Page 83 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Brynn stared helplessly at her betrothed sitting slumped and defeated in the chair behind the massive desk. Archer was knee-deep in a bottle of whiskey and seemed intent on drowning himself in the rest of it. She had come to Hadley Gardens the minute she had heard the news that a man had been arrested in conjunction with the Masked Marauder and tied to an attack the night before. She had not, however, known that it was Brandt, Archer’s friend and stable master. It did not surprise her that Archer still considered the man a friend, despite the differences in their social standings. They had been childhood friends in Essex, and Brynn knew that Archer valued Brandt’s unswerving loyalty. And vice versa.
Enough to try to save his liege’s neck, it seemed.
She had gotten part of the story from Cordelia, and the rest in broken bits and pieces from Archer, and was still trying to make sense of it. Why Archer had felt compelled to don his mask and waylay a coach on a darkened side street, Brynn had no idea. Perhaps it had been to show that thetrueMasked Marauder was not a killer. Regardless of his intent, it had not gone well. Because of the imposter, the driver had been armed and had not bowed to Archer’s requests. And Brandt had been shot. In the aftermath, a discarded mask had been found next to Brandt. He had attempted to tell the constable that he had arrived on the scene only after hearing the commotion. Unable to prove his identity, however, they did not believe him and arrested him on sight.
“It’s my fault,” Archer muttered, raking a hand through his disheveled hair and reaching for his empty glass.
Brynn strode forward and removed the glass along with the bottle. “You’ve had enough.”
He eyed her as if doubting she was really there. “Why are you here?” he slurred. “Come to celebrate your freedom?”
“My freedom?”
“From our engagement. Haven’t you heard? I am a suspect. Found my bloody cravat and now they think I killed my father, for real this time. Thomson’s grasping for straws, and I am one of them.”
She glared at him and crossed the room to close the study door before returning to his side. “I am well aware of that, Archer. You need to collect your wits and figure a way out of this. This imposter is targeting you. Come now, you don’t strike me as the sort of man who simply gives up, which is what you are doing by drinking yourself into a stupor.”
He grasped her wrist as she leaned over him. “Why are you doing this?”
She flushed, his touch igniting a fire underneath her skin. “You know why.”
His haunted dark gray eyes searched hers, and Brynn couldn’t help herself. She brushed a curling lock of dark hair back from his brow. Her fingers stroked his skin with soft, gentle touches. He closed his eyes and leaned against her palm. Somehow the pleasure the intimate gesture gave her rivaled the pleasure his kisses usually did, and something profoundly delicate blossomed in her heart. “You should separate yourself from me before this gets any worse.”
Her hand slid to his chin, and she grasped it firmly, twisting his face toward hers. “Regardless of what future lies between us, I care about what happens to you, and I won’t abandon you now. Pull yourself together and fight, damn it.” She didn’t care about her language. She wanted to make him react, but her provoking words only made him shrug.
“What would you have me do?”
Brynn eyed his unshaven face, thinking how vulnerable and unbearably handsome he looked with the dark shadow along his jawline and without his usual arrogant smirk. “Have a bath for one, and sober up.” She opened the study door and told the footman there to summon Heed. The butler arrived within seconds.
“Heed, please have the duke’s valet prepare a bath.” The man bowed without a word at her unorthodox command, though Brynn swore she could see a slight softening in his eyes. It was clear that Archer’s servants adored him, including Heed, whose impervious demeanor never wavered. “Thank you, Heed. Oh, and please ask the cook to prepare something simple for His Grace once he has finished.”
“My lady.”
Archer got up and stumbled past her, on his way to the door. “Already giving my staff orders, I see.”
Brynn ignored the comment and paced in the study after he had left. There had to be a way out of this calamity…something they hadn’t yet thought of. Brandt’s possibility of bail had been revoked in the interests of public safety, and Thomson and his cronies were on a witch hunt. They were no longer interested in finding the true killer, which meant that task must fall to those who still cared…a number that she could count on one hand.
Even if Archer weren’t implicated, Thomson would do everything in his power to tie the stable master to Archer once his identity was confirmed. Archer had told her of the bloody cravat, but anyone could have planted the item. Archer’s alibi was solid—he was at his own engagement ball when the attack on poor Lady Hamilton occurred. But Brandt had not been.
Thomson was relentless, and she was certain he was wily enough to fabricate gossamer links between the evidence at hand and what had actually happened. Brynn also wagered he was not above using the newspapers to drive the public into a frenzy.
She thought about confiding in Gray and then shook her head. No, Gray would not understand. He would lock her up in Bishop House or ship her back off to Essex without a qualm. He would be concerned only for her safety and what might happen if she were attacked.
At the thought, Brynn suddenly had an epiphany. She frowned, turning the idea over in her mind. It was a long shot, but it could work. She needed only to convince Archer of its soundness.
She glanced at the ornate grandfather clock at the far end of the study. Archer would be gone for an hour or more, so Brynn settled herself into a comfortable armchair to wait and leaf through a book from one of the well-stocked shelves. She read the words, but they disappeared from her memory, it seemed, moments later. She was far too distracted by the idea she’d formed.
She was halfway through the book when the study door opened and Archer walked back in. His eyes looked more lucid, and the defeat in them was gone. Freshly shaven with his hair still wet, and clad in only a white chamois shirt and tan breeches with shiny Hessians, he looked utterly desirable.
“Feel better?” she asked, a trifle breathless.
“Yes, thank you. Brynn—” His words were interrupted as Heed announced himself, opening the door to escort the waiting footman in with a large tray. Brynn nodded to the desk, and the footman set it down, uncovering the dishes and laying out the silverware. She smiled her thanks to Heed and noted with surprise that his lips actually drew up at the corners before he bowed stiffly and left the room.
“What’s this?” Archer asked, even though she knew he had heard the exchange with Heed.
“You need to get something in your stomachotherthan drink.”
As Archer sipped some of the broth, Brynn took a deep breath. It was now or never. “The Kensington Ball is two days hence. We should plan to go.” He frowned at her, and she rushed to get the rest of her thoughts out before she lost her nerve. “I will wear the Bradburne diamonds and make every effort for it to be known in all the ladies’ circles, no matter how vulgar such boasting may appear. If our bandit is indeed a gentleman, this will be a prize not to be missed. We will lure this imposter to us and clear Brandt’s name.”
