My Rogue, My Ruin

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  “But Hawksfield and I aren’t engaged,” Brynn said. “He was never even planning to press his suit.”

  Just his body and his mouth against my own, she thought to herself.

  “The inquiry agent needn’t know that,” Eloise replied.

  Brynn stared at her, at a loss for words to argue with her logic. “I don’t see how this will help.”

  “If you were busy becoming engaged, neither of you could have been killing the duke, and that would account for both your whereabouts,” she replied, whispering even lower as Archer and Thomson continued their back and forth inside the library. But Brynn wasn’t paying attention to their words any longer. All she could hear were Eloise’s: announce an engagement. To Archer.

  “I… Hawksfield does not wish to be married,” she said.

  “Briannon, please. It doesn’t mean you must carry through with it. You could cry off once the true murderer has been found. But right now, you are the only one who can clear away any suspicion Mr. Thomson harbors regarding my brother, especially if he was with you when my father was killed. Please,” she said, her grip on Brynn’s shoulders constricting. “Please, I can’t lose the only family I have left.”

  Brynn’s heart raced. What Eloise was suggesting made sense—an engagement would certainly diffuse Thomson’s theory. But that wasn’t what made her consider such a flimsy and mortifying plan—it was the simple fact that if Archer were under suspicion, it wouldn’t be long before Mr. Thomson and the rest of Bow Street dug deeper and found evidence that could implicate Archer as the Masked Marauder.

  Thomson had already made mention that morning of the marauder’s most recent attacks, and even aligned them with the new duke’s movements. A carriage waylaid on the way to Worthington Abbey’s Ball. Another carriage attacked after Archer had left the masquerade. Brynn recalled hearing about a third in the country before Archer returned to London, and just last night, another carriage stopped on a side street and robbed by the increasingly hostile criminal.

  Thomson had seemed to be sniffing around a connection between the marauder and the duke, and what if he continued to align the other highwayman attacks with Archer’s whereabouts? The way he’d spoken earlier that morning, about a need to bring the peerage down several notches so they may taste the reality of justice, stuck in the forefront of her mind. If he got so much as an inkling regarding Archer’s secret, he would set on it like a rabid dog.

  He would revel in the scandal that exposing Archer would cause. Poor Eloise could barely show her face in polite society as it was—a scandal like that would ruin her. Brynn’s own honor, and her family’s, could also be thrown into question if Thomson continued to suspect her. And if Archer were to go to the gallows…as infuriating as the man was, the thought of him being hanged was simply too much to bear.

  Brynn took a deep breath, turned to Eloise, and nodded. “I’ll do it,” she said before her courage could desert her, and tiptoed back to the library door. Eloise shot her a grateful and encouraging look. Neither did much to calm her pounding heart and quivering legs. Or quiet the voice in her head that kept telling her how foolhardy this was.

  “Thank you,” Eloise mouthed.

  Brynn nodded again and swung open the door before her mind could register that she’d taken complete leave of her senses.

  “What is the nature of your relationship with Lady Briannon?” Mr. Thomson was asking.

  “Darling, we are going to be late,” she said loudly, and then pressed a hand to her lips in mock surprise as both heads swiveled toward her. She lowered her hand immediately when she saw it tremble. “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize that you were still occupied.”

  To Archer’s credit, his face remained inscrutable, although she could see a muscle twitching in his jaw—the only sign of any outward reaction to her sudden uninvited appearance. His eyes flashed a silver storm, but Brynn noted only how utterly exhausted he looked. Dark shadows congregated beneath his eyes, making his face look drawn and haunted. Despite his brutish kisses and the unexpected and confusing desire she felt for him each time, Brynn couldn’t quell the immediate surge of compassion that filled her breast.

  Eloise swept in behind her, and Archer’s eyes flicked to his sister. They lightened a bit, Brynn noticed, but remained suspicious.

  She, too, feigned surprise. “I thought Mr. Thomson had left, and I told Lady Briannon as much. I am deeply sorry, brother.”

  Brynn smiled as brightly as she could manage, and walked to Archer even though he was glowering at her. Her heart was tripping over itself, and she was sure her feet would follow suit, but they held steady, surprising her. Once she’d reached his side, she slid her clammy hand into his cold one. Archer stiffened, though she doubted the agent had observed it. Just in case, Brynn beamed an excessive smile for Mr. Thomson’s benefit.

  The man’s face puckered into a frown as he took in Brynn and Archer’s linked hands.

  “Mr. Thomson, I am afraid I have not been quite honest with you,” she began. The agent pinned her with a look of dawning victory. She nearly felt the need to apologize for being about to disappoint him.

  “You see, I did not have my hem mended by a maid last evening—”

  Archer took his hand from hers and turned to step in front of her. “Do not say anything more.”

  Brynn stepped aside so she could see the agent again and avoided Archer’s eyes. “The truth is—”

  “Briannon,” he growled, but she gathered one last shot of nerve and spoke over his voice, loudly enough for any servant passing in the hall to hear.

  “We are engaged to be married. His Grace and I. As of last night.”

  Archer’s entire body tensed like a coiled spring, and this time Mr. Thomson most certainly witnessed it. She could not look at Archer, though she could feel the astonished weight of his gaze upon her cheek.

  “We met after dinner,” Brynn went on, preferring to watch the inquiry agent’s slowly narrowing stare than to risk a glance up at Archer. She would never be able to finish the lie if she did.

  “We were alone when he proposed, and…well, I accepted, of course, and I know we should have rejoined the others straightaway, however—”

  Thomson’s cheeks flared red, and Brynn could no longer even look at him. Her good sense was returning, and it was sorely disappointed in her. Not for lying about the proposal, exactly, but for admitting to the improper rendezvous and planting a lurid picture in Mr. Thomson’s astute mind. A picture that was, in all likelihood, entirely too factual for her comfort.

  She flushed, her eyes catching on Eloise, who took her cue and rushed forward. “Isn’t it lovely news? I have hoped to have Lady Briannon as a sister-in-law ever since we were children playing in our gardens.”

  Archer had not moved a muscle. He continued to stand with his back to Thomson, his eyes boring into the crown of Brynn’s head.

  “My father would have been happy,” Eloise went on. “Despite the rumors of his own suit, he wanted only for his son’s happiness.” She reached for her handkerchief again, dabbing at the tears welling in her eyes. She had kept the veil up, Brynn noticed, and as Mr. Thomson glanced at her, he seemed to grow more agitated and uncomfortable.

  “I am sorry for deceiving you,” Brynn said. “But as you may have already determined, it was a delicate situation this morning, what with my parents present and the announcement of our engagement not yet made. We could not say anything last night…not with how the evening ended.”

  Mr. Thomson’s eyebrow rose in disbelieving surprise. He shifted his attention to Archer’s back. “Is this true, Your Grace?”

  Archer held his statuesque stance, and Brynn noticed his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

  For a long, agonizing moment Archer withheld his answer. She feared the worst—that he would spin around and declare it all a lie. That he would make her look like a fool and out her as a desperate deceiver. Could he have been so utterly repulsed by her bold and ridiculous tale—all in an attempt
to help him? Her insides twisted, flashing hot and cold, until she thought she might see black stars cross her vision.

  But then she felt his hand slip back into hers. It grounded her, his palm a shade warmer this time. “You dare question the lady’s integrity?” Archer’s voice was terse but resonant. His grip tightened to a near stranglehold as he turned to face Mr. Thomson, giving his back to Brynn now. She forced herself to breathe in a normal manner. “Of course it is true.”

  Mr. Thomson cleared his throat. “Then why did you not say—”

  “I am a gentleman. Risking the reputation of my betrothed simply to make nice with you is far beneath my character,” Archer said, his hand still encasing hers. “Really, I took you for a somewhat intelligent man, Thomson.”

  Mr. Thomson nodded and wrote something in his little notebook. “I’m afraid I have taken up too much of your time today, Your Grace. May I be the first to congratulate you on your forthcoming nuptials. I will be in touch should anything arise.”

  “Please, allow me to show you out,” Eloise said, glancing at her brother with a faint frown. “I’ll return shortly.”

  Brynn didn’t exhale until Eloise and Mr. Thomson had disappeared from view and their footsteps had faded down the hallway, toward the front door.

  Finally, Archer’s grip relaxed. He dropped her hand the way a scullery maid might drop a dead mouse. She took a few steps away while shaking out her numbed fingers, a sudden desire for self-preservation falling over her. Archer still had his back to her. She had yet to look into his eyes since announcing their engagement to the inquiry agent, but she sensed bridled anger emanating from his broad frame.

  My god. What on earth have I done?

  Brynn checked the library door, but Eloise had not returned. Nor would she, Brynn imagined, if the girl was wise. Brynn, too, wanted nothing more than to slink away toward the door without Archer turning to see her escape.

  She held her place by a silk slipper chair. She had too much dignity to go slinking out of rooms.

  “I can imagine what you must be thinking,” she began, needing to say something. Anything other than this silence and tension, building into something ugly and solid.

  The wall of his back dissolved as he turned to face her. With a shaky breath, Brynn raised her eyes to his and braced herself for the onslaught of his anger.

  Her preparation wasn’t enough.

  The driving pressure of Archer’s stare pushed her back a step. Her legs hit the slipper chair and, without an ounce of grace, she plopped onto the cushion.

  “You cannot begin to imagine what it is I am thinking,” he said, his voice lower than a growl. It sounded like thunder, trapped in a glass jar.

  In that moment, Brynn could think only one thing—she had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Archer stared at the tempestuous beauty before him, watching her chin hike an inch as she fought to stare him down. He struggled to control his rapidly swelling anger, along with another sharper sensation spreading through him at the welcome sight of her.

  Brynn’s color was high, her chest falling and rising with each shallow breath. She had yet to remove her cloak and hat, and he wondered at Heed’s lack of duty.

  Unless she had not entered through the front door and crossed Heed’s path.

  Archer narrowed his gaze, but his mind was too occupied at the moment to consider anything other than the startling lie Brynn had just spouted off to Thomson and Eloise.

  What that lie was currently doing to him confused and infuriated in equal measure. Archer ground his teeth and curled his lip in response to the overwhelming union of anticipation and panic.

  Brynn’s eyes fluttered wider at his expression. The girl had to be terrified, and yet she refused to cower. Archer admired that about her—that fiery stubbornness that had made her stand up to him when he’d taken her coach along Worthington Abbey’s tree-darkened lane. It was the same emotion now making her back ramrod straight and her eyes spark with defiance.

  God, he wanted to take her into his arms and crush her body to his. He wanted to feel her resistance melt under his touch.

  He also wanted to put her over his knee.

  Archer resorted to walking to the side mantel to pour himself a liberal drink. He glanced over his shoulder when he spoke. “I must have addled your brain last night. I recall kisses, my lady, while you seem to recall a proposal.”

  Shame flashed over her features before it was replaced by a detached smile. “Do not be obtuse. It was only a ploy to focus Mr. Thomson elsewhere. I overheard what he was saying.”

  “You overheard,” he repeated. He peered at her once more from over his shoulder and saw her wither slightly beneath his glare.

  She took a deep breath and fell into a whisper. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop if that is what you are thinking. I overheard a small part of the conversation, nothing more. His theories about what occurred last night. He was intent on placing one or both of us in the duke’s study.”

  “He cannot arrest either of us when all he has are theories,” Archer cut in, his hand trembling with frustration. He set the glass down without taking a sip. “What are you doing here, Lady Briannon?”

  He heard her take a breath at his excessive politeness as if to calm her simmering temper. “I was followed earlier, to Madame Despain’s on Bond Street.”

  He faced her then, a frown drawing his brows together. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded. “And so when I heard Mr. Thomson suggesting that we both had something to do with the duke’s murder, well…we both required an alibi, and you must admit, it is—at least in part—the truth.” She finished in a rush, as if she had to get out the words before Archer interrupted her.

  Someone had been trailing Brynn? Spying on her? Not Thomson, but perhaps one of his informants. Some street urchin he paid to track a suspect and deliver anything of interest. The idea that some stranger was following her took his anger to a new height.

  He turned and picked up his drink, needing it more than before. “It was a reckless and rash decision, Brynn. I was five seconds from tossing him out into the street.”

  “He would have come back, and perhaps next time, with something more than a theory.”

  “Something more?” He faced her again. “Explain.”

  She started to work the clasps of her cloak at her neck, clearly feeling the same increased warmth in the room. “Mr. Thomson,” she paused, eyeing the library door. He watched with hooded eyes as she padded over to the door and closed it. Then, continuing in barely a whisper, “Mr. Thomson is one of Bow Street’s finest, and he has a thorn in his side regarding the peerage. If he delves any further into the connections he’s already been drawing between the Masked Marauder and your whereabouts, don’t you think he will ferret out what you have been doing all this time?”

  The short burst of frustrated anger surprised Archer. His hand stalled in midair, his drink arrested halfway to his lips. “He is reaching. I have been meticulous.”

  If possible, the ire in her eyes rose until they ignited with repressed fury. “Oh, this is hopeless! You make it impossible to help you.”

  “If lying about a betrothal was your idea of helping, I do not want to know how you might plan to injure.”

  Brynn came toward him, her skirts swishing loudly as she approached. “Have you no sense at all? The marauder is all anyone in London can think and talk about. The duke’s murder, the items missing from his person and study, they are going to be connected to the bandit! And Thomson is positively frothing at the mouth to capture him. You and your bloody secret activities are going to get you hanged!”

  Archer was taken aback at her tirade, although he kept his face carefully composed. Few men ever dared stand up to him as she was doing now, and certainly no women. Then again, Brynn was not most women. He recalled expressing the same sentiments to her in Essex. Her eyes sparked and her mouth trembled as she berated him. He had never met such a passionate creature,
and Archer felt an indescribable urge to match that passion. To kiss her senseless.

  “It is my neck, my lady,” he said instead, taking another sip of his whiskey. “And I have every intention of keeping it at its current length.”

  “Yes, well, if a false betrothal keeps Bow Street from suspecting me of murder, it is a price I will gladly pay. I thought, for a man of your intelligence, you would have appreciated the merit in it as well.”

  She had not yet managed to undo the clasp of her cloak, and had, every few seconds, removed her hands from their task to wave them about in the air. Right then, she was working the clasp again, and once more, unsuccessfully.

  “I have put my reputation, my honor, on the line by coming here,” she muttered. “I have lied to an investigator. Twice. I have…I have…what are you doing?”

  Archer had placed his drink down and taken several purposeful steps toward her.

  “Stay where you are,” she warned.

  Archer didn’t listen. He crossed the distance between them while Brynn glanced around, as if searching for ways to escape his approach. He felt like a wolf prowling closer to its prey, and it was a heady sensation.

  Archer stared down at her, trying to stifle the sudden realization that she had done much the same to him. Only, instead of a wolf, Brynn had been a fox, nicely and cleverly trapping him.

  He had no choice but to go along with this farce now, or risk looking like a liar to Thomson. And as stunned as he’d been when she had burst in here before, unannounced, he’d also known denying her claims or disagreeing with the lady would have been unforgivably offensive. So now here he was—engaged to a virtual innocent via an offer of marriage he had not extended.

  Well and truly ensnared.

  Archer cursed under his breath. It was a damn sticky turn of events. He had to hand it to her, though—she was either a brilliant schemer, or she had the luck of the devil himself. He couldn’t extricate himself if he tried, not without damaging her reputation and dragging more attention to himself in the process.