Page 36 of My Rogue, My Ruin
And Viscount Northridge and Lady Briannon had been the first to come across the unholy scene. He hated that she’d seen the carnage this so-called apostle had left behind. What must she have thought, believing the defenseless beast in the road had been killed by the same man who had waylaid her carriage last week?
“Whomever it was has an obvious taste for violence,” he went on, trying to stay focused. “And you can be certain he isn’t redistributing the vast wealth of theton, either.”
Brandt sat back in his chair. “This is not the Masked Marauder, and people will know it. You’ve never beaten someone to a pulp, or fired your pistol. Hell, it isn’t even loaded with a shot.”
“They don’t know that,” Archer replied. “And though I may announce what I plan to do with their precious coin and gems, how many of them do you think actually believe me? When the news about this reaches London, they’ll think that this bloodthirsty thief and I are one and the same. This brigand was no doubt stealing for his own benefit.”
Heartless bastard.
Brandt sat forward again, a restless energy coming off him. “Perhaps we should cool our heels a bit. If our zealot is as bloodthirsty as you say, it won’t be long before a dead horse becomes a dead peer.”
It was a wise suggestion.
“There is something more,” Archer said, nodding at his friend and clearing his throat. “I received an anonymous note from someone claiming to know my secret.”
Brandt’s brows slammed together. “A note?”
“It arrived hidden in my newssheets,” Archer said. “It appears that someone is aware of my true identity.”
“Do you think they are connected?” Brandt asked, his expression darkening. “The note and the attack?”
“It’s possible.”
Archer considered the two occurrences—the note and the violent attack on Maynard—and couldn’t help but worry that the two were related in some way. It seemed entirely too coincidental to have a zealot marauderandan unknown blackmailer appear almost at the same time. There was no way to know, he supposed, yet the malevolence of this imposter rubbed at him. Unlike Archer, he was no gentleman bandit.
Archer sighed, rubbing his temples. He’d known this path would be risky, but there were many who needed him to take that risk. People with no one to turn to. As always, Eloise’s mother came to mind. Though the Duke of Bradburne had the means to care for her and their child, he had chosen not to. After he’d taken whatever pleasure he could from her body, she’d been beneath his notice. So had Eloise. Lady Bradburne’s feelings of guilt at the woman’s death had become Archer’s own and, in some small way, redistributing his father’s—and theton’s—wealth brought with it some measure of retribution. For Eloise’s mother’s sake. But he had not expected his alter ego to be usurped by a real criminal…and one whose violence would be attributed tohim.
After so much time spent funneling the wealth of his peers to hospitals and orphanages, these people needed him…depended on him, even. More precisely, they depended on the generous donations of Viscount Hathaway. Hathaway, one of Archer’s false identities, had become a silent benefactor to the poor. At first, small contributions had been made, pilfered from sleights of hand and sweeping wins in the gaming hell he’d started at Cambridge, and then later at other more established gentlemen’s clubs where the spoils became far larger.
Soon after that, however, Archer had seized upon the idea to waylay his first carriage. It had been carefully planned, following an obnoxious display at White’s led by the bejeweled and pompous Lord Bainley, who had needed to be taught a valuable lesson in humility and divested of some of his fortune. The thrill of the act was undeniable, but it was the subsequent satisfaction of Lord Hathaway’s ability to make such large donations that had kept Archer waylaying carriages. Only those deserving of his attentions, of course.
Hathaway had actually been one of his mother’s uncle’s titles, and not one that could be easily traced back to him. Archer gave as much as he could of his own wealth, but the needs of the poor far outweighed his means. His intentions were benevolent. Those of this follower were clearly not. Outrage fanned higher within him. How dare some overzealous criminal impersonate him?
“Who could it be?” Archer said in an agitated voice. “It has to be someone we know, someone we have used. What of the runner?”
He left that end of the business to Brandt. If the Marquess of Hawksfield approached commoners with a job of running trinkets and jewels to Scotland’s border for cash trade, his game would be up in a flash. Brandt, however, had the obscurity that was needed for such a task.
He shook his head firmly. “It’s my cousin. I trust him. And he doesn’t know about your involvement. If anything, the boy thinks a lower footman is raiding the jewelry boxes of the fine guests that flow in and out of your London and country estates.”
Good. That was the theory Archer had hoped the runners would form. Petty theft. Not highway robbery.
“He’s new, isn’t he? This isn’t our first dance. What of the other runners you’ve employed?” Archer asked.
Brandt’s frown deepened as he considered what Archer had asked. Earlier on, they had used less trustworthy people to run the stolen jewels up to Scotland. They had been paid handsomely, and hadn’t asked questions, but that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t get ideas of their own or want a larger piece of the proverbial pie.
“It’s possible one of them has started to develop a theory about where those jewels really came from,” Brandt said, then sat back in his chair. “Or perhaps that boy you keep talking about from the night before last?”
Archer scowled and waved off the suggestion. “He was half the size of Maynard. And if the lad was a cutthroat, he wouldn’t have tried to help me.”
“He wouldn’t have shot you in the first place.”
Archer sighed and nodded. “Fair point.”
“He could have been following you for weeks, shot you so you would be out of the way, but didn’t want to kill you. He could have accomplices. Perhaps he already knows who you are, which is why he did not remove the mask. And what if he’s the one who sent the note?”
Archer schooled his expression to not betray the sudden chaos of his thoughts. It was entirely possible, and it would certainly confirm his earlier suspicion that the anonymous note was linked somehow. “If you’re right, this could be a real problem. If it is ever traced back to you or me, and I am somehow blamed for this pretender’s actions…” He paused, studying his friend. “There is one thing, though, that we may need to resolve.”
“Which is?”
