Page 47 of Connor's Claim
In contrast, a hundred questions for my father floated about my mind.
At six, Mick drove me home. Our housekeeper’s car was still outside, so I told him to leave, almost certain that he’d hang around regardless.
On autopilot, I showered, shaved, did my hair in a sleek updo, and wriggled into the shapewear I needed to create an acceptable silhouette in my evening gown. At seven, I was downstairs and waiting, settled on a hard sofa in the formal drawing room, but still with the weird detachment I’d felt all day, like I’d left half of myself behind in the warehouse.
Laura, our housekeeper, had worked late, readying the house, and the sounds of her pottering around should’ve been soothing, but all I thought about was Connor.
He’d asked me to stay. I’d refused him. Again.
The unexpected repeat of our past shocked and alarmed me, so much I couldn’t settle my mind. Yet that wouldn’t wash with my father. He’d notice, and I’d suffer.
I forced my attention off Connor, staring instead at the framed family tree my father had made for the chimney breast wall. He’d paid an artist to create it in a heraldic style, with aged paper and a coat of arms that wasn’t ours.
I traced down the paint-framed faces and connections.
Once, long ago, our line of family had come into being by a titled man screwing around with a servant in his household. My four-times great-grandmother had been a wet nurse to the noble family and was pregnant again before their son and heir was weaned. Oddly, for the time, the family kept the wet nurse’s baby, another son, and raised him. He didn’t get a title or any land, but his parentage had been acknowledged.
My father conveniently ignored the illegitimacy element and, on the family tree, showed a clear line from that noble family to us.
I’d never cared for his aggrandisement. My thoughts had always been of pity for the poor wet nurse whose story ended with the child’s birth.
A car pulled up outside, the headlights slashing across the room, then doors clunked, and male voices followed. My shoulders stiffened, but I rose and drifted to the hall. My emotionless state would be useful tonight.
My father thrust through the front door sporting a broad grin, his arm out to guide in his friend, and his ruddy complexion informing me he was already in his drink. I took in the second man, Piers.
He was perhaps in his early thirties and had the clean-shaven, smart look of someone who worked in London’s financial quarter. His suit was high-end, either Charles Theroux or Hilos, and over-tailored to show a muscular form.
It took me a few seconds to place the man. Piers Roache, my memory filled in his full name. I’d encountered him in the capital around a year ago. Some event where city leaders from around the country met with CEOs of Fortune 500 companies and other bigwigs. The attendees were almost all male, and the testosterone levels had been through the roof.
My father had been leading a bid for funding in Deadwater, a business investment initiative, with his aim to get one or more of those companies to set up in our locale. The whole event had bored me to tears, but I’d played my part, dodging the handsy men and putting names to faces to help Father press the flesh with those he sought after most.
Now one of those walking erections was in my home for a couple of days.
Inside, I withered.
On cue, Piers’ gaze slid over my body. “Everly, right?”
I formed a smile and extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Roache. Welcome to our home.”
“Yeah. Call me Piers.” Ignoring my outstretched fingers, he tossed a smirk at my father. “Or sir. She can get used to that.”
Father chuffed a laugh and strolled into the drawing room, heading for the bar, I guessed.
Piers came back to me. “Get in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”
I blinked at the order. “Excuse me?”
His amusement dropped, and again, he spoke to my parent rather than me. “These girls. They spend all day pissing around with their hair and makeup but expect us to be ready without any time. Thought you said she was bright?”
Turning away, he clicked his fingers at Laura, who hovered down the hall. “Show me my room.”
Her lips pressed together, and she exchanged a glance with me. “If you’ll follow me.”
Piers stomped upstairs, and I trotted after Father. At the Italian globe bar in the drawing room, he dropped a ball of ice into a tumbler then extracted the crystal brandy decanter, pouring himself a three-finger measure.
Earlier, I’d gone through his office, hunting for any clues to the mysteries I had about him. About Connor. About Cherry and Natasha. About Riordan. My search had been lacklustre, and I’d discovered nothing.
I wanted to question him now, but I stalled out. Was I looking at a killer? At fifty-five, he was a fit man, not as tall as the son I now suspected him to have ignored, but with the same brown hair that we all shared. His was shot through with grey at the temples, a fact he didn’t mind because once a woman had commented on a post online that it made him appear distinguished.