But before Heed could answer, a familiar gaunt figure strode from the adjoining parlor.
Thomson.
Archer’s eyes immediately fell to the bloodstained linen dangling from the inquiry agent’s hand. He didn’t have to look at the delicate embroidery in the corner to see his initials stitched there. He knew his own cravat when he saw it. Despite the shot of worry that arced through him, Archer’s expression gave away nothing as Thomson smiled, his eyes glittering with veiled triumph.
“I believe this belongs to you.”
It was an unfashionable hour for a stroll or drive through Hyde Park, but Archer was there, nonetheless. There would be a number of carriages tooling along the park lanes past dark, and they would be ripe for the picking. There were at least two balls occurring that night that Archer knew of, invitations to which he had received and politely declined. Enduring hours in a stuffy ballroom, while wearing a starched suit and cravat, could not hold a candle to the freedom Archer felt where he stood now, within a stand of woods near the border of Kensington Gardens. He wore his black buckskin trousers and Hessians, a long black greatcoat, and his mask, of course—a guise he had not worn for weeks.
It had been too long since his last outing. The jumping nerves in his arms and legs and the insistent clench of his gut were proof.
“We should not be here,” Brandt whispered from the trees behind Archer.
“Come now, Mr. Brockston, where is your sense of adventure?” he murmured in response.
Brandt snorted. “Playing a gentleman and riding the coattails of your influence at White’s earlier was adventure enough for me. Although I have yet to change out of these over-starched garments.”
Archer breathed in the early spring air, tracing the dank bite of the Serpentine’s stagnant water. The trees had bloomed with new foliage weeks ago. They sheltered Brandt and him well, especially in the darkness.
“I needed to get out,” Archer explained. “Especially after dealing with that hound from Bow Street.”
Thomson’s visit at Hadley Gardens had lasted over an hour, during which the zealous inquiry agent brandished the bloodied cravat bearing Archer’s monogram, which had been found inside Viscountess Hamilton’s burgled home.
Archer, sitting in his chair at his desk, his fingers laced over his stomach, had explained with forced calm that he had given the cravat to the late duke to staunch the blood flow from a gash on his palm at the Gainsbridge’s Masquerade. The duke had not seen fit to return the length of linen, stained and ruined as it was.
He’d also denied dropping the damned thing while robbing Lady Hamilton’s home and beating her senseless. Thomson had not been so stupid as to formally accuse him of the despicable act, but there was no question in Archer’s mind the man was digging to pin both the duke’s murder and the bandit’s crimes on his head.
That wasn’t what had driven Archer into a foul temper, though. What had was the fact that the imposter had left the bloodied cravat behind on purpose in an attempt to implicate Archer. Which meant the imposter had taken the cravat some time ago. The duke would have most likely tossed the ruined linen to Heed or his valet, Porter, after the Gainsbridge affair. If that was the case, the imposter must have been inside Worthington Abbey, where he’d formulated a future use for the cravat. Who the devil was he? A servant? Or had he sneaked into the duke’s home unseen?
“That Bow Street hound is precisely why we should have stayed put at Hadley Gardens,” Brandt replied. “You are breaking your own rules, Hawk.”
Archer paced a small swath of ground between two trees. “I’m simply restless.”
Waylaying a carriage and taking away a nice purse to be delivered to one of the parish churches, perhaps near Seven Dials or Whitechapel, would settle him. Besides, when he took a carriage tonight—a single carriage, no need to get cocky—he would ask the occupants to relay a message: that the real Masked Marauder does not steal for his own benefit, but for that of the poor. The real Masked Marauder does not harm women or slaughter defenseless animals.
Archer would like to wake up tomorrow morning to a bold headline like that in the newssheets.
“It is poor timing, and you know it,” Brandt said.
“You did not have to come. I made that perfectly clear.”
In fact, he’d ordered Brandt to await his return in the stables. There were only a handful of servants assigned there, but Archer did not want to risk being seen by any of them when he returned from his outing. He’d rather his staff have no reason to believe he’d left his rooms at any point during the evening. He’d gone so far as to climb from his own window and descend the trellis into the gardens and out to the curb, where Brandt waited with two rented mounts from a nearby livery. His departure had been degrading enough as it was; he didn’t want it to have all been for naught.
“Someone needs to look after your reckless arse,” Brandt murmured as the telltale sound of rattling tack and carriage wheels sounded down the lane.
Archer let out a pent-up breath as the squall of tension within him released. He knew what to do and how to do it, and damn it if he wasn’t going to give the Masked Marauder his reputation back.
Before the imposter started on his rampage, the bandit had had a mysterious air about him, but no one had truly feared him. At the card table at White’s that afternoon, he’d heard pure revulsion in the voices of the men who had, before, shrugged off the masked bandit as a petty criminal unworthy of their concern. Some part of him desperately wanted to defend his alter ego’s honor.
“Be careful,” Brandt whispered as Archer’s muscles tensed and released, ready to spring.
“Yes, Mother.”
He jumped out of the stand of trees and into the darkened lane. The approaching carriage had two lanterns near the driver’s bench, and they threw off enough light for Archer to see the boxy shape of a brougham, pulled by one horse. The interior would fit two passengers at the most, and a single driver. Perhaps a groomsman at the back.
Archer relaxed even more. How many times had he waylaid such a carriage? Countless, and here in the woodsy area of the park, he could have just as well been in Essex again.
As the driver’s figure, outlined by the coach lamps, came into view, Archer readied his pistol. The weapon was not loaded and never had it been for any of his outings. He knew enough about weaponry to know the dangers of a shot accidentally going off and maiming, or killing, a man. He would never endanger anyone’s life, which made the imposter’s actions that much more infuriating.
The driver finally drew close enough to spot Archer standing in the center of the road. He spoke to his horse, pulling back on the reins and bringing the brougham to a halt. Once the jangling of the tack quit, Archer delivered his greeting in the silky voice he reserved for the bandit: “No displays of heroism, please.” To which he expected the driver to hold up his hands in surrender, just as the others, for the most part, had always done.
This driver, however, bucked tradition.
He threw down the reins to his horse and stood from the driver’s bench. As he descended from the bench, Archer took in the shape of him. Well over six feet and possessing the breadth of an ox, the driver looked like a bear clad in fine livery.
“Stay where you are, my friend,” Archer advised, the smooth cadence of his voice faltering.
“I ain’t your friend,” the driver said, though to Archer’s ears it sounded less like a voice and more like a handful of stones being ground to dust.
The driver reached into the footboards of the bench and drew something out.
“No one need risk injury tonight,” Archer said, the pulse in his throat beginning to throb. “I simply require the valuables of your patrons.”
The driver advanced while a female voice inside the brougham called out, asking why they had stopped. Archer fixed his eyes on the flintlock pistol the driver carried in his hand.
This is going all wrong.
For the first time since he’d started this whole charade,
he doubted the sense of it all. No one had ever challenged him—a dangerous masked highwayman. Nobility didn’t generally rise to the fight. They cowered. They spluttered and complained, but they always shrank away from Archer, from his masked face and the threat of injury. And hired help…well they certainly did not get paid handsomely enough to risk life and limb for their masters.
“Lawrence?” The clipped female voice called, clearer this time.
The door to the carriage opened, distracting Archer’s attention from the approaching giant. His eyes stuck to the lady as she popped her head out and turned to see what was amiss. Hell. He recognized her as one of Brynn’s friends, Lady Cordelia Vandermere.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the chit screamed. The high, bloodcurdling pitch slammed into his ears and echoed through the park. Her driver, Lawrence, did the exact opposite of what Archer expected him to do: instead of turning and rushing to his mistress’s side, he raised his pistol and charged at full speed.
Archer flipped his useless pistol in his hand and brought the butt across the driver’s hand, knocking the man’s unfired weapon aside. The shot didn’t go off, not even when the pistol hit the lane. The driver tackled Archer to the gravel. He had at least ten stone on Archer, if not more, but he used the beast’s own momentum against him, tossing the driver overhead and onto the lane.
The marginal victory did not last long.
Archer barely made it to his feet when the driver successfully set upon him again, bringing him to the ground. Almost instantly, however, the driver’s weight was taken from his back, and Archer heard the grunts of another, the sounds of knuckles on flesh. He spun around to find Brandt pummeling the driver with his fists, and then taking a hook to the nose in return.
Lady Cordelia’s screams for help were getting farther and farther away, but as Archer pulled the driver off Brandt, the sounds of shouting men drew alarmingly close.
The driver tossed Archer off and dove to the ground. Even in the darkness, and with the silk mask tugged askew and half blinding him, Archer knew the man was lunging for the dropped pistol. Before he could take a breath or even think to run, a pair of hands shoved hard against his chest, knocking him aside.
The report of the pistol split through Archer’s ears as he hit the gravel lane. He tore off the mask and with his vision restored, saw Brandt on the ground where he had just been standing.
“No!” He rushed to his friend and bent over him. “You bloody fool!”
He received a groan in answer and a rough shove against his arm. “Go,” Brandt rasped in pain. “Get out of here, there are others coming.”
The driver was already running toward the sounds of the men’s voices, shouting, “Here! Over here, the masked bastard is here!”
Archer tried to pull Brandt to his feet, but the rasp of pain turned into a grating growl. “I’m shot, damn you! Leave me here and go.”
“There is no chance in hell—”
“I cannot walk. Go, Archer. The sodding driver knows I’m not the bandit. I’m still dressed as Brockston. I’ll think of something. Get out of here!”
Brandt shoved him away once again, and this time Archer got up. “You’d better be a damned good liar and get yourself out of this. Or else I will come forward.”
And with that, Archer turned. He hated leaving his friend there, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to help Brandt if they were both in prison. With a growl of frustrated rage, he fled.
Chapter Twenty-One
Brynn stared helplessly at her betrothed sitting slumped and defeated in the chair behind the massive desk. Archer was knee-deep in a bottle of whiskey and seemed intent on drowning himself in the rest of it. She had come to Hadley Gardens the minute she had heard the news that a man had been arrested in conjunction with the Masked Marauder and tied to an attack the night before. She had not, however, known that it was Brandt, Archer’s friend and stable master. It did not surprise her that Archer still considered the man a friend, despite the differences in their social standings. They had been childhood friends in Essex, and Brynn knew that Archer valued Brandt’s unswerving loyalty. And vice versa.
Enough to try to save his liege’s neck, it seemed.
She had gotten part of the story from Cordelia, and the rest in broken bits and pieces from Archer, and was still trying to make sense of it. Why Archer had felt compelled to don his mask and waylay a coach on a darkened side street, Brynn had no idea. Perhaps it had been to show that the true Masked Marauder was not a killer. Regardless of his intent, it had not gone well. Because of the imposter, the driver had been armed and had not bowed to Archer’s requests. And Brandt had been shot. In the aftermath, a discarded mask had been found next to Brandt. He had attempted to tell the constable that he had arrived on the scene only after hearing the commotion. Unable to prove his identity, however, they did not believe him and arrested him on sight.
“It’s my fault,” Archer muttered, raking a hand through his disheveled hair and reaching for his empty glass.
Brynn strode forward and removed the glass along with the bottle. “You’ve had enough.”
He eyed her as if doubting she was really there. “Why are you here?” he slurred. “Come to celebrate your freedom?”
“My freedom?”
“From our engagement. Haven’t you heard? I am a suspect. Found my bloody cravat and now they think I killed my father, for real this time. Thomson’s grasping for straws, and I am one of them.”
She glared at him and crossed the room to close the study door before returning to his side. “I am well aware of that, Archer. You need to collect your wits and figure a way out of this. This imposter is targeting you. Come now, you don’t strike me as the sort of man who simply gives up, which is what you are doing by drinking yourself into a stupor.”
He grasped her wrist as she leaned over him. “Why are you doing this?”
She flushed, his touch igniting a fire underneath her skin. “You know why.”
His haunted dark gray eyes searched hers, and Brynn couldn’t help herself. She brushed a curling lock of dark hair back from his brow. Her fingers stroked his skin with soft, gentle touches. He closed his eyes and leaned against her palm. Somehow the pleasure the intimate gesture gave her rivaled the pleasure his kisses usually did, and something profoundly delicate blossomed in her heart. “You should separate yourself from me before this gets any worse.”
Her hand slid to his chin, and she grasped it firmly, twisting his face toward hers. “Regardless of what future lies between us, I care about what happens to you, and I won’t abandon you now. Pull yourself together and fight, damn it.” She didn’t care about her language. She wanted to make him react, but her provoking words only made him shrug.
“What would you have me do?”
Brynn eyed his unshaven face, thinking how vulnerable and unbearably handsome he looked with the dark shadow along his jawline and without his usual arrogant smirk. “Have a bath for one, and sober up.” She opened the study door and told the footman there to summon Heed. The butler arrived within seconds.
“Heed, please have the duke’s valet prepare a bath.” The man bowed without a word at her unorthodox command, though Brynn swore she could see a slight softening in his eyes. It was clear that Archer’s servants adored him, including Heed, whose impervious demeanor never wavered. “Thank you, Heed. Oh, and please ask the cook to prepare something simple for His Grace once he has finished.”
“My lady.”
Archer got up and stumbled past her, on his way to the door. “Already giving my staff orders, I see.”
Brynn ignored the comment and paced in the study after he had left. There had to be a way out of this calamity…something they hadn’t yet thought of. Brandt’s possibility of bail had been revoked in the interests of public safety, and Thomson and his cronies were on a witch hunt. They were no longer interested in finding the true killer, which meant that task must fall to those who still cared…a number that she could count on one hand.
Even if Archer weren’t implicated, Thomson would do everything in his power to tie the stable master to Archer once his identity was confirmed. Archer had told her of the bloody cravat, but anyone could have planted the item. Archer’s alibi was solid—he was at his own engagement ball when the attack on poor Lady Hamilton occurred. But Brandt had not been.
Thomson was relentless, and she was certain he was wily enough to fabricate gossamer links between the evidence at hand and what had actually happened. Brynn also wagered he was not above using the newspapers to drive the public into a frenzy.
She thought about confiding in Gray and then shook her head. No, Gray would not understand. He would lock her up in Bishop House or ship her back off to Essex without a qualm. He would be concerned only for her safety and what might happen if she were attacked.
At the thought, Brynn suddenly had an epiphany. She frowned, turning the idea over in her mind. It was a long shot, but it could work. She needed only to convince Archer of its soundness.
She glanced at the ornate grandfather clock at the far end of the study. Archer would be gone for an hour or more, so Brynn settled herself into a comfortable armchair to wait and leaf through a book from one of the well-stocked shelves. She read the words, but they disappeared from her memory, it seemed, moments later. She was far too distracted by the idea she’d formed.
She was halfway through the book when the study door opened and Archer walked back in. His eyes looked more lucid, and the defeat in them was gone. Freshly shaven with his hair still wet, and clad in only a white chamois shirt and tan breeches with shiny Hessians, he looked utterly desirable.
“Feel better?” she asked, a trifle breathless.
“Yes, thank you. Brynn—” His words were interrupted as Heed announced himself, opening the door to escort the waiting footman in with a large tray. Brynn nodded to the desk, and the footman set it down, uncovering the dishes and laying out the silverware. She smiled her thanks to Heed and noted with surprise that his lips actually drew up at the corners before he bowed stiffly and left the room.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 30