My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “Briannon! Why is your gown in such disarray? And your hair! Absolutely dreadful. You two haven’t been out riding again, have you?”

  Brynn sighed—her mother’s eagle eyes missed nothing. She stayed silent as her mother’s tirade shifted to her brother. Better him than her. “Graham, how many times must I remind you of your sister’s condition?”

  Gray bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Of course, Mama, which is why we went for a light stroll instead.”

  Brynn bit back a giggle at Gray’s bald-faced lie. He winked at her, and Brynn had to duck her head to hide her answering grin.

  “Well then,” their mother said, all smiles now. “Come sit with your mama and have a spot of tea. Brynn, you can work on your needlepoint.”

  “While I would love nothing more than the pleasure of your company, Mother, I do have a previous engagement,” Gray said, eyes twinkling as he looked to his sister. “And as much as I am in awe of Brynn’s talent with a needle, I shall leave you ladies to it.”

  Brynn wanted to stick out her tongue at him. Her light mood disappeared as Gray took his leave—she’d give anything to be off with her brother somewhere instead of cooped up in this stuffy old room. She sat upon a slipper chair and picked up her embroidery hoop. She stabbed the needle violently through the canvas, feeling the heat of her mother’s censorious stare.

  “Come now, darling,” she said. “Small stitches.”

  “I loathe needlepoint,” Brynn grumbled as she made another precarious stab.

  “It is an art, my dear. And an accomplishment for any suitable wife,” her mother countered.

  “I don’t see how small stitches will win a man’s heart,” Brynn muttered. The needle tip went through the open weave canvas and poked the pad of her thumb. She paused, tossed her hoop and needle, and sucked on her throbbing finger. At least the fencing foils she and Gray had just been using could not injure her in any way.

  “Small stitches will win his admiration for your attention to detail and finery,” Mama said. Her mother would always have a ready retort. For Brynn to hope that she would ever have the last word when her mother was present was futile.

  “Don’t frown, Briannon. Your coloring is much too pale for such morose expressions,” she went on. “Show some excitement. Yesterday was your first official visit to Worthington Abbey. His Grace looked well, and you know what I’ve always said, my dear: a girl can’t do better—”

  “Than to catch a duke. Yes, I remember.” Brynn reined in a strong desire to groan. “But, Mama, you cannot seriously entertain the idea that I marry a man twice my age.”

  Lady Dinsmore’s eyes widened and her mouth popped open, her own needlepoint forgotten in her hands. “Marry the duke? Oh, my dear girl, of course not! Everyone knows he isn’t in the market for a wife.”

  Brynn let out a breath and let her shoulders relax. However, her mother wasn’t finished. She resumed her stitching, and added, “I should think you would do much better to marry his son. Lord Hawksfield was a capable dancing partner, was he not? And he seemed decidedly interested in you.”

  Her mother began to rattle off all the reasons it would be a perfect match, but Brynn refused to listen. “Absolutely not, Mama. The man has no manners whatsoever.”

  Insulting her gown had been the least of it. He’d been unable to mask how distasteful dancing with her had been, what with his constant frown and stiff back and neck.

  “You cannot fault the boy for having a country upbringing—and by servants no less!” her mother replied. “It is no wonder he isn’t as gentle as the rest of the men of our acquaintance. He simply wants for guidance.”

  Brynn bit her lip from replying that she’d be more than obliged to guide him—straight into a pond.

  Until the evening before, Brynn hadn’t set eyes on her neighbor for several years. She’d heard the rumors, though. Of how he’d been raised in Essex after his mother’s tragic death, while his father, the duke, had ensconced himself in London society. How Hawksfield was said to be cold, surly, and humorless, the opposite of his citified, pleasure-seeking father. From his swarthy coloring and unyielding frown, she held no doubt that the rumors of his heathen upbringing were valid. And now, after one silly dance, Mama seemed inclined to chase him down and shove Brynn into his path.

  However, her brief interaction with Lord Hawksfield last night had convinced Brynn that the man found her of little interest. He hadn’t sought her out for a second dance or even glanced her way after their torturous waltz. No, regardless of her mama’s designs, Brynn had failed miserably at hooking Hawksfield as a husband. It was a relieving thought. While she did wish to be successful in finding a husband either this season or the next, she didn’t wish to merely hook one.

  She wanted to respect her intended. She wanted to admire him, and, of course, be admired in return. Was it too much to hope for laughter or companionship in a marriage? The marquess had not struck her as the sort of man who could fill that order. And a girl had to have standards. Brynn wasn’t naive enough to dream of a love match, but if her papa had to accept an offer, she’d be damned if she didn’t at least like the man.

  A loud clatter of hooves and the jangle of carriage tack sounded just beyond the day room windows, where the gravel drive rounded a fountain. Perfection. A visitor had arrived to rescue her from this monotony. Her mother peered up at her from over her half-moon spectacles and pursed her lips. “Straighten your back, dear. Whoever it is will not wish to see your shoulders in such a slump.”

  Brynn did as she was told, though not without a groan. And when a moment later the horse and carriage began to pull away and retreat down the drive, she couldn’t contain her disappointment. Apparently a visitor wouldn’t be rescuing her after all. A minute hadn’t passed before Braxton, their butler, appeared within the doorway and bowed.

  “What is it, Braxton?” her mother asked.

  “A package, my lady,” he said, his eyes shifting to Brynn. “For Lady Briannon.”

  Victory! Brynn tossed her hoop and needle back into the basket at her feet and stood. Her gaze panned from her mother to Braxton, who held a long, flat case bound in crimson silk ribbon.

  “Were you expecting a package, dear?” Mama asked.

  “Not at all,” Brynn answered, with that warm, peculiar delight that only an unexpected parcel could give.

  Mama nodded for Braxton to bring the parcel into the room. Brynn reached for the box, admiring the intricate carvings along its top. The box alone was an exquisite gift, carved from the richest mahogany and inlaid with gold. Brynn’s breath caught as she ran her hands along the gilded swirls.

  “Is there a note?” she asked.

  “No, my lady. Only the instruction to deliver into the hands of Lady Briannon Findlay.”

  “Did you recognize the carriage or driver?” Mama further inquired.

  Braxton canted his head in an apologetic tilt. “No, my lady. Both the driver and the man who presented the parcel were unfamiliar.”

  The mysterious method of delivery heightened Brynn’s anticipation as she loosed the ribbon.

  “Thank you, Braxton. That will be all,” Mama said, clearly disappointed.

  Brynn’s suddenly clumsy fingers fumbled with the latch, and as she opened the box, her breath escaped on a silent incredulous exhale. All the feeling in her body drained away as she stared at the contents. Resting inside, on a bed of luxurious cream velvet, was a ruby and diamond necklace. Each ruby glowed as if on fire, the interspersed diamonds cooling them like ice.

  The bandit’s words flew into her mind: You need rubies to go with that defiant spirit. Rubies. It had to be from him—the masked man. Who else would send rubies without a note? Brynn slammed the lid shut, her shoulders heaving with delayed shock and a wild rush of hot shame.

  Her mother jumped. “What is it?” she asked, voice pitched high with concern.

  “It’s…it’s a necklace,” Brynn croaked, her throat dry. “A ruby necklace.”

  Mama tore across
the room to where Brynn stood and pried the box from her stiff fingers. She opened the lid and gasped, a hand fluttering to her chest. “Oh my. But where is the note? There must be a note!”

  “There is no message,” Brynn whispered. “Just the necklace.”

  A breathtaking necklace, worth a thousand times more than the pearls it was no doubt meant to replace. The thought tempered her shock and returned a dash of the anger she’d felt when the bandit had taken her grandmother’s necklace. Even such magnificently cut rubies and diamonds could never replace the pearls. Still, Brynn could barely tear her eyes away from them.

  Her mother turned to Braxton, who had known to hover outside the doorway to the day room. “Come now, there must have been a note. Braxton?”

  He reentered the room, hands clasped behind his back. He had been with their family for ages, and Brynn knew he would not have been so incompetent as to have lost a note somewhere between the front door and the day room.

  “There was no note, Mama,” Brynn said dully as the butler echoed the same. The bandit wouldn’t have been so forthcoming. “What did the carriage look like, Braxton?”

  “It was a plain black coach, my lady. Norbert attended the horses and might have gotten a better look at it.”

  “Fetch me Norbert at once,” her mother commanded, returning the box to Brynn and leaving for the front hall.

  Brynn could hear her mother questioning the footman, but she knew he hadn’t recognized the driver, either. The bandit would never have sent a coach or driver that could be tracked down. She ran her fingers over the rubies and diamonds, each one a carat or more.

  What was this, a peace offering? Something more?

  Had he stolen them? The idea that this necklace might truly belong to another lady made her retract her fingers and slam the lid once more.

  Her mother bustled back into the salon and harrumphed. “What kind of gentleman sends a gift of this magnitude and expense to a young lady without so much as a note? It is completely improper,” she muttered to herself, taking the box from her daughter yet again. “We will return them the very moment we determine whom they are from. And you will not wear these rubies under any circumstance.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Brynn agreed, silently cursing the sheer nerve of the masked man. How dare that dreadful thief? She didn’t want anything to do with him or his blasted rubies, no matter how exquisite they were. “I’m going to lie down,” she told her mother, casting about for an excuse to leave. “I feel a bit of a headache coming on.”

  “Of course, dear,” her mother said, clearly still distracted as she then thrust the box at Brynn instead of confiscating it as she normally would have done.

  Hours later in her bedroom, Brynn still couldn’t calm her rattled nerves and flaring temper. Her lady’s maid, Lana, kept darting concerned glances in her direction while she warmed the slipper bath with a scalding pitcher of water. Brynn was of no mind to speak, not even to Lana who had, since becoming her maid six months ago, become more friend than servant. She and Brynn had gotten along well from the start, and the fact that they were near the same age helped. Though her mother often sighed at Lana’s displays of frankness, Brynn loved them. She depended upon them.

  Brynn suspected Lana hadn’t been in service for very long. There were moments when she spoke too directly or forgot her place, but Brynn put that down to mere differences between their two cultures. Lana had come to England from Moscow, and while she spoke English fluently, she still had much to learn when it came to English rules. However, Brynn appreciated how Lana never coddled her the way everyone else in the house did.

  Brynn eyed her maid, ill-concealed excitement flashing in those transparent green eyes. Lana had no doubt already heard about the mysterious rubies through the ever-reliable flow of servant gossip. She could be trusted with the whole truth, Brynn knew, and she would likely have an edifying opinion on the matter as well. At the very least, confiding in someone would make her breathe easier.

  “It’s positively romantic, my lady,” Lana exclaimed, her eyes round with delight after Brynn had finished telling her the tale. “And rubies, no less!”

  “Honestly, Lana, it’s not romantic in the least. It’s…barbaric. I have no idea who this scoundrel is, and now he feels welcome to send me gifts, which are likely not even his to give.”

  “A gift is a gift, is it not?”

  “Not if it’s from a thief.”

  “Even better,” Lana said with a mock swoon as she poured a second ewer of hot water into the bath with a sigh. “Can you imagine what he must have risked to send you such an extravagant gift? It’s terribly romantic, you must see that. You English have no sense of adventure.”

  Brynn said nothing as she stepped out of her robe and into the bath. It wasn’t a gift. It was a message—one meant for her and her alone. She thought about the brush of the man’s fingers, his seductive half smile as she’d poured their belongings into the pouch at his waist…and then sank her flushed face under the surface of the warm bathwater. She agreed with her mother, for once, and fully intended to give the rubies back somehow. She’d find a way. Brynn racked her brain as she lingered beneath the water’s surface, her skin softening, the fine prickling sensation of the warmth making her shiver.

  An idea struck, and she gripped the sides of the tub to thrust herself up, making water slosh over the rim and onto the floor. Could the bandit have been a member of the duke’s house party? The idea was an intriguing one. His smooth palms crossed her mind, too. But what titled gentleman would do such a thing? No. The man had to be a criminal who had followed the wealth out of London and into Essex. That was the only explanation. A member of the ton stealing from his own was an absurd notion.

  Once the water had cooled, Brynn stepped from the bath and into the soft robe Lana held out for her. She sat by the fire and waited for Lana to dry and comb her hair. She didn’t have a headache as she’d said to her mother earlier, but she also didn’t have the energy to face Gray and Papa over the topic of the mysterious necklace. Lying was never easy, and keeping it hush-hush that she knew who had sent the rubies would be too difficult. “Tell Mama I’m still ill and won’t be coming down to dinner. Can you ask Cook to send up a tray instead?”

  A few minutes passed while Lana relayed the message to a waiting footman. “What are you going to do with the rubies?” Lana asked when resuming her duty of combing Brynn’s long auburn strands.

  “Return them, of course.” She hoped Lana hadn’t noticed her slight hesitation. Brynn could not put them on. They were a magnificent piece, yes, but a magnificent stolen piece.

  “Are they very beautiful?”

  Brynn tipped her head to the mantel. “They’re over there if you want to have a look.”

  She had been prepared for the oohs and aahs that came from Lana’s mouth as she surveyed the contents of the wooden box. “Fit for a princess,” Lana declared. “A queen, even.”

  “Queen of Newgate,” Brynn countered as Lana returned to her place.

  “Your secret admirer has exceptional taste.”

  Her eyes slid to the box. “They are beautiful,” Brynn said, a wistful note coming through her voice. Lana was right. They were indeed fit for a queen. “But rubies are not uncommon.”

  “Not like these. I know something rare when I see it,” Lana said, something intense flashing in her eyes. “And those, milady, are something incredibly rare. They glow so brightly they seem…alive. I have never seen rubies do that, not even Lady Dinsmore’s.”

  Brynn, too, had never seen rubies shimmer with such rich color. They must have cost a small fortune. Or been taken as her precious pearls had been. Her lips tightened at the thought of their previous owner, now deprived of her lovely jewels. That blackguard had no scruples whatsoever.

  “I’ll hear no more of it, Lana.”

  Although they didn’t speak anymore of the rubies or the thief, Brynn could see the fanciful smile on Lana’s lips. It irritated her to no end, but she loved her maid too
much to scold her.

  After her dinner, Brynn decided to retire early. She’d had enough of the bandit and his presumptuous rubies. But it was as if he had well and truly insinuated himself into every part of her life, even her dreams. And dreams were ungovernable things.

  Fighting a fitful sleep, Brynn woke early, her sleep-deprived mind a riotous jumble of thoughts and emotions. She needed to clear her head, and nothing but a fast, cold ride with Apollo on Ferndale’s grounds would accomplish that. Brynn sat up in bed, watching the first streaks of dawn breaking across the tree line. Staying indoors when the sky looked so pink and promising would have been a crime. Her parents wouldn’t be awake for hours yet. She dressed herself simply and sneaked out of the house.

  Chapter Four

  Archer walked silently through the woods near Pierce Cottage. It was early morning, and the trilling of birds was his only company as he tracked the animal that had spooked his horse the evening of the Bradburne Ball. It hadn’t been a fox as he’d first suspected, but a wild boar. He and Brandt had spent the next morning tracking it while the house party guests, including a still slightly inebriated Lord Bradburne, had started to leak slowly from the sprawling estate and bleed back toward London. The double rounded hoof indentations in the soft dirt had led Archer and Brandt to the boar’s wallowing hole by a stream, but for the last couple of mornings the two had been unsuccessful in finding the beast while it was there, rolling lazily in the muddy banking.

  Archer didn’t enjoy the hunt. He never had. However, if the boar was coming in close enough to Pierce Cottage to spook the animals or put the tenants of the estate in danger, it had to be taken care of. There were some men, though—like his father and his ilk—who treated the hunt with a disturbing lightheartedness. To these men, the hunt was mere sport. Something Archer held such distaste for, it had colored his opinion of the men who did enjoy it. Because there were other men who hunted for true purpose. To them, the hunt meant food for themselves and for their families. To them, the hunt included a respect for the quarry that never so much as crossed the minds of those well-heeled sporting men who viewed their kills as trophies.