“You’ve a visitor,” Baker said when Florian arrived downstairs.
He handed him a calling card and Florian instantly froze as he read the twirling script. Mr. William Mortedge. Invisible pins pricked at the nape of his neck while apprehension flared out across his skin.
Steeling himself, he closed his hand around the calling card, crushing it in his fist. He then entered the parlor and saw that he’d been right in his deduction.
Mr. MortedgewasBartholomew.
His father.
“Ah! There you are.” Sitting casually with his legs stretched out before him, Bartholomew took a sip of the brandy he’d helped himself to.
A chill gripped Florian’s spine. “What. Do. You. Want?”
Bartholomew eyed him over the brim of his glass, grinned and set the piece of crystal aside. “Why, to see you of course! It is not every day a father has the honor of greeting the son who sent him to the gallows.”
The reminder that they were so closely related disgusted Florian to no end. Gritting his teeth, he glared at the man before him. “I did what was right.” Ignoring Bartholomew’s comment would serve no purpose, and to suppose he did not hold a grudge would be equally futile. The only question now was what else Bartholomew intended to do about it.
A smile slid across Bartholomew’s face. He was the perfect portrayal of a man at leisure and yet to presume he was not a dangerous predator ready to pounce would be a mistake. Many men had suffered before on account of his wrath.
“You betrayed me,” Bartholomew told him with eerie calmness.
“I cannot see how, since one must feel some sense of loyalty toward a person in order to do so.” Florian inhaled slowly, forcing himself to relax. “Since I feel nothing for you but revulsion, betraying you was never a real possibility.”
“A fine comeback, I must say.” Bartholomew drummed his fingers lazily against the armrest, his hawkish eyes trailing Florian as he went to pour himself a much-needed drink. “You appear sturdier than I remembered—more masculine.”
Florian glanced at him as he finished pouring himself a brandy. “And you look entirely different.”
Bartholomew chuckled. “A bit of pig fat surgically stuffed into my cheeks has worked wonders in altering my appearance.”
“Doesn’t sound like a healthy procedure,” Florian muttered.
“It seemed a touch safer than risking the rope.”
A grunt was the only response Florian would offer that comment. Downing his brandy, he poured another and considered the man who’d raped his mother decades ago. The full cheeks were not the only changes he’d made. He’d also grown an impressive beard, colored his hair to a shade not so different from his own, and procured a pair of spectacles.
“I have to say that I’m a little surprised by your unwillingness to heed my warnings,” Bartholomew said. “You put Armswell and Lowell in danger. You’re lucky you don’t have to bury either one of them yet.”
Florian stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
Bartholomew scoffed. “You saved Armswell yourself, didn’t you? As for Lowell... It was fortunate Elmwood sprained his wrist on his way to the duel. Bloody bastard missed your brother entirely.”
Surprise was dismissed by relief. Apparently Lowell had met with Elmwood while he’d been away on the ship, and he’d survived. “Thank God.”
“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet if I were you,” Bartholomew said. “There are other ways to make you pay for what you did to me.”
“I am a duke now,” Florian felt compelled to remind him, “and far beyond your influence or control.”
The smirk forming on Bartholomew’s lips was not the least bit reassuring. “You think so, do you?” He gave a snort. “For years I’ve been trying to take control of St. Giles and push Guthrie out only to fail because of the information you gave Coventry about my taxes. Clever, I’ll grant you that, but if you think I will ever forgive you for working against me, then you are quite mistaken.”
He stood and walked toward Florian much like a panther might prowl toward its prey. “Armswell thought he could wheedle his way out of my clutches as well.” He grinned, the beastly sort of satisfied grin one might expect from an evil genius. “It cost him his wife, you know.”
Every particle of Florian’s body began to stiffen, from his toes all the way to each strand of hair. “What do you mean?” He asked the question not knowing if he truly wanted an answer. From what his mother had told him, Bartholomew had taken what he wanted because he’d threatened Lowell’s life. She had complied with his wishes and Armswell had allowed it because they’d felt they had no choice.
“Do you honestly believe I would have done what I did on a whim?” The edge of Bartholomew’s mouth lifted ever so slightly, lending a secretive air to his countenance. When Florian failed to respond, he answered his question himself. “I never act without good reason.” The half smile transformed to a grin. “Nothing is random. I am not insane, and although you have clearly been led to believe so, I did not beget you on your mother simply to satisfy my lust. Ha! A man so easily swayed by any woman would not have been as successful as I.”
Florian gaped at him. It was all he could do seeing as the life he’d come to know and trust was being picked apart before his very eyes. Nothing made sense, least of all the part about him wanting to hear what Bartholomew had to say next.
“Armswell was weak, perhaps he still is, though he has had the sense to steer clear of me since our previous dealings.”
