Other people had hidden him from view once again, forcing Florian to weave his way toward the place where he’d seen him. His appearance was different from when Florian had last seen him, his hair color altered, his mouth and jaw concealed behind a neatly trimmed beard. Even his cheeks had taken a different shape. They were fuller, rounding off the features that had always looked so drawn. But his eyes, those ice blue eyes... They could only belong to one man.
Bartholomew.
It couldn’t be him, not here in a Mayfair ballroom. And yet, the similarities were there, small as they might be, and they made Florian wonder.
Nausea assailed him. The thought of sharing the same blood as the most notorious criminal in England turned his stomach. The possibility of it ever being made public filled him with dread. And the notion that he still lived, when everyone else believed he was dead, had resulted in many sleepless nights.
A judge had sentenced Bartholomew to death by hanging, but whatever justice Florian had hoped to find had evaporated when he’d come to witness the execution and examine the body afterward.
Whoever it was that had died that day, it wasn’t Bartholomew. Just a man who looked a hell of a lot like him. Which meant the bastard was still out there roaming free, perhaps even knowing it was his own son who’d ensured his conviction.
Seeking a closer look at the man he’d just seen, Florian quickened his pace while clamminess crawled across his skin.
A pair of debutantes laughed to one side and a merry fellow with golden locks and a broad smile stepped into Florian’s path while recounting a story to his friends. Muttering an oath, Florian stepped around him only to catch a fleeting glimpse of the man’s hair. If it was Bartholomew, then he’d selected a color that matched Florian’s.
Breathing hard, he pushed onward, apologizing as he increased his pace and brushed past people in an effort to reach the villain who should have died last year. It had to be him, as impossible as it seemed. Florian felt it in his gut and in the rapid beats of his heart. How dare he show his face in public? How dare he come here and taunt those he’d hurt?
Shoving past a few more people, he threw his gaze around, frantically searching, knowing he couldn’t have gotten far. A hand grabbed his elbow and he jerked away, knowing he had to keep looking.
“Florian?” Henry’s voice ricocheted through his mind, pulling all thought into one fine point on which he was forced to focus.
“Not now,” he said, spotting the man he sought and already moving to follow him up the stairs he was taking toward the front entrance.
But Henry held him back. “You seem distraught. What’s going on?”
The man Florian was chasing paused halfway up the stairs and looked out across the sea of people, the edge of his mouth lifting the moment their eyes met. Dread and fury pooled inside Florian’s chest. “Why is he here?” It was all he could think to ask.
“Who?” Henry asked. He followed Florian’s gaze. “Mr. Mortedge?”
Doubt crept in once more, even as the man nodded ever so slightly in Florian’s direction. Turning away, he took the remaining steps leading up to the door and disappeared out of sight. Blood roared in Florian’s ears, the urge to make chase and discover if it really was his father straining his muscles until they burned. But it was futile. The man was long gone. And then Henry’s words sank in and Florian turned toward him, aware of an empty void expanding inside.
“Mr. Mortedge?” Uncertainty cemented itself even further. Of course it had to be someone else. For Bartholomew to actually be here at Hawthorne House made no sense.
“He’s an American investor. Came over about six months ago and bought a gorgeous town house on Bedford Square.”
He’d been wrong then. It wasn’t Bartholomew after all. Heat seemed to close in around Florian. He tugged at his cravat while trying to locate the nearest exit. Air. That was what he needed. Right now. This second. And perhaps a fortifying drink or two to calm his jangling nerves.
“Get me a brandy, please, would you?” he told Henry. Without waiting for him, he started walking away. “I’ll meet you outside on the terrace.”
Circumventing the cluster of people who stood in his way, Florian reached for the closest door and pushed it open. An uplifting breeze hit him, invigorating his senses and clearing his mind. He took a deep breath and crossed to the spot where he’d stood with Lady Juliette earlier in the evening. A wretched sigh escaped him and he muttered an oath. How things had changed since then, just in the course of the last five minutes.
He allowed his breath to float past his lips and escape into the night. Memories, so many he wanted desperately to forget, rose to the surface. The first of a beautifully bound encyclopedia he’d received on his eighth birthday and of his mother’s stricken face when he’d read the inscription.
I hope this will help with your education. Study hard and there is no doubt in my mind that you and I will enjoy a decent discussion.
Until we meet in person,
B
She’d snatched it away from him without explanation and asked a maid to dispose of it while confusion, betrayal and loss overwhelmed him.
Later, when he was fourteen, there had been the incident in the park when a man had approached him during his afternoon ride. He’d complimented Florian on his horsemanship and asked a few questions about his interests and education. Florian could still recall the discomfort he’d felt and the panicked look in his parents’ eyes when he’d mentioned it to them later.
Two more years had passed before he’d learned of his true identity, before his mother had felt the need to explain after they’d been approached by the same man again while taking a walk in the park. Nothing had been the same since, the life he’d known until then torn to shreds in a second.
“Is everything all right?”
He stilled in response to Lady Juliette’s voice, almost too afraid to turn because he feared she’d want to know why he’d quit her company as quickly as he had. He couldn’t be honest. Not without the risk of her discovering his connection to Bartholomew. Which was not the way he wanted to end the evening.
