes, sir,” the butler replied, turning on his heel and scurrying out the door.
***
How much longer was she going to have to wait?
Francie scanned the spacious room for the fifth time, taking in the grandeur surrounding her. So this was how nobility lived, comforted with luxuriant brocades and Aubusson rugs. She pictured George burying his nails in the tan rug. It matched his coat, almost to the exact shade.
Gold and burgundy damask draperies filtered the sun, washing the room in a warm, rose-colored glow. Not anything like the white and yellow curtains in her humble abode that welcomed the first rays of bright light through the last fading fingers of day. And the accessories. Her gaze settled once again on the three oriental vases sitting on the mantel. Brought over from a trip to the Far East, no doubt. Her home also boasted three vases on an old pine mantel, but they were simple pottery with a rose design. One even had a rather large chip in it that Francie turned toward the wall.
How could Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Bernard consider Drakemoor as a home for her? Even if Lord Montrose accepted her, she didn’t belong here. Ladies in this society wore fine silks and diamonds, their delicate skin protected from the sun and wind. Francie doubted they’d ever buried their fingers in the rich soil of the earth. Or walked barefoot in a field of clover. And certainly they’d never rolled on the ground with a one-hundred-ninety-pound mastiff.
No, she didn’t belong at Drakemoor and the sooner she concluded her business here, the sooner she could return to the rented carriage, rattling back to her simple life. Hopefully, minus the intrusion of one Lord Jared Crayton.
Then her life would be perfect.
A light rap at the door disturbed her thoughts. The butler, a little man with a twitching nose, entered the room.
“Follow me, Miss Jordan.” He nodded and held the door for her.
Francie grabbed her bonnet and rose from the burgundy sofa. “Thank you,” she murmured, watching the little man twitch his nose and tap his feet. He reminded her of one of the little mice at home who roamed in the lavender fields.
She pretended the opulence surrounding her was something she saw every day as she clicked down the black and marble hallway behind the butler: gilt-encrusted mirrors, more Chinese vases of varying sizes and shapes, a huge gold chandelier of ornate design. But in truth, she’d never seen or even read about a house as elegant as Drakemoor.
They stopped before one of the oak doors and Francie knew a moment of panic. What if Lord Montrose rejected her outright? Refused to listen to her? Refused to help her rid Amberden of Jared Crayton? She drew in a deep breath, pushing her nervousness aside. Aunt Eleanor said he loved her mother very much. Certainly, even after all these years, that should count for something, if only a few minutes of his undivided attention.
The butler opened the door, ushering her into Lord Montrose’s study.
“Miss Francie Jordan, sir,” he announced.
“Thank you, James,” a deep voice boomed from across the room. “That will be all.”
The door clicked behind her and Francie forced her gaze in the direction of the voice. A man sat behind a large desk, writing. He was somewhere in his thirties, with closely clipped black hair, save an errant cowlick above his left brow. He had rough, hard features: thick, bushy eyebrows, a straight, firm nose with a slight crook to the left, high cheekbones, and a jaw that was too square. Nothing soft about him, except perhaps his mouth, which boasted a pair of well-formed lips.
But when he looked up, the frown on his face pulled his lips into a thin straight line and Francie changed her initial opinion. There was nothing soft about the man. She met his stormy silver gaze, cold as a winter’s chill, and just as biting.
And then there was the scar. It ran down the right side of his face in a jagged path, from the edge of his bushy brow trailing halfway down his cheekbone.
She swallowed. This man was most definitely not Lord Montrose. Besides being much too young, Uncle Bernard told her Lord Montrose loved her mother beyond reason. She doubted this man ever loved anything in his life.
“Sit down, Miss Jordan.”
He spoke with such commanding presence Francie could do little else than slide into one of the deep green chairs angled in front of his desk.
“Thank you...sir,” she managed. Who was this man? Lord Montrose’s son, perhaps? Or nephew?
He gave a slight nod, cocked his head to one side, and stared at her as though she were a curious bug and he was trying to decide how to get rid of her.
“I’ve come to see Lord Montrose,” she said, fingering the small locket in her pocket.
The man sat back, steepling his long fingers under his chin. “That’s not possible.”
“Not possible?” She thought she’d at least get an audience with the earl.
He shook his head. “No. Lord Montrose hasn’t had visitors in over three months.”
“He’s ill?”
There was a slight hesitation before the man gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod.
“Well, I hadn’t quite considered this,” Francie said, as much to herself as the man seated across from her. The sharp edges of the locket bit into the flesh of her palm. “I don’t mean to intrude upon Lord Montrose, but I need his help.” The man raised a black brow but said nothing. “You see,” she rushed on, determined to tell her story, “the village I come from, Amberden, is being assaulted by a nobleman. A duke’s son. Actually, it’s not the village, but rather, the young women residing in the village who are being,” heat rushed to her cheeks, “taken advantage of.”
“Miss Jordan.” The man held up a tanned hand.
“No. Hear me out.” Her voice rose with passion and desperation. “Please.” When he said nothing, she continued. “This scoundrel seduces the young girls in our village, filling their heads with fairy tales, promising marriage in order to have his way with the
m.” She leaned forward, eager to share her disgust. “Then when he gets them with child, he casts them aside, leaving them to face disgrace and humiliation on their own.”
Silver eyes burned into her. “And you, Miss Jordan, are you one of those young innocents?”
“No! Absolutely not!”
Silence.
“I’m not.” Heat spread to the rest of her face.
“Then I fail to see why it is your concern,” he said, as though he were discussing a flock of sheep. “And I am most perplexed as to why you seek Lord Montrose’s assistance.”
“Don’t you see?” She rose from her chair to stand before his desk. “These girls are young and innocent. They trust this man. They want to believe his lies. He’s taking advantage of them. Don’t you feel any responsibility, as part of the noble class, to put a stop to his incorrigible behavior?”
“That depends,” he said, his voice cool and void of emotion.
“What could it possibly depend upon?” How could this man be so unfeeling? So disinterested?
“On why you seek out Lord Montrose when there is a veritable list of other earls and the like who might be more willing and able to handle this situation.”
“Because he might be the only one who would help us.”
“Pray tell, Miss Jordan, why should he help you?”
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!
Chapter 4
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 t
his 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.”
A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) Page 3