Page 5 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Archer’s father did not descend into Essex often, but whenever he did, he brought the entire London set with him. For the last few weeks, Worthington Abbey had been filled to bursting with at least three dozen of the duke’s closest friends and acquaintances. Archer hadn’t had a moment’s peace or privacy since his own arrival, something his father had ordered after the invitations for the house party had gone out. However, tomorrow afternoon the London elite would be making the journey back to the city, and Archer would have Worthington Abbey all to himself. The way he and his sister, Eloise, both preferred it.
He just needed to come out on the other side of this evening with his bachelor status intact, and then he’d have something to truly celebrate. His title and his fortune—or what was left of it, thanks to his pleasure-seeking father—had landed Archer at the top of the most eligible bachelor list. He supposed his father was also on the list, however the mothers of thetonought to have known by now that Bradburne would not be making another offer of marriage to anyone. It had been twelve years since the duchess’s death, and he had never once shown a glimmer of interest in taking another wife. That, at least, was one of his father’s actions Archer approved of.
“I’ll leave the dancing to you,” Archer said, accepting the second glass of whiskey the server had brought with brisk efficiency.
His father laughed. He knew full well thetonreferred to him as the Dancing Duke, and he didn’t mind the silly nickname one bit. Had Archer been given a nickname so emasculating he would have throttled the person, man or woman, who’d contrived it.
His eyes roved the crowded room below, and it was then that Archer noticed the curious lack of dancing. The chatter had an edge of panic to it as well, and there seemed to be a large tangle of guests near the long refreshments table.
“What is it?” Archer asked.
“Oh yes, Lord Dinsmore,” Bradburne said, taking a deep sip from his own whiskey glass, which by now had likely been refreshed multiple times.
Archer squared his shoulders as he tried to see through the crowd. “What of him?”
“Claims the Masked Marauder set upon his carriage on the way here, to Worthington Abbey. Can you believe it? Took everything. I’ve had Heed call for the local constable.”
Archer tightened his fingers around the whiskey glass. “Have you? Good,” he murmured. The nearest constable was four towns to the south, in Greenbriar, and likely wouldn’t show up for another few hours. “No one was hurt, I assume?”
“No, thankfully. That would have surely put a damper on the festivities. And, well, I’m just damn glad no one got shot. Had a brace of pistols, Dinsmore says. Knocked their driver clean unconscious!”
Archer fought a roll of his eyes at his father’s first concern. The duke was more worried about his ball than whether people had been hurt in an armed robbery. Archer should not have been surprised by his father’s shallowness, but he was. It never failed to antagonize him.
“I suppose I should go down there and express my condolences,” Archer said, draining the contents of his glass in one swallow.
His father startled a bit and then clapped him on the shoulder for a second time. “Well done, my boy. I’m glad to hear you’re going to do more than stand up here scowling at all of us.”
Archer slid an arch glance at his father. The duke’s ruddy countenance, portly waist, and fleshy jowls were a testament to his lifestyle. Archer had always been told he resembled his late mother—tall, lean, and dark-haired. The physical differences mattered little, however. When one’s father was the Dancing Duke, one was due to be considered just as shallow, if only by proxy and on an entirely different level. Where Lord Bradburne was known as a jovial and hedonistic sort of shallow, Archer was considered an aloof and fractious sort of shallow. It suited him well enough for now. His father drew plenty of attention to himself as it was. For Archer, attention was not something he needed, nor wanted.
Bradburne descended the stairs into the wide, rectangular ballroom and approached Lord and Lady Rochester. Rochester was turned away from his wife as he conversed with a dandified fop whose name Archer was happy not to have remembered. He watched from the top of the mezzanine stairs as his father slipped his hand around Lady Rochester’s trim waist. She and Bradburne shared a fleeting glance before he removed his hand and slapped Rochester good-naturedly on the back.
His father may have been five and fifty, but he was far from swearing off his days as a rake. He loved the company of women far too much, sometimes more than he did a hand of cards or a good brandy.
Archer looked away and focused on the area around the refreshments table where his sister stood in reluctant conversation with two young ladies, her face covered by its usual veil. The gauzy layers of dark tulle did well covering the deep scarring that stretched across Eloise’s face, inflicted as a result of a tragic fire when she was a child. The same fire that had claimed the duchess’s life. That didn’t stop his courageous sister from being the kindest, sweetest soul in the room, however. Not that the duke would know. He hardly acknowledged her existence, something that never ceased to infuriate Archer.
Orphaned at birth, Eloise was taken in as a ward by the duke’s wife, Archer’s mother. His mother had been a saint. Not only for taking in the babe, but for tolerating his father’s countless infidelities as well. Before the duchess had died, Eloise lacked for nothing. Though she was illegitimate, there was no doubt of her sire—she and Archer had the same nose, the same chin, and even, oddly enough, the same laugh—and the late duchess had made it clear that Eloise was a member of the family.
Archer stared at her now, and despite her polite demeanor, Eloise’s lips, just visible under the base of her veil, were pressed thin with discontent. He wished he could do something to put them both out of their misery. He would make it a point to find her later after doing his duty by making the necessary, and utterly drudging, rounds to greet his father’s guests.
He kept his gaze forward and his mouth set tight as he descended the staircase and started across the room. Archer allowed nothing more than small nods of acknowledgment to those women who murmured his name in greeting, and to the men who grumbled it. Encouraging conversation would be a tactical mistake. The debutantes and their mothers all wanted one thing—a title or a fortune. Both were preferable, of course. Archer had the former, though the latter was still a work in progress.
He’d fought to bring his family’s fortunes back from the brink of financial ruin, incited by his father’s disastrous spending habits, though there would always be women who would forgo the promise of coin to become a marchioness.Hismarchioness. Archer, however, had no intention to marry—not now, and not for anything, not even to save his dwindling finances. He valued his freedom too much, and watching his mother suffer at the hands of his adulterous father had left a foul taste in his mouth when it came to the subject of matrimony.
No one attempted to delay him from reaching his destination. There were benefits to having a surly reputation, and limited interaction with his peers was one of them. The crowd of guests parted for him with apprehensive looks, and within moments he was taking a short bow in front of the three people who lived on the neighboring estate.
The very same people he had just robbed. Hissecret, as it were.
“Lord Hawksfield!” Lady Dinsmore’s voice was nearly as shrill as that hair-raising scream of hers had been on the lane between Ferndale and Worthington Abbey, and it made him suddenly wish he could edge back the way he’d come.
Archer had expected the lane would be rife with his father’s flashy guests. He’d expected the ladies would be wearing their best jewels. But what he had not expected in the least was to chance upon their neighbor’s carriage carrying the enigmatic Lady Briannon, whom he hadn’t seen in years. Nor her tempestuous, if foolish, hold on that strand of pearls.
Despite not being his typical target—he much preferred taking wealth from those who flaunted it—Archer had felt only a mild twinge of regret on the lane. The Dinsmores were not lacking in fortune, and the baubles he had taken, including the lady’s treasured pearls, would soon be replaced.
“My lady,” he replied, his tone low and unfailingly polite as usual. Archer turned to the man at her side. “Lord Dinsmore. My deepest regrets on tonight’s misfortune. I hope none of you were injured in any way.”
“No, thank heavens,” Lord Dinsmore said and, fiddling with his cravat, added, “but the miscreant barely got away from a sound thrashing, that I can assure you.”
A number of the other men surrounding Lord Dinsmore gave rallying replies such as “Here, here!” and “That’s the spirit!” Archer fought the twitch of his lips. Tales like this one seemed to become embellished by the minute.
