My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Thomson must truly suspect her. Perhaps he had ordered this man to keep eyes on her, in case she attempted to flee to the Continent as a guilty party might.

  Despite the chill early May temperature, Brynn began to grow hot underneath her day dress and cloak.

  “I think a rest would be the best thing,” she found herself saying to Gray, who frowned from his seat across from her.

  “I will ask Cook to prepare one of her draughts,” he said.

  “No, I just want to sleep,” she replied, hoping she was not as poor a liar as Gray had just accused her of being. She wasn’t going to sleep at all. No, as soon as she arrived home at Bishop House, she was going to speak to Lana and formulate some kind of plan.

  She needed to see Archer, straightaway.

  Brynn stared at Lana from under the counterpane. Lana had become her confidante over the past few months, ever since Dowager Countess Langlevit had asked her parents to employ the young woman as a special favor. But could she trust her with such a secretive and delicate expedition? Her mother would have a fit of the vapors and Gray would likely explode if either of them found out she had slipped off to Hadley Gardens. And now that there would be no forthcoming marriage to the late Duke of Bradburne, she had to be careful. Being seen unaccompanied and unchaperoned at Archer’s house would invite a whole host of other problems. After all, she had her blasted reputation to consider. For the hundredth time since she was little, Brynn cursed the fact that she had been born a girl. Boys simply weren’t saddled with propriety and modesty as much as girls were. They could come and go as they pleased, caring not a whit for reputation.

  Still, reputation or not, she had to see Archer.

  “Lana,” she began in a low voice. “I must ask you to do something for me. Something that could get us both into a lot of trouble, but I can’t see any other way around it.”

  Lana moved to the side of the bed, her face concerned. “What is the matter, my lady?” She set the draught Cook had prepared on the bedside table, and Brynn’s eyes fluttered to the contraption already standing at the side of her bed. A length of Indian rubber tubing ran between a glass container at one end, which Lana was about to fill with the special draught, and a cloth face shield at the other. Her father had consigned the device to be built at the advice from the ton’s leading physician, who swore by its lung healing properties. The device had helped to clear her throat when her passages had become blocked as a child and reduced the severity of her infections. But now, she was struck by a brilliant idea.

  “I need you to be me,” Brynn said and then clarified what she meant. “Pretend to be me. Lie in bed and wear the mask—it will cover your whole face. We can put a cap over your hair.”

  It would be the only thing to give them away—Lana’s hair was glossy and dark, while Brynn’s was decidedly not.

  Lana frowned, her dark eyes narrowing. “Why would you need me to do this?”

  “I need to go somewhere, and Mama will kill me if I leave the house.”

  “Lord Northridge cannot take you?”

  “No,” Brynn said hastily. “He cannot know.”

  Lana’s frown deepened. For once, Brynn wished that she would simply listen as a servant should. Then again, if Lana were any ordinary servant, she would go immediately to Brynn’s mother.

  “Please, Lana, I need your help.”

  The plea seemed to soften her maid’s pinched reaction. “Where will you go?”

  Brynn gritted her teeth. She had no choice but to tell Lana the truth, for she would see right through any lie. It was one of the things she loved to hate about her. Lana was sharp and clever, and earning her trust had not been accomplished by telling her lies. She drew a deep breath. “I am going to see Lord Hawksfield.”

  Lana sat on the edge of Brynn’s bed, her disbelief plain.

  “Surely that isn’t wise. There was a man here questioning the servants all day. He asked me many things.”

  Alarm shivered along Brynn’s veins. “What did you tell him?”

  “The usual,” Lana said. “That I came here from Russia eight months ago, worked for the Countess Langlevit shortly before receiving a position here, and now I am your lady’s maid. And that you are a sickly girl who needs constant attention and looking after.”

  Brynn’s tension drained away at Lana’s words and the teasing smile on her face. Lana was quick on the uptake. She would never betray her mistress, Brynn knew. What she didn’t know was whether Lana would agree to do this one thing for her. “So will you help me?”

  “Should Mrs. Frommer learn of this, I will lose my position.”

  Brynn exhaled, knowing Lana was right.

  “I understand,” she said, her plan quickly unraveling around her. She would never wish Lana to suffer for her actions.

  “However,” Lana added, her brow rising. “Mrs. Frommer is rather busy today interviewing a few girls for the second laundress position.”

  Hope renewed, Brynn took Lana’s hands in hers. “We won’t get caught. All you must do is go downstairs and alert my mother that you will be sitting with me for some time while I rest, and that I don’t wish to be disturbed. And tell the kitchen to withhold my luncheon tray. Then come back up here and settle into bed with the mask, just in case.”

  Brynn hoped it would be enough.

  “Be swift about it then,” Lana said with a glance at the breathing tube. “Lord knows what will happen to me, breathing in that appalling concoction.”

  Brynn grinned at Lana’s near aristocratic diction and, throwing decorum to the wind, flung her arms around her. She supposed Lana’s command of language stemmed from listening to the ladies of the Russian aristocracy in her mother’s dress shop. “Don’t worry,” she told her. “It’s only vinegar, camphor, cinnamon, and some other aromatic herbs.”

  Lana helped Brynn dress in a simple navy day dress and began tucking her hair into a bun at her nape.

  “Thank you for doing this,” she whispered.

  “Don’t get caught,” Lana said, draping a gray cloak over her shoulders. “The things I do for you. Worse than my own sister.”

  Brynn turned to her. “You have a sister?”

  “Yes,” Lana said quietly before giving the cloak a final sweep of her hands. She clearly did not wish to speak of her, Brynn determined.

  She tightened the cloak and pulled the hood over her head, and recalled something else Lana had said. “You did claim that we English had no sense of adventure. Am I proving you wrong now?”

  “I was talking about dancing, not secretly meeting a lover.”

  “He’s not my lover!” Brynn cried, though her entire body fired at the thought.

  “He should be, if you’re going through all this trouble.” Lana’s response was soft, but Brynn still heard it as her maid cracked open the door to leave and do as her mistress had asked. Her limbs felt like water, and her breathing had tripled its normal pace.

  She shook her head, forcing into submission her utterly sinful thoughts regarding Archer as a lover. The hallway was deserted, and she slipped down it before darting toward a narrow staircase at the side of the house. She descended without being seen and raced out a little-used back door leading to the mews, where she could escape with the least amount of notice.

  Pulling her hood low, she hailed a passing hackney as she had once seen Gray do, and gave directions to a few townhouses down from Archer’s residence. The ride was quick, and after Brynn stepped onto the curb, she walked swiftly down the street toward Hadley Gardens.

  She did not go up the front steps of the residence, but instead, slipped around to the back. She was taking a risk attempting to see Archer without a proper chaperone and without being announced, but she couldn’t take the chance that he, too, was being watched by Thomson or his men. As she rounded a neatly clipped hedge, she almost jumped out of her skin at the sight of the person walking along the mews, and heading straight for her.

  “Eloise!” Brynn exclaimed in breathless surprise.


  “Lady Briannon.” The girl’s eyes widened behind the sheer veil she wore. “I did not expect you.”

  Brynn took Eloise’s hand and led her out of sight of the house to a nearby garden bench. She had not thought Eloise would arrive from Essex so soon, but her brother must have sent for her immediately.

  “What are you doing back here?” Eloise asked, glancing around. “Is Lady Dinsmore with you as well?”

  Brynn shook her head. “I…I came alone.” She paused, her face flushing. Her presence here, instead of at the proper entrance, had to appear strange. Perhaps suspicious.

  She took in Eloise’s red eyes and wan complexion as they settled on the garden bench, the marble cold beneath them. She gave Eloise’s hand a squeeze. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

  Eloise nodded, lifting a handkerchief behind her veil as she sniffled. “You must be aware of how it was between us…but he was my father. I can’t imagine someone attacking him. Everyone adored him.” Brynn heard her sobbing some more, her red-tipped nose visible, even through the veil’s lacy pattern. Brynn shifted closer and patted her lightly on the back.

  “There, there,” she soothed, rubbing her shoulders. It had been so long since she and Eloise had considered each other friends. But that wasn’t the only reason Brynn felt awkward consoling her right now. She’d been caught approaching the kitchen entrance to Hadley Gardens like an intruder. Archer’s sister was not so naive, or dejected, as to overlook that.

  “Thank you,” Eloise sniffed. “I’m sorry I’m blubbering all over you, but it has been so much to take in. I haven’t talked to anyone about it. Archer has been occupied since I arrived.” She raised tear-dampened eyes to Brynn. “I heard that you were here last evening.”

  “Yes. I was in the salon…when it happened.”

  Eloise took a long, shaky breath and pushed the lacy veil up and over the deep-plum-colored silk flowers adorning the brim of her hat. Outwardly, Brynn did not flinch—she knew better than to react to Eloise’s disfigurement in so heartless a way. It did not change, however, the way her stomach tightened at the sight of the scars inflicted so many years ago.

  “Archer is with that investigator, Mr. Thomson, again,” Eloise whispered. “He said it could have been anyone. Someone at the dinner, or a robbery. They are looking at all avenues. Even that Masked Marauder character.”

  Brynn choked on a breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Haven’t you seen the paper?” Eloise asked. “There was an attack near Oxford Street. Mr. Thomson said that the marauder cannot be ruled out.”

  Brynn was surprised Gray hadn’t mentioned anything that morning, though perhaps he had been more concerned over her well-being than worrying her with news.

  “But the Masked Marauder…he has never robbed someone in their own home. He…well, as I have heard, he sets upon carriages.”

  Eloise shrugged. “Perhaps the criminal has found there is more secrecy in invading homes. This is London, after all, with fewer opportunities for a carriage robbery that would go unseen.”

  “That makes sense,” Brynn murmured. Her mind raced, considering and discarding multiple scenarios. She believed Archer when he’d told her that there was an impersonator. First, the false bandit struck in Essex while Archer was there, and now here, in London after Archer’s arrival in town. Was the impersonator following in Archer’s footsteps, then? Or was he, as she had surmised initially, another member of the peerage, coming to London for the season? The whole idea seemed preposterous, but then again, Archer—a pinnacle of the beau monde—had confessed to doing some marauding of his own.

  Brynn didn’t quite know what the false bandit’s presence in town might have to do with the duke’s murder, but she couldn’t get past the coincidence. Though why would he invade Hadley Gardens and kill the duke? Unless…unless he knew who Archer was. Her heart flew into her throat, her tangled thoughts suddenly ironed out. It was a possibility she couldn’t discount.

  “I hope they catch him, whomever he is,” she said, distracted by the terrible notion.

  “I do as well, of course,” Eloise said. She took her hand from Brynn’s and laced her fingers together in her lap. “So. Are you going to tell me why you were attempting to enter the house through the kitchens?”

  Brynn shifted on the marble bench. “Oh. Well, it’s a little…complicated, and I know it’s…not exactly proper, however…”

  She had no idea how to continue. There really was no excuse, and her plan had been hasty to begin with. Desperate. Which she no doubt appeared to be right then.

  “You are here to see my brother,” Eloise whispered.

  “Of course not, I—”

  Eloise took her hand again and, as Brynn had moments before, gave it a squeeze of reassurance. “How silly of me. You came to visit me, didn’t you?”

  Brynn looked into her eyes, ready to apologize and confess, but what she saw silenced her. Eloise was biting back a smile, her eyebrows, one of which had a track of scar tissue cutting through, were raised in amusement.

  “Come, let me see you in.” She stood, bringing Brynn to her feet as well. “Of course, I feel terribly exhausted from my journey. Would you mind if my brother hosted you for tea instead?”

  Eloise started for one of the back terraces instead of the kitchens.

  “That would be very kind of you,” Brynn said, relieved she hadn’t been made to admit the scandalous truth.

  Arm in arm with Archer’s sister, she waltzed into Hadley Gardens’ ballroom. In the quiet, their slippered feet echoed off the vaulted ceilings. Brynn had not seen the ballroom on her visit the evening before, but she found it strange that the terrace doors would be left unlocked and unattended, especially after the events of last night.

  “Let us see if Archer has finished his business,” Eloise said as she led them from the ballroom and into a hallway. “I cannot say enough how nice it is to see a friendly face, Briannon, in the midst of all this awful tragedy.”

  Brynn smiled, overwhelmed at her kindness. “I feel quite the same.”

  The door to the library where Mr. Thomson had questioned everyone earlier was closed. Eloise raised her hand to knock, but an outburst from inside the room made her pause.

  “Pray tell, how is that a motive for murder?” Brynn recognized Archer’s rumbling voice immediately.

  She glanced at Eloise with wide eyes. Eavesdropping was highly improper, but the girl seemed as disinclined to move as Brynn was.

  “At the Gainsbridge Masquerade, you were overheard arguing about Lady Briannon. Marriage was mentioned. Close friends of the late duke’s suggested that you both desired the hand of the lady in question.”

  “Close friends,” Archer repeated, his mocking words dripping with acid. “Lord and Lady Rochester? Lady Mayfield, perhaps? An intelligent man would not take their word as gospel, Thomson.”

  “You were angry with your father for showing interest in Lady Briannon,” Mr. Thomson hedged.

  “Do not be absurd. I had much to be angry with my father for, but the flowers and simpering looks he showered upon Lady Briannon were of no concern to me.”

  Brynn winced. That hurt, and unexpectedly, too. Why on earth would he have kissed her those two times if he did not care a whit whether she married his father or not?

  “You were absent for a length of time last evening after dinner concluded,” Thomson said, his voice rising to match Archer’s.

  “I told you where I was, and whom I was with,” Archer ground out.

  “Yes, you did,” Thomson replied. “However, it appears Lady Briannon did not quite tell me the truth of her whereabouts. She never went to the sewing room to have her dress mended.”

  Brynn stifled a horrified gasp, and Eloise’s eyes found hers. She put a gloved finger to her lips.

  It took Archer a moment to respond, and when he did, his attempt at sounding careless was strained. “What are you about?”

  The agent did not hesitate. “I believe one of two things happened. You went to the
kitchens to leave a note summoning the duke to his study, while the lady slipped off to the study for her own rendezvous with the duke. You arrived, surprised to find her, and shortly after, the duke arrived as well. There was an argument. The duke was killed.”

  Archer’s rejoinder was instant, and deadly soft. “You are treading dangerous waters, Thomson.”

  “Or,” the agent went on. “You were in the gardens as you claim. Lady Briannon went to the study, summoned for the duke using that note and your name, and upon his arrival—”

  “Say another word, and I will remove you bodily from that chair.”

  “My apologies, Your Grace,” Thomson said. “But it is my job to consider all avenues. And Lady Briannon lied.”

  Eloise tugged on Brynn’s sleeve, her eyes wide with apprehension. “Is what he says true?” she whispered into Brynn’s ear, but Brynn was in shock—she had lied. Brynn drew Eloise several paces away from the library’s closed door.

  “Hawksfield mended my dress,” she whispered in a choked voice. “We were in another room. Alone.”

  The shock barely settled on Eloise’s face before a flicker of something sharper, like excitement, lit her eyes. She quickly replaced it with a rueful, sympathetic smile. “As I recall, my brother did have a talent for the needle.”

  If her help in the garden was any indication, Brynn knew Eloise would not judge her, not now. She swallowed hard, desperate tears springing to her eyes. “I couldn’t tell Thomson the truth. My reputation would have been compromised beyond repair. And now he suspects me. And…your brother.”

  “This is indeed catastrophic,” Eloise continued, her voice low. She took a deep breath and grasped Brynn’s shoulders. “The only thing that would save you and Archer is the announcement of an engagement. Go in there and say that my brother was proposing to you.”

  Brynn felt the breath leave her body in a violent sweep at the outrageous suggestion. Announce an engagement, just like that? Without speaking to Archer first and without receiving an actual offer? Her fingers went numb. She considered herself bold at times, but not that bold. “I cannot.”

  “I saw the way you looked at each other at the masquerade. I know you have feelings for him. Otherwise, why would you care so much to come here and further compromise your reputation in the process? Admit it, you care. And nothing would please me more than to have you as a sister-in-law. We are nearly sisters already, aren’t we?”