Page 87 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“I’ll be wearing a greatcoat and a hat with plumage,” he answered with a quick peck to the tip of her nose. “I’ll look positively dandy.”
Brynn tried to smile, but her fractured nerves were doing strange things to her facial muscles.
“Relax,” he told her. “The imposter may well spring upon you after the ball. If at all.”
He left her at the hearth and strode into the foyer. Once Brynn heard the door close behind him, she met Braxton in the sitting room entrance. “Call for my carriage,” she instructed, and with a bow, he left to see it done.
The next several minutes waiting were tortuous. She left Bishop House only when she knew Archer had been given plenty of time to exit his carriage and take up his waiting mount then come back and watch for her departure. Braxton helped Brynn up into her waiting coach and closed the door behind her with a short bow.
When they pulled away from the curb a moment later, Brynn felt as if she might be ill. Archer was correct, of course. The ball would go on into the small hours of morning, and that would be an ideal time for the imposter to pounce. If he planned to at all. If he did have a connection to Archer and the late duke, he may very well avoid Brynn altogether. Suddenly she felt silly for believing she could draw him out by wearing the diamonds. They were too well-known a piece, and if he pawned them, they would no doubt be recognized.
She sat against the back cushions and let out a breath. Archer was behind her somewhere on the street and for nothing at all. He’d have to return to his carriage on King Street and then be late for the ball. What a waste.
With that thought, Brynn’s coach came to a stop. The Kensingtons’ home was still another ten minutes away, so they could not have already arrived. She sat forward, biting the inside of her cheek, and listened.
There wasn’t a sound, except for the distant clop of horse hooves and normal street noises. Muted, though. As if the carriage had drawn off the main road.
“Beckett?” she called to her driver.
“Sorry, my lady,” came his answer. “There was a section of road closed off, and I needed to make a—”
His sentence ended with a grunt, and the whole coach rocked violently.
Something was happening up in the driver’s box, and Brynn knew exactly what it was.
She grabbed her reticule and felt around inside for her pistol. Deuce it, she should have had the thing ready! The cool metal grip hit her palm, and she pulled out the lady’s pistol, aiming the short barrel at the door, the tasseled curtain over the window shaking as the coach made its final rocks.
Beckett had not made another sound, and with a surge of self-disgust, Brynn realized she hadn’t thought of any risk to him the bandit may pose. If anything happened to Beckett, she would never forgive herself. Without thought or plan, she opened the coach door with her free hand. Lifting the hem of her voluminous skirts, she jumped the two feet to the ground. Her shins ached on impact, but she turned immediately for the bench—and came face to face with a masked man.
Brynn raised her pistol, but even with Archer’s demand to shoot still fresh in her mind, could not pull the trigger.
The masked man was tall and broad like Archer, but not in a fit or regal way. He wore the same sort of guise Archer had that night on the lane to Worthington Abbey, but his black mask hid a rounder face, his posture was slovenly, and he’d chosen a black cape rather than a greatcoat. He also did not have the smooth, gentlemanly manner Archer had possessed, even while demanding coin and jewels.
“No displays of heroism please,” he said in a mocking voice. “Hand them over.”
The diamonds.
Her half-cocked plan had worked.
“No,” Brynn managed to say, her finger numb on the trigger.
He took a step forward, and she saw he held a pistol in his own hand. Beckett looked like he was laid out in the driver’s bench.
“We both know you won’t shoot me,” the man said.
“I, however, will,” came a steady voice behind Brynn.
Archer.Thank God. Still, she didn’t lower her weapon.
The imposter didn’t startle, she noticed, and that gave her pause.
“Your weapon isn’t loaded. It never is,” he stated. Brynn held her breath. Archer had admitted as much weeks before in his mother’s salon.
“It is tonight. Who are you?” Archer asked.
They were on a quiet side street, stuck between lampposts set twenty or so yards apart. She saw figures ahead, passing under the lamplight, but they had not seemed to notice the waylaid carriage in the center of the street. Either that, or they had and had decided to look the other way.
“A person no one cares to notice,” the man said with detectable amusement. As if what he’d said had been funny.
