Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(69)

Madeline bit her lip nervously. “You…you'll come back?”

A mocking smile crossed Logan's face. “All too soon,” he promised, and then he was gone.

Eleven

It was half past ten when Logan finally reached Buckinghamshire on the way back to London, but he was certain that Rochester would not yet have retired. The earl never required more than a few hours of sleep. He was like a busy old spider, spinning his webs far into the night in hope of snaring some unlucky prey on the morrow.

Rochester had a knack for discovering people's vulnerabilities and taking advantage of them, such as the time he convinced a new widow to sell him her home and property at a fraction of its true value, or sat at a relative's deathbed and badgered him into signing a new will—with Rochester as the principal beneficiary, of course. Andrew had told Logan of those and many other instances, and the two of them had laughed in companionable disgust at the old man's greed.

The carriage drove through the village next to Rochester's estate, passing the churchyard filled with stone monuments and historic landmarks paying tribute to the Drakes' achievements. The thought of being one of the Drakes…God, of being Rochester's son…made Logan ill. He had always hated the earl for being a calculating, predatory bastard. It couldn't be true that the same tainted blood ran through his veins. It was even more distasteful than being Paul Jennings's son. Jennings was merely a self-indulgent brute. Rochester was far more calculating, using people to serve his purposes, then discarding them when they had outlasted their convenience.

The carriage passed a large cottage surrounded by curved stone walls, the house he'd had built for the Jenningses several years before. Mary, Paul, and their three children resided there in comfort. Paul still had his allotted land on Rochester's estate to tend. Now, however, he enjoyed the assistance of a hired hand, who saw to his duties while Paul spent the better part of each morning in a drunken stupor. Logan supported the entire Jennings family on the condition that they never attempt to visit him in London. He considered it a small price to pay.

They reached the great country house, its familiar outline barely visible in the darkness. The hall had been built by the Drakes three generations earlier, with an elegant stone exterior and acres of carved oak paneling inside. Like its present occupant, Rochester Hall possessed a stern dignity, seeming unassailable and utterly impenetrable. Even the windows were small and narrow, as if to guard against any intrusions.

Having known most of the servants at Rochester Hall since childhood, Logan entered the place unannounced, forestalling the housekeeper's attempts to alert the master to his arrival. He went to the library, where the earl was engrossed in a book of art engravings.

“Scott,” Rochester said, looking up with a narrow-eyed glance. “Of all people to be calling at this hour, I wouldn't have expected you.”

Logan hesitated at the doorway, momentarily transfixed. Outwardly he and Rochester shared no likeness, save a similarity of size and build. But there was something about the old man's jaw, the unyielding jut formed as if by carpenter's tools, the aggressive slope of the nose, and the decisive slashes of his brows…dear God, were his own features really that different?

Ignoring the sudden hammering in his head, Logan advanced farther into the library. “I seem to be paying a great many unexpected visits these days,” he replied, and made his way to the book of engravings on the table. Noting an exceptionally fine plate by the English portrait engraver William Faithorne, he touched the edge of it.

Rochester jerked the book away with a snort. “Have you come to whine because I managed to acquire the Harris collection despite your oversized bid?”

“I never whine, my lord.”

“You did in that ridiculous production of Richard the Second that I had the misfortune to attend a few years ago. I hope never to see such a whining, sniveling performance again.”

“I played the part as it was written,” Logan replied evenly.

“I doubt Shakespeare ever had such intentions in mind when he set pen to paper,” Rochester remarked.

“Well acquainted with him, were you?” Logan asked, and the elderly man scowled at him.

“Insolent mongrel. Tell me what you've come about, and be on your way.”

Logan studied him for a long moment while he experienced an overwhelming urge to leave without saying another word.

“Well?” Rochester demanded, arching one brow.

Logan half-sat on the library table, casually pushing aside the engraving book to make room for himself. “I have a question for you. Tell me, my lord…have you ever made the acquaintance of a Mrs. Nell Florence?”

Rochester showed no reaction to the name except for a tightening of his fingers on a gold-rimmed magnifying glass. “Nell Florence,” he repeated slowly. “The name isn't familiar.”

“She was once a comic actress at Drury Lane.”

“Should I be expected to know such trivial information?” He looked at Logan without blinking, as if he had nothing to hide. His eyes held all the expression of a trout's.

Something crumbled inside as Logan began to understand that Mrs. Florence had told him the truth. He felt a painful hollowness in his chest, and he took a steadying breath. “You're an accomplished old liar,” he said hoarsely. “But you've had years of practice, haven't you?”