More than once, it had occurred to Jordan that Tony might resent having him return and dispossess him of the ducal title and estates, but that possibility was nearly as repugnant as the idea that Tony was involved in a plot to have him murdered. Jordan refused to believe either, until he had reliable proof.
He refused to believe it—but unfortunately he could not banish the nagging suspicion from his mind any more than he could silence the memory of the thug's voice on the wharf the night he'd been knocked unconscious: "The bloke paid us t' kill 'im, Jamie, not t' send him off on no ship…"
Jordan pushed all that aside. It was perfectly possible that some enraged husband—like old Grangerfield—was responsible for the plot to have Jordan killed. There were ways to find out who his enemy was. For today, however, he wanted to revel in the joy of coming home.
He thought about his impending arrival in Upper Brook Street, and he wanted to do everything at once—to walk into the house and shake Higgins' hand, to pull his grandmother into his arms and soothe away the tears of relief and gratitude he knew she and the old butler would shed when they realized he was alive. He would clasp Tony's shoulders and thank him for doing his best to manage the Hawthorne holdings. No matter how badly Tony had bungled Jordan's complex business affairs—and Jordan was discouragingly certain he had—he would always be grateful.
After that, Jordan wanted a bath and his own clothes. And then—then he wanted Alexandra.
Of all the things that lay before him, his interview with his young "widow" was the only thing Jordan was truly worried about. No doubt her childlike devotion to him had caused her to suffer an extreme form of prolonged grief after she learned of his death. She had been thin as a reed when he last saw her, by now she was probably gaunt. God, what a miserable life she had lived from the day she encountered him.
He realized that she would have changed during his absence, but he hoped the changes had not been too many or too drastic. She would have matured into a woman now, one who was old enough to have the responsibilities of a husband and children. He would bring her to London and introduce her to Society himself.
They would not stay long in London, though. He had lost more than a year of his life, but he'd had plenty of time to decide how he wanted to spend the rest of it. He knew now what mattered and what didn't, and he knew what he wanted—what he had probably always wanted. He wanted a life that had meaning, and a real marriage, not the shallow, empty arrangement that passed for marriage in his set. He wanted more of the love Alexandra had tried to give him—the love that had given him a reason to fight to survive. In return, he wanted to pamper her and pleasure her and keep her with him, safe from the corrosive effects of the outside world. Perhaps love was immune to the outside world. Or was that where trust came in? Was a man supposed to trust his wife not to change and to remain loyal to him no matter where she was, or with whom? Obviously, that was the case, Jordan decided. He didn't know much about trust, and he knew even less about love, but Alexandra was the embodiment of both, and she had volunteered to teach him. He was willing to let her try now.
He tried to imagine how she would look, but all he could see was a laughing face, dominated by a pair of magnificent aquamarine eyes. A face that was almost, but not quite pretty. His "funny-face."
She would have spent one year in mourning, he knew, then another six months learning the ropes of Society with his grandmother. She would only now be preparing to make her entrance into Society during the Little Season in the fall, assuming his grandmother had posthumously carried out his wishes to see her "polished."
It was far more likely, and far more alarming, Jordan thought grimly, that Alexandra might have been so grief-stricken and desolate that she had returned to her run-down house in Morsham—or shied away completely from people—or, God, lost her mind after everything she'd been through!
The coach pulled up before No. 3 Upper Brook Street and Jordan got out, pausing on the front steps to look up at the elegant three-story stone mansion with its graceful ironwork and bow windows. It seemed so familiar, and yet so strange.
He lifted the heavy polished knocker and let it fall, bracing himself for Higgins to open the door and fall upon him in a frenzy of joy.
The door swung open. "Yes?" an unfamiliar face demanded, peering at him through wire-rimmed spectacles.
"Who are you?" Jordan demanded, perplexed.
"I might ask the same question of you, sir," Filbert haughtily replied, looking around for Penrose, who hadn't heard the knocker.
"I am Jordan Townsende," Jordan replied brusquely, knowing that he would only be wasting his time if he tried to convince this unknown servant that he, and not Tony, was the Duke of Hawthorne. Brushing past the footman, Jordan stalked into the marble foyer. "Send Higgins here to me."
"Mr. Higgins has gone out."
Jordan frowned, wishing Higgins or Ramsey were here to help prepare his grandmother for his sudden appearance. Walking quickly forward, he looked into the large salon to the right of the foyer and the smaller one on the left They were filled with flowers and empty of people. The whole downstairs seemed to be filled with baskets of white roses and greenery. "Are we giving a party later?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's about to become a 'homecoming party,' " Jordan predicted with a chuckle, then he said briskly, "Where is your mistress?"
"At church," Filbert replied, squinting at the tall, deeply tanned gentleman.
"And your master?" Jordan asked, meaning Tony.
"Also at church, of course."
"Praying for my immortal soul, no doubt," Jordan joked. Knowing that Tony surely would have retained the services of Mathison, Jordan's superior valet, Jordan said, "Is Mathison about?"
"He is," Filbert averred, then he watched in amazement as this unknown member of the Townsende family began walking up the staircase, issuing orders over his shoulder as if he owned the place. "Send Mathison to me at once. I'll be in the gold suite. Tell him I want a bath and a shave immediately. And a change of clothes. Mine preferably, if they're still around. If not, I'll wear Tony's, or his, or anyone's he can steal."
Jordan walked swiftly past the master bedroom suite, which Tony would undoubtedly be occupying, and opened the door to the gold guest suite. It was not quite so lavish, but at that moment seemed like the most beautiful room he'd ever beheld. Pulling off the ill-fitting jacket that the captain of the Falcon had lent him, he flung it on a chair and began unbuttoning his shirt.