Page 57 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Archer breathed out with relief. He shouldn’t have expected her to stay put in the sitting room, risking a prolonged absence and possible scandal.
Thank heavens she hadn’t.
“And before that?” Mr. Thomson flipped back several pages in his notebook, and running a finger along some slanted writing, said, “One of the footmen accounted for Miss Dinsmore’s hem being torn during dinner. He said he escorted the young woman to a sewing room where one of the maids would mend the tear.”
The alarm flashing in Brynn’s eyes mirrored Archer’s own, though his was tempered by gratitude to the footman. He could have told Mr. Thomson that Archer had sent him on his merry way, claiming he would show Lady Briannon to the sewing room. Archer would remember to thank the footman in some way.
“That is correct,” Brynn replied. He admired her brevity. Rambling would only show how nervous she truly was, and from the color still touching her cheeks and ears, he imagined she was just as nervous as he, if not more so.
“And the maid who attended you,” Mr. Thomson continued. “Do you recall her name?”
“Her name?” Lady Dinsmore parroted. “My goodness, I highly doubt they exchanged more than a few words of pleasantries.”
“I am afraid I do not,” Brynn said, attaching herself to her mother’s genuinely baffled reply.
Mr. Thomson gazed at the lady a beat longer before scribbling in his book again. Archer straightened his back and cleared his throat.
“Do you have any questions for Lord Dinsmore?” Archer asked, eager to draw the agent’s attention onto another path. Had he known his scheme to get Brynn alone last evening would be sniffed out by a Bow Street Runner, he would have certainly gone about things differently.
But how could he have foreseen his father’s murder? And now every move of every guest last evening would be put under intense scrutiny.
“Yes,” Thomson said, shifting his direct gaze to Lord Dinsmore. “I have it that your carriage was set upon by the criminal known as the Masked Marauder two weeks past, on your way to Worthington Abbey.”
Archer held his breath as Dinsmore tucked his chin and frowned. “That is correct. We were on our way to the duke’s ball. But what does that have to do with what happened last night?”
“And you were in attendance at the Gainsbridge Masquerade, where another carriage was set upon? This time with violent results,” Thomson said, ignoring the earl’s question.
“Why, yes, but—”
“There were many of our set in attendance at both functions,” Archer cut in, apologizing to the earl for his rudeness with a pointed glance. “What of the masked bandit? Do you think he has something to do with this?”
“Anything is possible at this time. I have just one final question for Lady Findlay,” the agent replied. “Last evening, did you visit the duke’s private rooms?”
Archer stood, knocking back his chair and drawing all eyes in the room. “Mr. Thomson, that is enough. We are done here.”
Lord Dinsmore had also risen out of his chair, though a bit slower than Archer. “What do you mean by asking that question, investigator?”
Mr. Thomson stayed seated, displaying nothing but cool indifference to their objections. “I simply must follow the path of every theory that springs to mind, my lord. I will not soften my questions so they suit the whims of my…betters.” Derision dripped from that last word. “A murder has been committed, and though yoursetmay not enjoy this taste of reality, it is still my duty to supply it.”
Lord Dinsmore sniffed, clearly taken aback by the agent’s tirade. “Well. You can put your theory regarding my daughter to rest, I assure you.”
The agent canted his head, acknowledging the statement. He didn’t reply, however. Archer watched Thomson’s expression as Lady Dinsmore got to her feet, Brynn following more slowly. Stone-faced and observant, the man followed Brynn’s movements as she and her parents left the room.
Archer did not look in Brynn’s direction even though he could feel her eyes upon him. He waited until the Dinsmores had departed before closing the door behind them and letting his tempered anger loose.
“How is questioning the lady’s virtue relevant to your investigation?” he asked, turning back to the agent.
Mr. Thomson smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “She is a suspect.”
The words ignited something in Archer’s chest. A hot swelling of desire—of need. The need to protect.
“Lady Briannon Findlay is not a suspect,” he growled.
Mr. Thomson did not flinch. “That is for me to decide, and I have decided that in a case such as this,everyoneis a suspect, Your Grace.”
Archer bit his tongue. The emphasis the man had placed on “everyone” left no doubt that he himself was considered a suspect as well. It was absurd. Christ, he’d been the one to call in Bow Street in the first place!
The agent took a small pocketknife from his coat and began to sharpen the tip of his pencil. “I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
