Page 62 of Because You're Mine
“I never whine, my lord.”
“You did in that ridiculous production ofRichard the Secondthat 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?”
“Perhaps you should tell me what has caused you to throw a tantrum in my library. Some bit of gossip Mrs. Florence told you, eh?”
Logan clenched his hands to keep from tearing apart the table and everything else within reach. He knew that he had colored with fury, and he longed to have the same impassive expression that Rochester wore. What had happened to the self-possessed Logan Scott of a few months ago? He had always been able to save his emotions for the stage. Now it seemed that they were bleeding into every area of his life.
“How the hell are you able to live with yourself?” Logan asked, his voice unsteady. “How could you have given your own son away to a brute like Jennings?”
Rochester set the magnifying glass aside with undue care. His skin took on a gray pallor. “Have you gone mad, Scott? I haven’t a clue as to what you’re talking about.”
“Let me refresh your memory,” Logan said savagely. “Thirty years ago you gave your bastard son to Paul and Mary Jennings, to raise as their own. The problem was, they weren’t fit to care for one of your dogs, much less a child. For the next sixteen years, I was beaten to a bloody pulp more times than I can count, by my ‘father.’ You knew what was happening all that time, and you did nothing to stop it.”
Rochester’s gaze finally slid from his, and he pretended to inspect the magnifying-glass frame as he considered how best to answer. Logan found himself seizing the old man’s shirtfront, half-lifting him out of the chair until they were practically nose-to-nose. “You owe me the truth, damn you,” he snarled. “Admit that I’m your son.”
Rochester’s face turned forbidding. “Take your hands off me.”
They remained in a frozen tableau for an endless moment, and then Logan’s hands loosened. Rochester settled back in his chair, pulling down his rumpled shirt. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll admit it…you’re the bastard I sired by Nell Florence’s daughter. And I could have done worse than give you to the Jenningses. I could have sent you to an orphanage and never given you another thought. Furthermore, I did not stand by idly while you were being abused by that lout Jennings. When the episodes became too violent, I threatened him with the loss of his land and the annuity I had agreed to pay him—”
“Am I supposed to thank you?” Logan wiped his hands on his coat as if they had been soiled.
“I have no doubt you feel you deserved more from me,” the old man said icily. “Indeed, at one time I had plans for you, until you insisted on taking to the stage. I would have done a great deal for you, had you chosen any other profession.”
“Now I understand why you’ve always hated the theater,” Logan muttered. “It reminds you of my mother.”
Rochester’s eyes flashed with anger. “I gave Elizabeth a better life than she’d ever known before. And she would still be alive today if not for you. You were too large for her—she died because of your confounded size, gluttonous brat that you were.”
The accusation rang like a gunshot in the room. Logan nearly reeled backward from the impact. “Christ,” he said, feeling ill.
Although Rochester’s demeanor was as callous as before, his tone softened as he remarked, “You couldn’t help it, I suppose.”
Groping for the edge of the table, Logan leaned I against it once more, his blank gaze locked on the old man’s face. “Have you ever told Andrew about me?” he heard himself ask.
Rochester shook his head. “I never saw the need. And considering his recent round of indulgences, I think it would do him harm to find out now. I haven’t seen him sober in months. This could be just the thing to finish him off.”
“I don’t blame Andrew for drinking. When Mrs. Florence told me that you were my father, I reached for the nearest bottle myself.”
