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, whereisyour husband?”
“He and Knoxley left together an hour ago for a meeting or somesuch.” 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 shenotworry?
“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 gratedbut 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 withhismission. 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 havewalked 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 himcalm. 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—”
