“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.
