None came.
He opened his eyes just as the man’s body fell to the ground in a thump, a bloody hole gaping at his breast. Archer whipped around, his mind a tumult of relief and confusion. A whimpering Eloise stood in the doorway, smoke rising from the muzzle of the gun in her hands. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His sister had just shot a man. Saved their lives. He wanted to go to her and take the weapon from her shaking hands. But he couldn’t move. His legs refused to step away from Brynn’s side. With shattered gratitude, Archer nodded to Eloise and pulled Brynn to him as she collapsed sobbing against his jacket.
“It’s over now,” he whispered against her hair.
Eloise slumped against the door, breathing hard, her hand falling to her side. Archer met her eyes, thankful for once that he hadn’t insisted she accompany them to the Kensington Ball. If she hadn’t been here, he shuddered to think of what would have happened. She must have heard a commotion in the mews, though he didn’t know how or when. It didn’t matter—she had come. But they were not entirely free from threat yet. He motioned her to come closer, putting a finger against his lips.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.
“There is a second man.”
Her eyes widened as she handed him the spent gun. “I don’t know how to reload,” she began, her entire body shivering in delayed shock. She and Brynn clutched each other as Brynn whispered her fevered thanks. “You saved us,” she said.
“I was only lucky that I was able to help.” Eloise touched the bruise on Brynn’s temple, wincing in sympathy. “We should have that looked at. You may be concussed.”
His sister was correct, and perhaps he himself was as well. But they had a more immediate urgency.
“I need to get you both somewhere safe,” Archer said. “But first, Eloise—how did you know that we were in trouble?”
“I thought I heard someone shouting,” Eloise explained, her voice trembling. “I knew the grooms were off, and it sounded like the shouts had come from here. So I sneaked into Father’s study and took that pistol out of the gun case.”
Archer’s eyes narrowed on the still-smoking gun she had given him. He frowned, studying the shiny embossed twin barrels. He had never seen the intricate bone-handled butt before, and he was familiar with every pistol and rifle in the late duke’s gun case. He’d shot them all at one point or another. His frown deepened as he studied the finely etched designs on the handle. This gun was decidedly not his father’s. The slope of the handle had been cut to fit a much smaller hand.
His blood slowed in his veins as a sticky realization took hold. His eyes met his sister’s, and the fragility in them winked away, replaced by a ruthless, calculated determination. He shook his head as if his own eyes were deceiving him.
“I see the game is up,” Eloise commented, the shift in her voice going from pleading and frail, to strong and cold. Her very appearance transformed before his eyes. In truth, he did not recognize her.
Archer blinked in disbelief as his sister backed away from them, a second pistol appearing out of her cloak. She pointed it right at his head, a smile crossing her lips.
Betrayal speared him like a pointed lance. “Eloise, no.”
“You are far too clever, brother. I should have been more careful with my words. Then again, I suppose it is so much more gratifying this way, isn’t it?”
“Eloise,” Brynn whispered, her eyes stuck fast on the second pistol. “What are you doing?”
But his sister didn’t have to answer. Archer already knew. “You’re the second man,” he said slowly. “The other assailant.”
She nodded, satisfaction glinting in her icy stare. Suddenly his delicate, physically and emotionally scarred sister didn’t seem so shocked or weak or frail. Her hands were no longer shaking. She was in utter control. “Drop your weapons, Archer.”
He did as she asked, if only because he sensed, with her brutally swift and seamless transformation, that she was far more dangerous than the other man had been. “Why are you doing this?”
Another rapid shift swept over her, Eloise’s unveiled face contorting into something demented and violent. She’d never looked at him this way before, and it chilled Archer to his very core. “Because you deserve to die, you arrogant filth. You should have died in that fire, not your mother. It was meant for you.” Archer stared at her, saying nothing despite the hot burst of pain flaring along his veins and burrowing into his chest.
“Meant for me?” he repeated. The fire had been an accident. At least…that was what it had been determined to have been. “You set the fire?”
She sighed, but her answer was clear in the annoyed look she sent him. As if he was a fool. As if he should have figured it out ages ago.
His mother’s death had been an accident…but only because she had died in Archer’s place. His sister was insane, he concluded, the sinking awareness wringing his heart and stomach together in anguish. His sister was the threat. His sister wanted him dead. Them dead. He felt Brynn clinging to his side, her breath coming in a choppy rhythm. He was not Eloise’s sole target anymore. Which meant he had to proceed carefully—and stall for time.
“And the duke?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice flat.
“Oh, I killed him, too,” she said in a bored tone. “That was unfortunate, but honestly, I’m glad for it now. The man rutted everything that moved and had the nerve to punish me for it. Do you know what it’s like being born a bastard and despised every day of your life? No, of course you don’t. You, after all, are legitimate.” Her words were bitter, the sneer on her lips more so, but she shrugged. “I think he suspected about the fire, but he didn’t have the guts, until that night in his study, to confront me about it.” She smiled. “The look on his face when I told him was priceless. So yes, I killed him. After all, I didn’t want him ruining all my beautifully laid plans. I did you a favor, Archer. I did us both a favor.”
He ignored the blinding ache that spiraled through him at her confession and struggled to keep his face unmoved. “And the Masked Marauder?”
She responded in a mocking tone. “I made it my business to know everything going on at Worthington Abbey. I found your mask; followed you to Pierce Cottage. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together and work out what you and that bastard of a stable master were doing. It’s fitting that he will rot in prison, is it not? I’ve never liked him, always at your side like an insect. Even he thought he was better than me.”
“You sent the notes,” Archer concluded dully.
“Of course I did. I took great pleasure in watching the great Archer Croft cringing at the threat of being unmasked.” Her lip curled. “You’re nothing but a common thief.”
“He is not,” Brynn blurted. “He does not keep what he takes.”
“And that excuses the crime?” Eloise laughed, the hollow sound making Archer’s skin rankle. “Oh, I know of the demons that drive my brother, and his desire to right a situation that can never be fixed. The duke killed my mother, you see. Left her to rot and die like the commoner she was. She didn’t have the means to save herself, which was why Lady Bradburne took me in. Out of guilt. And likewise, my dear brother steals from his peers because of his own sorry guilt.” She smiled. “He loathes being born into privilege. Scorns it, even, while the rest of us grovel for crumbs of approval.”
“I am not my father,” Archer returned quietly.
“I suppose that’s one good thing that could be said for you,” Eloise said, eyeing him. “You think your skewed sense of nobility in feeding the hungry and saving the sick makes up for his sins?”
Archer stared back, though not in a confrontational manner. He was not familiar with this unpredictable, volatile Eloise, and the wrong look or response could work against them. “No, but at least it’s something.”
“Something worth hanging for?”
Archer’s jaw tightened at the underlying thread of menace in her tone. Was that her plan, then? To out him to the authorities? �
��If that is the price I must pay, then yes.”
“Then you are more foolish than I ever gave you credit for.” His sister’s gaze shifted to Brynn. “Light that candle over there, will you please, Lady Briannon?” Archer felt Brynn stiffen at his side, and Eloise’s eyes hardened at her hesitation. “Do it. I warn you that I am not as softhearted, or as stupid, as that dead brute lying beside you.”
Brynn lit the candle and moved back to stand at Archer’s side, her body trembling as she grasped the torn edges of her bodice. He wanted so much to take hold of her hand, but he knew without a doubt, Eloise meant every word she said, and that she was more than capable of killing in cold blood. How had he not seen this hatred, this seething resentment before? How had he been so blind all these years? He couldn’t dwell on it, however. Once more, he needed to find a way out of this deadlock and get Brynn to safety. He could deal with his sister’s betrayal after.
“You see,” Eloise continued, “my plan was to frame you for the duke’s murder. Poor Barnstead here was more than happy to earn his keep. He kept what he stole and altered your secret persona into something more despicable. I was going to let you hang, but this is so much better. Instead, I shall pin him as the criminal who hurt so many people and murdered my father, as well as my brother and his beautiful fiancée, all of whom are survived by poor, helpless Eloise.”
“You plan to kill us?” Brynn gasped.
“Oh yes, my sweet girl. So tragic.” She spread her palms with dramatic flair. “Attacked by the Masked Marauder who was lured by the prize of the Bradburne jewels.” She nodded at Brynn. “Nice tactic, by the way. It really was a perfect ploy.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “There was a struggle, the bandit was shot, but a candle tipped over, setting the place on fire.” She eyed Archer, malice dripping from her words. “And you will die as you were meant to all those years ago.”
Something settled inside Archer at his sister’s words. A new determination. He didn’t know what would happen to him in the end, but he did know, without a moment’s doubt, that he would die before allowing one more injury to befall Lady Briannon Findlay.
“Why, Eloise? We are friends,” Brynn whispered.
“We were never friends,” Eloise spat. “You looked down on me like everyone else. And with a face like this, who wouldn’t? What were my chances for happiness? Of making a decent match?”
“But what about Langlevit?” Brynn asked. “He cares for you. I’ve seen—”
“Shut up, or God help me, I’ll make you!” Eloise’s words, though doused in acid, cracked.
Suddenly, Archer saw his opportunity. He shook his head. “She doesn’t care about the earl, Brynn. After all, my mother loved her, too, and she threw that away. She doesn’t care about love, nor any of the people who love her.”
Naked pain slashed Eloise’s face. “She loved her precious son more. I couldn’t stop her from going into a burning tree house to look for you, could I? She died because of you. She was the one person who treated me with compassion, and you took her away from me.”
Destabilize her. Distract her. It was all he had to do before he made his move.
“No, Eloise, she died because of you. You set the fire. You killed her.”
“Shut up!” she screamed. “Or I will drop your precious love like a fly.” Archer deliberately pressed Brynn behind him, but Eloise only laughed madly. She raised the gun—and froze. A hand holding a pistol appeared in the horse stall entrance where she stood. An arm, and then a body, quickly followed it.
Brynn’s brother, Northridge, pressed the muzzle of his pistol to Eloise’s temple. “I’ll take that, thank you.”
Archer felt Brynn’s soft exhale against his back. “Gray, how did you find us?” she cried out.
Northridge’s eyes flicked to his sister. “Lana told me everything, and Hadley Gardens was my first stop to find you when I heard the shot,” he replied grimly, relieving Eloise of her gun though he could not stop her from whirling out of his grasp. She dove behind a wooden saddle stand.
“Don’t hurt her,” Archer ordered while Northridge kept his weapon trained on her. “Get Brynn out of here. I will take care of it.”
Brynn rushed to her brother’s side, clutching at him as Northridge wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. “I have Lana in the carriage outside. Come.”
“No. Archer,” Brynn said, her worried eyes leaping back to him. “I won’t leave you.”
He went to her, his need to have her gone from this wretched horse stall warring with his desire to keep her safely at his side. She would be safe with Northridge, though. Archer trusted that. “It’s over, love; she can’t hurt anyone now.” He kissed her swiftly on the temple and nodded to her brother. Archer took Northridge’s pistol and waited until they had left before addressing his sister, still hunched behind the saddle stand. “Eloise, it is finished.”
She stood, and the madness in her eyes had not snuffed out. If anything, it had flared. The light from the candle threw long shadows on her cheeks, making her scars there seem even more gruesome. Even after having stood at the end of her gun, after hearing her merciless plans to do away with him and the one woman he’d ever truly cared for, Archer felt a twinge of pity. The fire had burned scars on her face, but it had burned worse ones into her soul. Eloise was so consumed by hate that she would give up a chance at happiness and love just to punish him. Archer didn’t know if he could forgive her, or whether she would be able to forgive herself, but he knew that he had to try.
“We can work this out,” he said softly.
“Work what out, brother? You have a pistol pointed at me, and I have nothing.”
Despite his better judgment, Archer tossed the loaded weapon to the stall floor. Her eyes follow the movement and then leveled on him as if trying to see inside his heart. He would not shoot her. He could not. His sister needed help, and he would do anything to see it done. “Better?” he asked, inching closer to where she stood, eying him nervously. “Eloise, please listen to me. Langlevit wants you. He has already approached me.”
Her fingers clutched the folds of her dress. “Don’t say that to me,” she cried in a broken whisper.
“He wants your hand in marriage. You have a chance to be happy.”
“And what of you? Will you forgive what I have done?”
Archer stared at his sister and felt only deep, driving pity. Unloved and unwanted, she had twisted herself into something broken and bitter. But Archer knew that despite all her machinations, his mother’s death had been an accident. Eloise had loved her desperately. Her jealousy against him had been fortified and fed by his father’s indifference. Archer swallowed hard. “I can only promise that I will try.”
They stood in silence, separated by the wooden saddle stand. He could almost reach for her, but he didn’t want to startle her. He kept his arms and body relaxed. Emotions clashed in her eyes—the promise of happiness that lay just beyond her grasp and the desolation of what she had done, drawing her down into its depths.
“No, Archer, I don’t deserve to be happy.” She raised a shaking hand.
It wasn’t empty.
Archer recognized Brynn’s lady’s pistol trained on his chest. He froze as Eloise knocked over the nearby candle with a flick of her wrist. Hungry flames sprouted along the dried hay at her feet and licked at the hem of her dress. “This ends now, the way it was meant to.”
Brynn is safe. It was all he could think of as he saw the fire spreading at his sister’s back and traveling into the space between them.
“Don’t do this,” he said, his voice hoarse, his mind racing forward to calculate how to reach Eloise without being engulfed in flames. As it was, the exit to the stall would be closed off to him within seconds. “It’s not too late.”
“It was too late the moment I killed the only person who loved me.” She smiled at him through her tears and through the flames, and for a moment, Archer had a glimpse of the old Eloise. The girl he had grown up with. Had loved and protected and
cared for. It was as if all her scars had disappeared, and she was a young girl once more. Her eyes were light and clear and finally, finally, filled with remorse. “I am sorry.”
It was then that Archer realized that she was no longer pointing the gun at him. Instead, she had turned it toward her own chest. He lurched forward, but his feet touched a wall of fire, and he jerked back, the flames singeing his trousers. “No, Eloise!”
“Don’t think too badly of me, brother,” she whispered.
And then she pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It made little sense that people would spend summers in town instead of out in the country, Archer thought as his horse trotted along the dirt lane, undulating through two fields of new spring grass. The blades were so pale they neared chartreuse. Essex’s air was clean and fresh, and by midsummer it would be scented by fields of wildflowers, hay, and meadowsweet. He breathed it in, his hold on his reins loose, his posture unusually relaxed. London was sticky, dusty, and smelly, and right then, it was also a hotbed of gossip revolving around the events that had unfolded in the mews behind Hadley Gardens two weeks past.
So much so that his removal of the marriage banns from the Times had barely garnered a reaction. Archer had cited the postponement of the nuptials on the pretext of his entering mourning for his sister, but he knew deep down it was what Brynn wanted. It was what she deserved.
Now that Eloise—and the imposter—was dead, there was no need for the farce to continue. They had each known, should the imposter be outed, that there would be no wedding. That Archer would continue with his life, and Brynn with hers. Their agreement was over. He pushed the thought of her from his mind with brusque finality.
Archer was relieved to be gone from London for the remainder of the season. He would be more relieved when he did not wake every morning with the memories of his father’s and sister’s deaths already front and center in his mind. In time, the pain that accompanied those memories would pass. The clench of his stomach and the ache in his heart wouldn’t be so all-consuming. He knew this from experience, of course. It had taken him years to heal after his mother’s death, though now that he knew the truth—that the fire that killed his mother had been set purposely by Eloise, her intent aimed at his death, not his mother’s—all the pain he’d thought he’d finally buried churned back to the surface.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 33