Page 37 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“Lady Briannon Findlay.”
Brandt shot him a perplexed look. “The poorly girl from the neighboring estate?”
Archer thought of the time he’d seen Briannon square off against an angry boar, her color high. She hadn’t looked so “poorly” then. Neither had she at the masquerade last night in that sin-inducing dress, but servants gossiped, and it would be expected that Brandt, too, would have heard the rumors of her lung ailments over the years.
“One and the same,” he replied, his voice brusque. He stood up, restless and eager to clear his throat. He refrained, however. It would make him appear nervous. “She may have recognized me last night at the ball. I can’t be sure.”
“Recognized you?” Brandt repeated.
“As the bandit who robbed her family,” he explained. “I donned the mask last night without thinking—”
“You donned the mask?”
Archer glared at him. “Must you echo my every word? Yes, I put on the mask. She looked at me strangely for a moment as if coming to the correct conclusion before discarding it.” Brandt snorted at the frail connective logic, making Archer’s glare deepen tenfold. “Nonetheless, we cannot afford to take the chance that she will make good on her guess. She is a clever woman.”
“Apologies,” Brandt said, still trying to cover his amusement. The man had never gotten riled up about anything before, so his placid reaction didn’t throw Archer. In fact, it seemed to calm him. “So hypothetically, what if she did discover your identity? Would she expose you? Go to the authorities? And let us not forget your apostle. He needs to be found.”
“I know he does. And, no, I don’t know what she’ll do.” Archer groaned.Damn it all.“For now, I will take care of Lady Briannon.”
“How?”
He groaned, raking his hands through his dark hair, annoyed by his friend’s humor at his expense. “Leave it to me. Surely there’s something she wants in return. It won’t be the first time I’ve bought a woman’s silence.”
The silence he had purchased had been to cover one of his father’s flagrant affairs with a woman who happened to be married to an influential man in the House of Lords. The adulterer, now happily ensconced in an Italian country estate, had been more than willing to accept Archer’s proposal. He highly doubted Briannon’s obedience could be purchased in the same manner. He just hoped to hell he wouldn’t be forced to try.
He stopped at the door. “What of the last of the jewels? Was your man able to fetch a good price for them?”
“Yes. They were sold in France a few days ago. I have already sent the proceeds to the three charities and the orphanage you earmarked, donated under the same name, Viscount Hathaway.”
Archer nodded. “Excellent.”
Brandt took something from a velvet pouch and handed it to Archer. “And these?”
Archer stared at the string of pearls and matching earbobs in his hands. He did not know what had stopped him from sending the costly heirlooms with the rest of the stolen gems, whether it had been the plea in Briannon’s voice or the way her eyes had burned with rage-filled tears when he’d divested her of them. He studied the pearls. They—and she—were becoming more trouble than either of them were worth. He stuffed them into his pocket.
“We continue two nights henceforth. The Aberdeen’s Ball should have good spoils for the taking. Then I leave for London for the season.”
“Hawk,” Brandt began. “Do you think that is wise?”
Archer sent him an expressionless look. “Stop any time you wish, but I am going. And may fortune smile upon me that I may meet this pretender face to face.”
“That’s not it,” Brandt said a trifle defensively, though still calm. Still rational. “I have your back, always. We need to be careful now, is all. People are looking for a violent man, not a charming thief. There is a world of difference between the two. Notwithstanding that fact, if anyone were to find out that the true Masked Marauder is really the esteemed Marquess of Hawksfield, future Duke of Bradburne, your family would never live down the scandal.”
“And I would be hanged,” Archer said drily. “Trust me, I am well aware of the risks to my neck and good name, my friend.” He gentled his voice and clapped his longtime friend on the shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about.”
As he was about to take his leave, Brandt stopped him at the doorway. “I heard you and your father argued at the masquerade. That it became physical. They said that his hand was bleeding.”
Archer froze. “Did they?” His voice was dangerously soft and clipped, offering no further explanation. Brandt was his friend, but there were some things that he did not feel inclined to discuss, especially where his sire and Briannon were concerned.
Brandt was not cowed. “They did.”
Archer exhaled and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “We discussed a matter. He slipped, fell, and cut his hand on his whiskey glass. That is all.”
Lying to Brandt, even a white lie such as this, felt like crossing an entire ocean with the stretch of one leg. He didn’t know why he bothered to try—he knew the man would see right through him.Shame, a cantankerous little voice whispered in answer.
Hell. He shouldn’t have hit his father, even if the licentious tippler had deserved it. It’d been an unconscionable act of anger, brought on by the woman who was fast becoming an irritating thorn in his side…his arse, if he was being precise.
“Hawk,” Brandt began in a gentle tone, almost like he’d use with his beloved horses. “He is your father, even with all his faults, for better or for worse.”
