“And I mine,” he said. “I’ll leave through the front door and have my driver take the carriage to King Street. I have a mount waiting for me there. I’ll double back and wait for your conveyance to pull away from Bishop House. I’ll follow you at a close distance.”
“How will I know you?” she asked, eyeing his attire. He would stick out sorely as he was and would most definitely have thought to bring something to cloak himself with.
“I’ll be wearing a greatcoat and a hat with plumage,” he answered with a quick peck to the tip of her nose. “I’ll look positively dandy.”
Brynn tried to smile, but her fractured nerves were doing strange things to her facial muscles.
“Relax,” he told her. “The imposter may well spring upon you after the ball. If at all.”
He left her at the hearth and strode into the foyer. Once Brynn heard the door close behind him, she met Braxton in the sitting room entrance. “Call for my carriage,” she instructed, and with a bow, he left to see it done.
The next several minutes waiting were tortuous. She left Bishop House only when she knew Archer had been given plenty of time to exit his carriage and take up his waiting mount then come back and watch for her departure. Braxton helped Brynn up into her waiting coach and closed the door behind her with a short bow.
When they pulled away from the curb a moment later, Brynn felt as if she might be ill. Archer was correct, of course. The ball would go on into the small hours of morning, and that would be an ideal time for the imposter to pounce. If he planned to at all. If he did have a connection to Archer and the late duke, he may very well avoid Brynn altogether. Suddenly she felt silly for believing she could draw him out by wearing the diamonds. They were too well-known a piece, and if he pawned them, they would no doubt be recognized.
She sat against the back cushions and let out a breath. Archer was behind her somewhere on the street and for nothing at all. He’d have to return to his carriage on King Street and then be late for the ball. What a waste.
With that thought, Brynn’s coach came to a stop. The Kensingtons’ home was still another ten minutes away, so they could not have already arrived. She sat forward, biting the inside of her cheek, and listened.
There wasn’t a sound, except for the distant clop of horse hooves and normal street noises. Muted, though. As if the carriage had drawn off the main road.
“Beckett?” she called to her driver.
“Sorry, my lady,” came his answer. “There was a section of road closed off, and I needed to make a—”
His sentence ended with a grunt, and the whole coach rocked violently.
Something was happening up in the driver’s box, and Brynn knew exactly what it was.
She grabbed her reticule and felt around inside for her pistol. Deuce it, she should have had the thing ready! The cool metal grip hit her palm, and she pulled out the lady’s pistol, aiming the short barrel at the door, the tasseled curtain over the window shaking as the coach made its final rocks.
Beckett had not made another sound, and with a surge of self-disgust, Brynn realized she hadn’t thought of any risk to him the bandit may pose. If anything happened to Beckett, she would never forgive herself. Without thought or plan, she opened the coach door with her free hand. Lifting the hem of her voluminous skirts, she jumped the two feet to the ground. Her shins ached on impact, but she turned immediately for the bench—and came face to face with a masked man.
Brynn raised her pistol, but even with Archer’s demand to shoot still fresh in her mind, could not pull the trigger.
The masked man was tall and broad like Archer, but not in a fit or regal way. He wore the same sort of guise Archer had that night on the lane to Worthington Abbey, but his black mask hid a rounder face, his posture was slovenly, and he’d chosen a black cape rather than a greatcoat. He also did not have the smooth, gentlemanly manner Archer had possessed, even while demanding coin and jewels.
“No displays of heroism please,” he said in a mocking voice. “Hand them over.”
The diamonds.
Her half-cocked plan had worked.
“No,” Brynn managed to say, her finger numb on the trigger.
He took a step forward, and she saw he held a pistol in his own hand. Beckett looked like he was laid out in the driver’s bench.
“We both know you won’t shoot me,” the man said.
“I, however, will,” came a steady voice behind Brynn.
Archer. Thank God. Still, she didn’t lower her weapon.
The imposter didn’t startle, she noticed, and that gave her pause.
“Your weapon isn’t loaded. It never is,” he stated. Brynn held her breath. Archer had admitted as much weeks before in his mother’s salon.
“It is tonight. Who are you?” Archer asked.
They were on a quiet side street, stuck between lampposts set twenty or so yards apart. She saw figures ahead, passing under the lamplight, but they had not seemed to notice the waylaid carriage in the center of the street. Either that, or they had and had decided to look the other way.
“A person no one cares to notice,” the man said with detectable amusement. As if what he’d said had been funny.
“Drop your pistol,” Brynn said, her wrist shaking from the tension up and down her raised arm.
“Give me the diamonds,” was his reply.
“Brynn, step aside,” Archer said, his voice deadly calm.
She did, moving closer to the coach.
“Now, you lecherous bastard, I suggest you—”
Archer’s sentence was cut off, just as Beckett’s had been, with a grunt and the sound of a commotion behind her.
Brynn made the mistake of spinning around to see what had happened to him. Her eyes had barely taken in the sight of Archer, unmoving on the ground with a hooded figure standing over his body, when a hand clamped over her mouth. The imposter’s arm hooked her waist and sealed her body against his, pinning her arms to her sides. He squeezed her wrist until a sharp pain cracked through the small bones, forcing her to drop the pistol. Her muted screams filled his palm instead of echoing out to passersby as she thrashed.
She did have one weapon left, however, and by all that was holy, she would use it.
Brynn opened her mouth and bared her teeth, biting into the meaty flesh just under his thumb. It tasted like salted cod and dirt, but she continued to clamp her jaw until the man released her with a howl. She stumbled away and tried to run to Archer and the shorter, hooded man, but the imposter grabbed her arm, pulled her to a stop, and spun her to face him.
She saw a hand flying at her head. Felt an agonizing blow to her cheek and nose that rattled everything in her skull.
And then nothing more.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Archer’s eyes creaked open and then closed once again at the excruciating pain pulsating through his head. He blinked gingerly as waves of nausea followed. It took him a full minute to get his bearings, and then awareness came rushing back. En route to the Kensingtons’, their plan had worked. He’d had the masked imposter at the end of his pistol, but some unseen assailant had attacked him from behind. A blow to his head.
Oh god.
Brynn.
His eyes searched for her in the darkness and settled on a dim shape at the far side of the room. The emerald silk dress lay like a shroud around her, but he could see the slight rise and fall of her shoulders. She was still alive. He exhaled, relief swamping him. If that bastard and his accomplice had hurt her, they wouldn’t have lived to see the light of day.
He blinked again, his eyes adjusting to the shadows of the room. The smell of horses and dung permeated the air. They were in a mews, but where, he did not know.
Forcing himself to think clearly, he assessed the situation. His hands were bound behind his back and something filthy was pulled tight across his mouth. A damp and sticky wetness coated the skin of his brow and made his eyelids heavy. Archer knew it was blood, even though he could not feel the stin
g of an injury. He could smell its rusty and metallic odor. What he didn’t know was how bad the wound was, and whether or not he could free himself and rescue Brynn before their unknown assailant came back. For now, they seemed to be alone.
Archer took in his surroundings, looking for weapons or anything sharp that he could use to loosen the ties around his wrists. If they were in a mews, then where were the grooms? Someone should be here. But there were no sounds except for the gentle nicker of horses in the neighboring stalls. His head still felt cottony, and his tongue pushed against the disgusting rag in his mouth as he attempted to swallow.
He assumed that they were still in London, but there were hundreds of carriage houses to choose from. His eyes narrowed on the rows of tack. Archer frowned, his stare traveling in reverse to stop on a familiar saddle, polished to a burnished shine.
His own saddle.
At least, it looked like his. Was this Hadley Gardens? As he squinted around the stall another time, his befuddled senses clearing, he was certain it was. His relief was short-lived as he realized why the carriage house was empty. No one was here. This was one of the few nights during the week the grooms were off. Normally Brandt would be hanging about, but, of course, he was stuck facing a nightmare of his own in a dank cell. And if Archer didn’t free himself and Brynn, his friend would stay there for the rest of his days.
Archer renewed his struggles, scooting backward until he came to a center post. He pushed through the rabid throbbing of his skull and sawed at his ropes using the post’s splintered edge. Once he felt them loosening, he increased his efforts.
“Archer?” Brynn’s voice was muffled, and he realized her mouth was also bound.
“Here,” he managed, limited by the gag, watching as she pulled herself into a sitting position.
Her hands were tied, as well, but lay on her lap instead of behind her. Having adjusted to the dim light, he saw a trickle of blood under her nose and a flowering purple bruise on the side of her temple. Archer’s fists clenched, and his earlier vow to beat their assailants into a fine mash returned. She lifted her hands to tug the dirty brown cloth from between her lips.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Hadley Gardens, I think.” He hoped she could understand his muffled words.
“Are you hurt?” she asked and then gasped as her eyes, too, adjusted to the gloom. “You’re bleeding.”
“A scratch.”
His tongue pushed against the soiled scrap pressing into his mouth, the foul taste of it making him heave. “Can you…shout for help?” he choked past it.
Brynn nodded and did as he asked, opening her mouth and yelling out, “Is anyone there? Hello? Help us! We’re in here!”
“We’ll have none of that, if you please, my lady.”
They both stilled as the heavy wooden door pushed open. The same man from earlier entered the stall holding a pistol, and this time he wore no mask. Archer frowned, fighting to recall his face. He could not always recall names, but faces he never forgot. There was no recognition, though. He was certain he had never seen this man before tonight.
The man was tall and swarthy and dressed in the midnight garb of the Masked Marauder, with the exception of the mask. Archer glanced to the door, but no one else entered. The second man, the one who had come up behind Archer and knocked him senseless, had to be here somewhere. He needed to remain alert and focused. His life depended on it, as did Brynn’s. And Brandt’s, he supposed, who would take the fall for everything, should this cretin get away. A lethal calm descended upon him as he assessed their assailant.
The killer’s clothes were of decent quality, which marked him as a man of some means, and he seemed well-groomed. But Archer had never seen him before, certainly not in any of his social circles. He grunted against the rag, and the man approached, keeping his weapon trained right at Archer’s heart.
“Have something to say, Your Grace?” Stooping low, the man loosened the tie, pulling it out of Archer’s mouth. “Sorry about this, but we couldn’t have you attracting attention, could we?”
Archer wanted to leap to his feet and meet the man face-to-face, but if he moved, he would lose the splintered edge of the post. He continued to saw the ropes, hoping he appeared to be only struggling with discomfort. The ropes were slowly loosening, the twisted hemp coming apart strand by strand.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Someone who has benefited handsomely at your expense, it seems.”
“You are a cold-blooded criminal,” Archer seethed, not rising to the man’s bait.
The man slanted an eyebrow. “If I have to be.”
Said without an ounce of remorse. Reasoning with such a man would be pointless, but he had to keep him talking—and distracted.
“Why are you doing this?”
“For the riches, of course.”
Archer tugged on his bonds until the skin at his wrists rubbed raw. His hands were already slick with blood, but it wouldn’t take much more for him to get loose. “I can pay. Release us, and you will have all the riches you desire. I give you my word.”
To his surprise, the man laughed, the sound echoing off the wooden rafters. “I am already well compensated, and you are meant to serve a much better purpose. After all, Bow Street already considers you a suspect. We are simply facilitating your arrest.”
Archer’s eyes narrowed. The man knew a lot, but it was to be expected. He wouldn’t have been able to find out about Archer if he wasn’t meticulous by nature. “Where is your friend?” he asked casually. “The one who hit me?”
“Around. Making sure we remain undisturbed.”
The man smiled, shooting a lascivious glance toward Brynn, who had stayed silent. For the first time, Archer felt a prickle of fear pool deep in his belly. Not for himself, but for her.
“Touch the lady, and it will be the last thing you do,” he snarled.
“And how, pray tell, will you come to her defense?” the man taunted.
Archer’s breath stalled as the man turned toward Brynn and dragged her up like a ragdoll against him. She gasped at the cruel latch of his hand on her arm but made no other sound. “I like this dress on you,” the imposter told her. “Though I think I’d like it better on the floor.”
Archer once again battled the urge to get to his feet and charge the bastard. His bonds were almost loose, and now he redoubled his efforts, sliding his hands against each other in slow, deliberate movements. He used his own blood to help lubricate against the coarse rope. The pain kept him focused. That, and thinking in vicious detail what he was going to do to that piece of filth once he was loose.
Brynn turned her face away, keeping her eyes on Archer. He could see the sheen of tears in them, but she held her chin erect. Valiant as ever, Archer thought, his chest tight with pride and fury. She wouldn’t cave or grovel, not to this beast of a man.
The man’s hands fluttered toward the ostentatious display of diamonds attached to her throat and removed the clasp, the backs of his knuckles brushing deliberately against Brynn’s breasts in the process. Archer’s jaw clenched, regretting he’d ever agreed to this damned plan. He’d put her at risk and hadn’t been able to protect her. He watched as the impersonator pocketed the jewels, his hand sliding down Brynn’s rib cage and around to her rear. Archer would kill him. Of that he was absolutely certain.
Brynn struggled wildly, kicking up with her legs, not even stopping when he pressed the point of the pistol into her side.
The man grinned at her as he fended off a knee aimed toward his groin and turned in slow motion to point the pistol at Archer.
“One more move, lovely, and I shoot your betrothed. You can make this nice and quick, or long and painful. It’s your choice.”
Brynn froze, her body going limp. Shutters descended over her eyes as the man ripped the chiffon dress from bosom to waist. Archer tore at his restraints with single-minded purpose. He stared helplessly at her, rage and agony eating at him. She was the only woman he had ev
er cared for, and he could do nothing to protect her as the bastard dipped his head to her exposed body, his fingers fumbling at the laces on her stays. Silent tears tracked her face, her bottom lip trembling with fear.
With Herculean strength, Archer ripped one wrist from the rope shackle. He forced himself to move slowly, controlling his bloodlust long enough to meet Brynn’s gaze. He needed her out of the way. As he waved his free hand low at his side, her eyes sparked with understanding. He set his jaw, adrenaline surging through his body like an uncaged beast. She inhaled sharply and flung her bound hands up toward the man’s throat, catching him in the soft part of his lower esophagus.
“You bloody bitch,” he coughed, raising the gun as he stumbled backward from Brynn’s strike.
But the movement was no match for Archer’s savage burst of speed as he sprung to his feet and dove forward. With a guttural growl, he tackled him to the ground, the impersonator’s pistol flying into the air and disappearing behind a bale of hay. The man had a stone on him in weight, but he was no contest for the demonic wrath possessing Archer. Blinded by cold fury and purpose, he straddled the man’s body, his fists flying like battering rams, crunching into bone, teeth, and tissue until the man’s face was an unrecognizable bloody pulp. After an eternity, Archer staggered back. He turned sharply in search for Brynn, his knuckles aching. She threw herself into his arms, and he hugged her body to his as he hauled burning breaths into his lungs.
“Are you hurt?” he gasped, kissing her hair, her face, her eyes, while being careful of the ragged bruise on her cheek.
“No,” she whispered.
Archer turned to find a knife from one of the tack shelves and snapped the bonds at her wrists. “Let’s go,” he said to her, but Brynn’s eyes were wide and terrified as she focused on something—or someone—just beyond his left shoulder.
He turned, and in disbelief, saw the man he’d just pummeled unconscious standing. His face was swollen and drenched in blood, but the hand holding the short pistol he had recovered from the hay did not waver. The man’s bloody mouth puckered into a smile, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Archer shoved Brynn behind him, and as a shot exploded into the silence, he braced for the pain.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 32