“One and the same,” he replied, his voice brusque. He stood up, restless and eager to clear his throat. He refrained, however. It would make him appear nervous. “She may have recognized me last night at the ball. I can’t be sure.”
“Recognized you?” Brandt repeated.
“As the bandit who robbed her family,” he explained. “I donned the mask last night without thinking—”
“You donned the mask?”
Archer glared at him. “Must you echo my every word? Yes, I put on the mask. She looked at me strangely for a moment as if coming to the correct conclusion before discarding it.” Brandt snorted at the frail connective logic, making Archer’s glare deepen tenfold. “Nonetheless, we cannot afford to take the chance that she will make good on her guess. She is a clever woman.”
“Apologies,” Brandt said, still trying to cover his amusement. The man had never gotten riled up about anything before, so his placid reaction didn’t throw Archer. In fact, it seemed to calm him. “So hypothetically, what if she did discover your identity? Would she expose you? Go to the authorities? And let us not forget your apostle. He needs to be found.”
“I know he does. And, no, I don’t know what she’ll do.” Archer groaned. Damn it all. “For now, I will take care of Lady Briannon.”
“How?”
He groaned, raking his hands through his dark hair, annoyed by his friend’s humor at his expense. “Leave it to me. Surely there’s something she wants in return. It won’t be the first time I’ve bought a woman’s silence.”
The silence he had purchased had been to cover one of his father’s flagrant affairs with a woman who happened to be married to an influential man in the House of Lords. The adulterer, now happily ensconced in an Italian country estate, had been more than willing to accept Archer’s proposal. He highly doubted Briannon’s obedience could be purchased in the same manner. He just hoped to hell he wouldn’t be forced to try.
He stopped at the door. “What of the last of the jewels? Was your man able to fetch a good price for them?”
“Yes. They were sold in France a few days ago. I have already sent the proceeds to the three charities and the orphanage you earmarked, donated under the same name, Viscount Hathaway.”
Archer nodded. “Excellent.”
Brandt took something from a velvet pouch and handed it to Archer. “And these?”
Archer stared at the string of pearls and matching earbobs in his hands. He did not know what had stopped him from sending the costly heirlooms with the rest of the stolen gems, whether it had been the plea in Briannon’s voice or the way her eyes had burned with rage-filled tears when he’d divested her of them. He studied the pearls. They—and she—were becoming more trouble than either of them were worth. He stuffed them into his pocket.
“We continue two nights henceforth. The Aberdeen’s Ball should have good spoils for the taking. Then I leave for London for the season.”
“Hawk,” Brandt began. “Do you think that is wise?”
Archer sent him an expressionless look. “Stop any time you wish, but I am going. And may fortune smile upon me that I may meet this pretender face to face.”
“That’s not it,” Brandt said a trifle defensively, though still calm. Still rational. “I have your back, always. We need to be careful now, is all. People are looking for a violent man, not a charming thief. There is a world of difference between the two. Notwithstanding that fact, if anyone were to find out that the true Masked Marauder is really the esteemed Marquess of Hawksfield, future Duke of Bradburne, your family would never live down the scandal.”
“And I would be hanged,” Archer said drily. “Trust me, I am well aware of the risks to my neck and good name, my friend.” He gentled his voice and clapped his longtime friend on the shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about.”
As he was about to take his leave, Brandt stopped him at the doorway. “I heard you and your father argued at the masquerade. That it became physical. They said that his hand was bleeding.”
Archer froze. “Did they?” His voice was dangerously soft and clipped, offering no further explanation. Brandt was his friend, but there were some things that he did not feel inclined to discuss, especially where his sire and Briannon were concerned.
Brandt was not cowed. “They did.”
Archer exhaled and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “We discussed a matter. He slipped, fell, and cut his hand on his whiskey glass. That is all.”
Lying to Brandt, even a white lie such as this, felt like crossing an entire ocean with the stretch of one leg. He didn’t know why he bothered to try—he knew the man would see right through him. Shame, a cantankerous little voice whispered in answer.
Hell. He shouldn’t have hit his father, even if the licentious tippler had deserved it. It’d been an unconscionable act of anger, brought on by the woman who was fast becoming an irritating thorn in his side…his arse, if he was being precise.
“Hawk,” Brandt began in a gentle tone, almost like he’d use with his beloved horses. “He is your father, even with all his faults, for better or for worse.”
“I know,” Archer exploded. “Don’t you think I know?”
Brandt didn’t answer. Instead he set aside his coffee and reached for the ceramic jug that stayed in the center of the table day and night. He poured two fingers of whiskey and offered one to Archer. “Stay awhile. You look like you need a drink.”
A handful of hours later, after Archer left Brandt’s cottage, he rode his stallion to the property line that divided his estate with Dinsmore’s.
He wondered if Briannon would be out for a ride, but then grinned. No doubt it was far too late in the morning to be cavorting around in men’s breeches. She preferred early rides when she couldn’t be seen. He blinked as something occurred to him in the same moment—could Briannon have been the man who had shot him? Archer shook his head, his mind considering and discarding the possibility with swift haste. No, he would have known. He was certain of it. One, she was far smaller than the unknown assailant. And two, he didn’t doubt her skill with the pistol, but had it been her disguised as a boy, she would have certainly demanded the return of her precious pearls. And then she would have shot him.
Grinning, Archer nudged Morpheus through the thicket of trees near the line that divided their estates, coming to a familiar area that made his gut clench. A long-forgotten pain surfaced, chasing away his humor, as he looked upward. It was still there, along with every emotion he’d thought gone and buried. The stout base of the scorched tree house platform hung haphazardly overhead. Charred bits of lumber awakened memories in him that he wished he could forget—Eloise’s face…his mother’s horrific death.
At the sight, a savage pain gripped him, making his fingers wind brutally into the leather reins. He could smell the smoke, hear the screams as if he were young again. He had arrived minutes after the servants, but he’d been helpless then, only a boy, and he’d been too late to save her. He had watched as a bawling Eloise had come stumbling down the ladder covered in soot before a burning section of the roof had caved in. There was no sign of his mother, although he could hear a woman keening. It’d taken four grown footmen to hold him down from climbing in after her.
Archer swallowed past the raw lump in his throat as he studied the charred lumber hanging above his head. The tree house didn’t have only bad memories tied to it. The summer before the fire, he, Brandt, and Northridge had spent countless hours up there, doing the things they believed grown men did. Northridge had snuck three of his father’s cigars for them to hack on. Archer had nicked a bottle of his father’s brandy and a deck of cards. Brandt had brought up a pair of dice he’d carved from a block of pinewood.
One night they’d caught the then six-year-old Briannon and an eight-year-old Eloise creeping through the grounds and following them. Briannon had been a wisp of a girl then, but no less fearless than she was now. Northridge had threatened her with all manner of punishments, but she
’d stood her ground and refused to be intimidated. Instead of fleeing back to the nursery where they belonged, both girls had spent the evening in the tree house, doing everything their brothers did. They’d even taken sips of the brandy, swallowing with melodramatic gags.
Archer smiled at the memory and shook his head. He should have recognized Briannon’s stubborn streak from then. His smile turned to a frown as he recalled Northridge wrapping her in sheepskins that same night so she wouldn’t catch her death of cold. Even then, her brother had looked out for her, knowing how easily she could fall ill. That protectiveness hadn’t changed, either, Archer thought, recalling Northridge’s watchful expression at the ball. It’d been a long time since they played as friends in the tree house. It’d been even longer since he considered anyone other than Brandt a friend. Trust was not something Archer handed out lightly, or often. It had to be hard-earned. And now he was putting his friendship with Brandt in jeopardy because of a woman.
Good god, he’d been such a fool. Donning the blasted mask had been reckless and idiotic, but some part of him had craved for Briannon to look at him the same way she had the highwayman—with open and fervent emotion. Whether it was wonderment or exasperation, it didn’t matter. So long as she just saw him.
He turned his horse about. Seeking her out now, today, the morning after a ball in which they had danced and strolled on the balcony, would look far too much like paying court. Which would be another foolish move. Damnation, he swore under his breath. What was wrong with him? He was normally so level-headed and even-keeled. The woman made him behave like a besotted imbecile. He had to nip this attraction, or whatever lunacy it was, right in the bud and put Lady Briannon firmly out of his mind. After ascertaining what she knew, of course.
She would be in London within days and would most definitely be in attendance at the annual Tewksdale Soiree, the first ball of the season. All ladies making their bow attended.
Archer would see Briannon there and, even if it proved a challenge, he would find a private audience with her. Lady Briannon Findlay, it seemed, would have to be dealt with.
Chapter Eleven
More flowers were at Bishop House when Brynn arrived in London. Lilies this time, their drooping petals a girlish pink and white. A dozen of them waited for her in the front parlor of her family’s home on the corner of St. James’s Square. It was a stately, four-story white-stuccoed mansion that, from the outside, appeared rather severe and block-like. It had been in Brynn’s family for generations, and on the inside, Bishop House had been forced into modernity by her mother and layered with elegant touches until it all but reeked of femininity. Perhaps that was why Lady Dinsmore was the one cooing over the lilies, which were dropping orange dust from their long stamens all over the newly polished credenza in the front parlor. The flowers were extremely feminine, and what young maiden didn’t enjoy pink?
Brynn. That was who.
Lady Dinsmore ruffled the petals for the third time that morning. “I am all astonishment! I had no idea the duke himself was in the market for a wife!”
Brynn sat upon the edge of the sofa, the teacup in her hand forgotten. The oolong was likely cold by now, anyway. Her stomach had yet to unclench since the arrival of the first dozen flowers at Ferndale the morning after the Gainsbridge’s Masquerade. She’d entered the front sitting room and seen the hothouse flowers, a dozen violet roses, a purple so pale they were nearly a shade of blue. Her heart hadn’t known what to do—be still or crash wildly. So it had done both, and her legs and arms had been quivering with confusion by the time she opened and read the accompanying card:
With regret that I did not have the pleasure of a dance with the loveliest lady last evening.
The duke had signed his name for propriety, but Brynn would have known without it. The note had fluttered from her numb fingers, her stomach cramping into horrible knots. The way Bradburne had eyed her the evening before, with unsettling interest, had lingered. And on top of it, the attack on Lord Maynard’s carriage, and the sight of his slain horse, had worked more ice under her skin. By the time she’d reached home, Brynn had been shivering uncontrollably. She’d been both exhausted and horrified, and she had gone to bed determined not to think about the marauder.
It had been no surprise when she had failed.
The receipt of the flowers along with the duke’s intentions the next morning had been the last straw. She should have stayed home from the masquerade. She should have never worn that blasted dress or those damned rubies. She’d put herself on display, hoping to lure in the bandit that she’d so naively romanticized, and she’d wound up being kissed by a rude, brutish marquess, ogled by a duke more than twice her own age, and then exposed, firsthand, to the violent truth about the bandit. It had shattered her silly dreams.
She should have aimed better the night she’d happened across him robbing Lord Perth’s daughter. Either that, or left him to bleed to death instead of acting like a compassionate fool and helping him to safety. He hadn’t deserved it.
Brynn refused to think about that horrible criminal for one more second, even if he did have an uncanny resemblance to the Marquess of Hawksfield. She’d already decided it couldn’t be him—he would sooner shoot himself than a helpless horse. That said, it didn’t stop him from being a loathsome rake. Further, she had worse things to worry about…like the duke’s utterly unwelcome suit.
Most girls she knew would die for such attention from someone with so lofty a title, but Brynn felt only the keen desire to disappear to someplace he would not be able to find her. Her mother’s breathless delight made it worse.
“I deplore the scent of lilies,” Brynn replied to her mother, who had motioned for the maid to tidy up the stamen dust. “They smell like death.”
“That is a wretched sentiment, Briannon, and I will not have you stating it again.” Lady Dinsmore bustled to the settee next to her daughter, her excitement even able to eclipse her irritation. “The duke himself is completely bewitched by you, dear. Now, I know he isn’t terribly young—”
“He is at least five and fifty!”
“But he is extremely respected—”
“They call him the Dancing Duke!”
Her mother went on, ignoring her interjections, both of which were impossible to argue, and Lady Dinsmore likely knew it. “—and his lineage is impeccable.”
Brynn set down her teacup, splashing cold tea over the brim. “He is a rake of the worst sort, Mama, and you know it.”
Everyone knew it, including Hawksfield, who had never, not even while growing up in the country, attempted to conceal the fact that he deplored his own sire.
And then there was Eloise. The poor woman had been willfully ignored by the duke her whole life. The man was infuriating, arrogant, and snobbish, and there was absolutely no chance in Hades that Brynn would ever be induced to marry him.
“All he wants for is a wife to guide him,” her mother said, that faraway and scheming look in her eyes as they gazed at the wall behind Brynn’s sofa.
“That is exactly what you said about his son, if I recall correctly.”
Did her mother truly believe any woman could fix a man’s deeply ingrained faults by her mere presence?
Lady Dinsmore lifted her pointed chin and shot her daughter a cool glance. “Well, I haven’t seen any floral arrangements sent by the marquess, now have I?”
There was an unexpected twinge in Brynn’s stomach, though she couldn’t determine what it meant. Disappointment? Of course not. She didn’t wish for flowers or flattering notes from Hawksfield. He would never lower himself to beg a woman for her attentions anyhow. And she didn’t regret rejecting his lewd kiss.
Even though she had thought of it numerous times in the days since the masquerade. At night, mostly, while she lay in bed. Thinking of him.
Oh bother.
Hawksfield was all the things she’d just accused the duke of being: infuriating, arrogant, and snobbish. And yet kissing him had been…it had been tantali
zing and urgent. He had pinned her against his chest with the same desperate strength one might use when fighting the pull of an ocean tide. As if he’d feared someone dragging her away from him. She’d tasted his passion. Breathed it. It was an emotion she hadn’t thought Hawksfield capable of expressing. Yet, with her, for those brief moments, he had.
Which made her wonder: what else had he been hiding behind his cold and stony facade?
Gray entered the front room with one of the newssheets Lord Dinsmore subscribed to under one arm. He took one look at the lilies on the credenza and scowled.
“Would anyone mind terribly if I were to chuck them straight into the fire?”
Brynn stood up from the sofa, her legs sore from holding them so stiffly. Nerves made her muscles ache and her breathing ragged. But right now, at least, she felt fine. After her fainting spell at the masquerade, Brynn had not been allowed out of the house for a full day.
“Not at all,” she answered. “In fact, I will wager that you could not get them all in on your first shot.”
“You will not touch them!” their mother screeched, standing up as well and going to the lilies as though to stand guard. She glared at Brynn. “And placing wagers is no proper thing for gently bred girls to be doing.”
Gray had worked himself into a froth the morning the violet roses had arrived. He disliked Hawksfield, but he despised Bradburne.
“The man is a toad,” Gray said, slapping the paper down on a table by the street side window. “Had you seen the way he looked at her, you would hardly be in such a delirious state. He looked at her as if…as if…she were something to be gobbled up.”
“Hush! You know how servants gossip,” their mother hissed, looking sideways toward the door to where a footman stood sentry. “Insulting the duke at this phase would be extremely unwise.”
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 15