Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(61)

Slowly he walked toward her, while uneasiness spread inside him. “Show me your damned trinket.”

Carefully she extracted a pair of gold-framed miniatures and placed one in his palm. The subject was a little girl not much older than Julia's daughter Victoria. She was a pretty child with a pink bonnet tied over her long red curls. Logan stared stonily at the tiny painting and gave it back without comment.

“You don't see it?” the elderly woman asked, and gave him the next one. “Perhaps this will prove more illuminating.”

Logan stared at a lovely young woman, her features strong but finely proportioned, her luxuriant hair darkened to auburn and pulled to the crown of her head in a mass of curls. Her expression was confident and flirtatious, with intense blue eyes that seemed to stare directly into his. As he examined the miniature, he realized that it was a feminine version of his own face.

“You want me to admit there's a resemblance,” Logan muttered. “Very well, I see it.”

“She was your mother,” Mrs. Florence said gently, taking back the miniature. “Her name was Elizabeth.”

“My mother was—is—Mary Jennings.”

“Then tell me which of your so-called parents you favor. Tell me which of your siblings is most like you. None of them, I'll wager. Dear boy, you don't belong in that family. You were never a part of it. You are my daughter's illegitimate child—my grandson. Perhaps you don't want to accept the truth, but in your heart you must recognize it.”

He reacted with a contemptuous laugh. “I'll need a hell of a lot more proof than a set of miniatures, madam.”

“Ask me anything you like,” she said calmly.

Folding his arms over his chest, Logan leaned back against the closed door. “All right. Tell me why I've never laid eyes on you before…Grandmother.”

“For a long time I didn't know of your existence. Your father claimed that you had died along with your mother. He kept you a secret and gave you to the Jennings to raise. Your father and I have always despised each other, and he wanted to make certain I had no influence on you. I'm certain he feared that if you knew me, you might be lured into the theater, and he wished to prevent that at all cost. Your mother was an actress, you see.”

Mrs. Florence paused, and a grim smile crossed her face. “My pleasure in your success is indescribable, dear boy. In a way, it's a perfect revenge. After all your father did to prevent it, you still found your way to the theater…and you've become one of the greatest actors of your time.”

Logan's arms unfolded, and he pushed away from the doorjamb. Although he still didn't believe a word she said, he felt the sudden need for a drink. He went to the battered wooden cabinet in the corner and rummaged in a drawer until he located a bottle of brandy.

“What an excellent idea,” came the elderly woman's voice behind him. “A drop of spirits would take the chill from my bones.”

Logan's mouth twisted, and he managed to locate a clean glass. He poured a brandy, brought it to her, and took a swig directly from the bottle. The comforting glow spread down his throat and into his chest. “Go on,” he said gruffly. “I may as well hear the end of your entertaining story. How exactly did you come to the conclusion that I was your daughter's long-lost bastard?”

She shot him a cold look for his choice of words, but continued calmly. “I didn't suspect anything until I saw you on stage, when you were about twenty or so. I was stunned by your remarkable resemblance to my daughter. When I began asking questions about your background, my suspicions were further aroused. I went to your father and accused him of keeping the knowledge of your existence from me. He admitted everything. By then, he didn't care if I knew about you or not. You had already made the decision to become an actor, and there was nothing he could do to reverse it.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“You had no need of me then,” Mrs. Florence replied. “You had a family, and you did not doubt your identity as their son. I saw no reason to put you through turmoil, and especially not to do something that might affect your acting career.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass and took another sip of brandy. “I always kept abreast of your activities through Julia. Privately I've worried over you, taken pride in your success, and entertained the same hopes for you that any grandmother would have.”

“Did you ever tell Julia?”

“No,” she said immediately. “It wasn't necessary for her to know. I believe the only people who are aware of your true identity are me, the Jennings, and of course your father.”

Logan smiled with pure sarcasm. “I can't wait to find out who he's supposed to be.”

“Don't you know?” she returned softly. “I should think you'd have guessed by now. You're rather like him in some ways.” Her voice remained gentle in the face of his hostility. “It's the Earl of Rochester, dear boy. That's why you spent your childhood on his estate, living in the shadow of his mansion. If you don't believe what I've told you, go to Rochester and ask him.”

Logan turned away from her, stumbling against the dressing-table chair. Clumsily he set the bottle of brandy on the table and braced his hands on the flat surface. Rochester, his father…the idea was obscene.