My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Brynn cracked open the door to the late duchess’s sitting room and listened over her pulse throbbing in her ears. When she was certain the hallway was empty, she darted out, closing the door behind her with a soft click. As her slippers padded along the carpet, she was glad she was wearing silk. Chiffon or taffeta would have made more noise as she snuck down the dimly lit hall.

  She thought of the tear in her hem, and the way Archer’s surprisingly nimble fingers had gripped the small needle and thread. They were not slender fingers in the least, and they should have been clumsy with the sewing notions. However, he’d been swift and precise, and she’d watched his crown of dark hair bent over her ankles as he worked, with mounting amusement and admiration. The cold and aloof Hawksfield knew how to mend stitches. Seeing him so carefully fixing her hem, even stopping to tidy up a crooked stitch, had made her heart feel bigger in her chest. It had given her the startling urge to reach out and curl his hair around her fingers.

  Of course, that had been before he’d confessed to being the Masked Marauder. But if Brynn were to be honest with herself, his resemblance to the bandit when he’d donned the mask at the Gainsbridge Masquerade had been far too great to ignore. In fact, if she were being honest, she’d been crestfallen when she’d enumerated the reasons that Archer couldn’t be the bandit. She’d been thinking about his kiss for the last week, and, even more ashamedly, hoping to see him again. Archer had been right. She had felt something—for both the bandit and for Archer. Two men who, as it now turned out, were really one man.

  She needed to clear her head. Perhaps she could return to the lady’s salon, where the women were likely having tea and playing cards, and feign illness. Brynn detested using her breathing affliction as an excuse, but she could not, under any circumstances, risk seeing Archer again tonight.

  She had already taken two left turns down connecting hallways so far, and she had the sinking feeling that she was indeed lost in Hadley Gardens.

  “Blast,” she muttered, turning around and trying to gauge how far back the last turn had been.

  A muffled voice had her facing forward again, her heart jumping into her throat. The voice had sounded from farther down the hallway she was currently in. She couldn’t be discovered wandering the hallways, especially if the rooms behind these closed doors were bedchambers.

  Brynn wavered, indecisive, in the hallway until the voice sounded again, this time louder. It belonged to a man, and whoever it was, he was angry.

  She backed up until she came to a cream-colored door with a glass knob. Praying the room was empty, she twisted the knob and opened the door. Darkness met her and, with a breath of relief, Brynn quickly stepped inside and closed the door. Her heart tripped at the threat of discovery.

  Brynn kept her hand on the knob, the palm of her other hand pressed against the smooth wood, and her ear turned against the door as well. Perhaps she’d wandered above the billiards room and the shout had been nothing more than a raised voice among the men. But she wanted to be certain no one was coming toward her in the hallway. Her legs were quivering from nerves when she heard a strange thumping noise. Like a table or some other piece of furniture falling onto thick carpet.

  Brynn waited, an eternity slipping by though she swore she took only a handful of breaths.

  And then, she heard the sound of approaching feet. They were heading away from the previous noises—and directly toward the room where Brynn was hiding, pressed against the door. She held her breath as the sound of swishing skirts rushed past. It was a woman, then. And at that pace, she was in a hurry. Brynn also heard the distinct sound of sniffling, as if the woman were crying.

  It seemed as if Brynn had nearly stumbled upon a man and woman having some kind of spat. Whom the man and woman were, would have to remain a mystery, however. She waited another minute before opening the door. The hallway was once again empty, and Brynn decided to backtrack to the previous corridor to avoid coming upon the man who had been shouting before.

  Within another minute, she saw a familiar portrait hanging on the wall, and then, miraculously, a stairwell. She descended and immediately heard the echo of voices. Relief was instantaneous. She breathed deeply and forced a smile as she came upon the entrance to the ladies’ salon. When she entered, her mother pounced.

  “Gracious, Briannon! Where on earth have you been? I’d started to worry your dress was beyond repair.”

  Several of the other women in attendance all turned from their hands of cards to listen in.

  “Not at all, but you know how silk is,” Brynn said with a wave of her hand, and attempting to sound exasperated instead of nervous. “So difficult to mend.”

  Their eyes darted to the neatly mended seam, and she was inordinately thankful that Archer had done such an extraordinary job. Murmurs of agreement put her at ease, and even more so when the women turned back to the card tables and their glasses of sherry.

  She glanced around the room as she walked to her mother, seated upon a sofa next to Viscountess Hamilton, a matronly woman who had never bore children and had, instead, a half dozen or more poodles.

  “Have Lord and Lady Rochester departed for the evening?” Brynn asked, after settling herself beside her mother and noticing Lady Rochester’s absence. She tried not to fidget. Archer could be returning to the duchess’s sitting room that very moment, only to find it empty. She wondered if he would come to find her.

  The thought of him made her lips tingle and burn.

  “Lady Rochester was feeling rather…faint,” the viscountess answered with a raised brow.

  “She stepped out for a bit of air,” her mother supplied. She didn’t scoff as openly as Viscountess Hamilton had, but Brynn could tell her mother didn’t believe Lady Rochester’s excuse for a moment.

  Brynn sat stiffly on the uncomfortable sofa cushion, remembering the sound of a sniffling woman rushing past the room in which she had been hiding. She thought of the deep purple organza gown with its billowing skirts that Lady Rochester was wearing that night and conceded that it certainly could have been her in the hallway.

  Perhaps Brynn had simply overheard a lover’s quarrel. She breathed a sigh of relief that she had not actually come upon them in the hallway. Then again, had she had the misfortune of witnessing something between Bradburne and his mistress, she would have had something solid to point to for her reasoning behind rejecting the duke’s proposal.

  The offer would come, she knew. Archer had made that clear enough.

  Archer.

  The duke’s affair with his good friend’s wife was minuscule compared to the crimes his son had committed. He hadn’t been involved in the waylaying of Lord Maynard’s carriage, Brynn was certain of it. Archer had spoken of an imposter, and she wanted to believe him. She did believe him.

  Didn’t she?

  Her head ached with the chaos of her thoughts. He would inherit a dukedom and was a marquess in his own right. Why had he put himself at such risk?

  Brynn’s good posture slipped, and she let out small sigh. Loud enough for her mother to hear, she hoped.

  “Are you quite well, darling?”

  Success.

  Brynn touched her neck. “A little breathless, that is all.”

  “Perhaps we should call for the carriage—”

  Lady Dinsmore’s mouth froze open as a horrible scream rent the air.

  Brynn shot off the sofa. Viscountess Hamilton yelped and spilled her sherry onto the floor while the other ladies at the card tables turned in their seats toward the salon door.

  “Help! Good heavens, someone! Help!”

  The scream was coming from the grand stairwell that Brynn had just descended.

  “Is that Lady Rochester?” her mother asked, standing up with more grace than Brynn had shown. “What in heaven’s name has happened?”

  The women started at once toward the door, crowding it as all of them attempted to funnel through at once. Brynn stayed near the rear of the confusion, but she could still hear Lady Rocheste
r’s next words clear as day.

  “The duke! My god, all the blood!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Archer met Brandt in the hallway off the kitchens, he was in strict possession of himself once more. He cursed his friend’s untimely arrival and thanked him in the same breath. Who knew what would have happened had he and the lady not been disturbed by the arriving footman. Archer had never lost control like that. Certainly never with someone as innocent as she.

  Indeed, Lady Briannon was full of surprises.

  Now that she knew the truth about him, he had to ascertain whether she would expose him. Archer wasn’t above using seduction to get his way. He’d seduce her a thousand times over if it meant guaranteeing her silence.

  Perhaps if the duke did offer for her, it would make her more amenable to protecting his family’s interests, especially from such a scandal. He clenched his jaw at the sour thought. After what had happened between them, he could never let her marry his father.

  But what could he offer her? He didn’t want to be married. He didn’t want to be saddled with a wife whom he would likely only disappoint in time. What he felt now would be fleeting, like any other passing indiscretion. Once he sated his body with hers, the desire would wane. His own parents’ marriage, and how it had unfolded, was testament to that.

  Archer did not want to have to live up to anyone’s expectations, much less some maiden with stars in her eyes. She would undoubtedly want love and romance, and what did he know of those things? Archer didn’t believe in such shallow sentiments anyhow, especially not after seeing what they had done to his mother. And should he end up being tried and punished for his crimes, any wife of his would be left to suffer the backlash. He could not expect someone to pay that price—no matter how stubborn and strong-willed she may be. No. Marriage to the beguiling Lady Briannon was not in the cards.

  Taking her to bed was another matter altogether.

  He couldn’t deny the attraction between them, and neither could she. Archer shook his head, his body aching with a want that only she could appease. He hoped she would still be there when he dealt with Brandt’s business. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled for Brandt to follow him down the hallway and through a door that led to the deserted side gardens, away from open windows and providing some modicum of privacy.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Brandt raised an eyebrow at his rudeness. “Did I interrupt a particularly riveting game of whist?” He eyed him, a knowing grin stretching across his face as he took in Archer’s rumpled hair and crooked cravat. “Or was it something more enjoyable…some time in a broom closet, perhaps, with a young wealthy chit looking for a titled fop of a husband?”

  It was too close to the truth for Archer. He glared at him and adjusted his cravat. “Did you have something of importance you wished to discuss?”

  Brandt’s grin widened. He was not afraid of Archer’s posturing in the least. “Cranky, aren’t we? Did the debutante in question have too many morals for you? Decided she wanted a betrothal contract before tossing up her skirts?”

  “Get on with it before I box your ears for your insolence.”

  “You could try.”

  A sliver of a scowl cracked Archer’s face, and Brandt relented, handing him a heavy velvet pouch and lowering his voice. “My cousin just returned from Scotland. Here’s the money from the last heist. He managed to get a good price for the lot. I’ve earmarked a portion of it to some of the local village places, and that’s what is left.”

  “Seems like a large amount,” Archer said, hefting the weight of the coins in the bag. “None for yourself?”

  Brandt shook his head. “I paid the runner, but that’s all. It should go to those who need it, and I am not in need.”

  In all the months they had worked together, Brandt had never taken a single coin for himself, and neither had Archer. He had seen the judgment in Brynn’s eyes when she had called him a thief, but he wasn’t keeping, and had never kept, any of the spoils. Most of the men he’d robbed would replace their trinkets with new pieces within the week, and the countless lives he had improved were worth the cost.

  Speaking of excesses, he frowned at Brandt. “Did the duke commission you to purchase two new geldings for his stables?”

  “Yes, a gorgeous snow white pair of Andalusians. They cost a pretty penny, too,” Brandt said and then blinked at the look on Archer’s face. “He did say to spare no expense.”

  “And you didn’t think to ask me?”

  “He is the duke, Hawk. He pays my wages.”

  “I pay your wages.”

  Brandt sighed. “What would you have had me do? Tell him that I had to check in with his son? He would have released me on the spot. I got the breeder down to a good price. They’re good horses for any stable. Trust me, these two were worth it.”

  Archer nodded to his friend. He did trust Brandt when it came to assessing horseflesh of any kind. He had a knack with horses and could see traits about them that most others tended to miss. He knew whether a prized foal had a hidden ligament problem or if a mare would be barren.

  “You’ll have to show these prize mounts to me yourself,” Archer said. He tossed him the velvet pouch. “I was invited to a charity dinner for an orphanage in Lambeth badly in need of funds. I declined, of course, but see that it goes to good use there.”

  Archer glanced back at the house. The lights in the first floor rooms threw long dancing shadows across the manicured shrubs. His eyes wandered up to the second floor, drawn by a light burning in his father’s study. He could see shadowy movement behind the drapes and wondered whether the duke had miraculously decided to retire. Odd. His father was always the last to leave a party, even when it was his own.

  Archer wished that he had his mother’s sitting room window in clear view to see whether Brynn was still there. He shouldn’t be this preoccupied with her, but he couldn’t help himself. She haunted his every waking moment.

  “Is something amiss?” Brandt asked.

  He shook his head and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He turned to dismiss Brandt and then stopped. “I’m sure you have heard the rumors that the duke is considering taking another wife.”

  “Yes,” Brandt said. “All of London is abuzz with it. Mamas prepping their daughters, dandies closing their suits so that the duke doesn’t set his eye on their chosen ladies. Even I, a lowly stable master, have heard the gossip,” he said with his usual self-deprecating humor. “I’m sure wagers are being placed at Tattersall’s and White’s against the maiden he will choose.”

  “He has already chosen.”

  “Do tell.”

  Archer drew a long breath. “Lady Briannon.” Her name came out on a sigh.

  Brandt’s eyes popped. “Lord Dinsmore’s daughter? She’s but a babe, barely your own number in years.”

  “She’s of marriageable age,” he said flatly.

  Brandt cleared his throat. “And what of the issue we discussed as it relates to your secret identity? Does the lady know? Were you able to get to the heart of the matter?”

  Brandt’s choice of words made Archer’s chest clench.

  The heart of the matter was that he coveted the woman his father was about to offer for.

  The heart of the matter was that she knew his deepest secret.

  The heart of the matter was that she was in his blood, damn it.

  He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “She knows.”

  Brandt hesitated, rolling onto the balls of his feet and plunging his hands in his pockets. He was not pleased, Archer could tell.

  “And?” Brandt asked.

  “I will take care of it.”

  “How?” Brandt prodded. “If she is to be the new duchess, then her loyalty will be with her husband, the duke, not you. How can you trust that she won’t reveal what you—what we—have been doing? Do not forget my neck is on the line, too.”

  “I would never forget it.”

  Brandt stare
d at him for a long moment, and when Archer met his look, his friend was shaking his head, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Hawk, say it is not so.”

  “Say what?”

  “Say that you haven’t gone and lost your head for your poorly neighbor!” He glanced upward, trying to peer through the windows. “Where is this girl? I haven’t seen her for years, but she must be surely some beauty if she can bring a duke and a marquess to their collective knees.”

  The only words that could fall from Archer’s mouth were, “I told you she’s not poorly.”

  “Of all the women,” Brandt said in an exasperated voice. “I can find you a woman, if that is what you need. I know the perfect one. Her name is Eden, and she’s everything a man could want…for one night.”

  “That’s not what I want.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Not that, damn it.”

  Spending one night with a skilled courtesan would have been a satisfactory proposition before. Not now. Archer wanted to have his fill of one woman in particular, and the idea of any other left a bleak, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Brandt’s voice sobered as he rested a hand on Archer’s sleeve. “Hawk, you are playing with fire. Not everyone thinks as you do, and while you may believe this girl is different, you know as well as I that everyone in the ton is the same. She is just like the rest of them, and she will turn you in.”

  Though Archer knew his friend meant no insult, his words left a mark.

  “Lie to her if you must, tell her it was a joke. I can pay people to act as your alibis. No woman is worth stretching your neck over. And if she is meant for the duke, we both know that your father would disown you without so much as blinking, especially if he has found a woman to bear him a new heir.”

  Brandt’s supposition made Archer’s entire body feel like it was being swallowed into a hole of despair. The thought of his father lying with Brynn in the efforts of procuring an heir was too much to even think about. He stifled his jealousy, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles ached.