Page 4 of My Rogue, My Ruin
She knew it as well as she knew her own anger, which had not ebbed one bit. Blasted bandit. Now she couldn’t even be angry without thinking about some hungry person and feeling guilty as well.
“Briannon, darling?” her mother called in a hushed voice. “Has he gone?”
Brynn turned away from the darkened lane to find Beckett still face down on the dirt. She heaved a sigh, the imprint of the bandit’s fingers like a brand upon her neck, and his sultry, teasing smile seared into her memory.
“Yes, Mama,” she said as she went to help Beckett up. “Gone like a foul wind.”
Chapter Two
The Marquess of Hawksfield, Lord Archer Nathaniel David Croft, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, anticipating the beginnings of a headache. He reached for the late copy of theTimesthat Porter had brought along with his formal evening clothes. He’d rather read alone with a cigar and a glass of whiskey than be obligated to attend the ridiculous affair his father, the Duke of Bradburne, was hosting at Worthington Abbey that evening.
As he opened the paper, a handwritten piece of parchment fell from between its pages and settled on the desk. He reached for it, curious. The ink-blotted script was nearly illegible, but within seconds he’d made out the four hastily scrawled words:I know your secret.
“Porter,” he asked in a controlled voice, folding the scrap quickly. “Who delivered these newssheets?”
His valet frowned. “I did, my lord. Is something amiss?”
“No.” Archer crumpled the square into a ball in his fist, his mind racing.
Like any man, he had his secrets. A fair number of them, in fact. Only one, however, was worthy of such a vaguely threatening note passed in so clandestine a manner. With a brief glance at his valet, Archer considered and dismissed that he had been the one to slip the note within its pages. He trusted Porter, and besides, dozens of hands could have touched the newssheets before him. The note could have been placed by anyone. Or it could have been meant for another member of the house party who had bothered to have their daily paper rerouted to Essex for the duration of their stay. Surely there was a score of men currently under Worthington Abbey’s roof with secrets ripe for any ambitious blackmailer.
Archer rolled the wad between his fingers thoughtfully and discarded the second theory. The note had been meant for him. He could feel it. Someone had either guessed his secret or had witnessed something firsthand. Whatever it was, this was a coward’s way of making a statement. Outside of tearing apart his entire household to find the culprit, there was nothing he could do but wait to see if further notes made an appearance or if the note’s owner decided to make himself known.
Ignoring the unsettled thumping of his pulse, Archer set the paper aside and walked toward the fire in the hearth. He tossed the wadded note into the flames.
“Shall I assist, my lord?” Porter asked.
Archer turned from the blackening parchment and eyed the navy silk breeches his valet was holding up for evaluation. He shook his head once.Breeches. He was annoyed he even had to look at them.
“I avoid Almack’s for a reason, Porter.”
Gentlemen were not allowed inside London’s most desirable assembly rooms if they were not wearing the effeminate knee-length contraptions. Archer despised them and was in no mood tonight to bend to tradition. Truly, they looked ridiculous on any man.
He stripped out of his comfortable black buckskin pants, wishing he could simply wear them to his father’s ball, which was already well underway downstairs. Not this pair, in particular—the seat had a rather large mud stain from when Morpheus had tossed him from the saddle a quarter hour before. The black gelding had shied and pranced as Archer had led him into the yard at Pierce Cottage. Archer had caught movement in the stand of trees beyond the hay field—a fox, he considered in the moments before Morpheus had reared back and thrown him to the ground.
He indicated the black trousers Porter next held up as acceptable and pulled them out of his valet’s hand. “You know I hate to rush you, Porter, but I am already late.”
The damned horse. It had bucked and brayed, leaping in great circles as Archer had chased it, swiping for the reins and loudly cursing Brandt Pierce, who stood within the doorway of the cottage, bellowing laughter.
Porter pressed his lips into a thin line, reserving his judgment and his opinions. Once again, Archer appreciated his valet’s quiet nature. He could trust that Porter, a stout man with a head of thinning blond hair, would make no inquiries as to where the young Lord Hawksfield had been when heshouldhave started greeting guests with Lord Bradburne an hour previous.
Archer would have been only a fashionable half hour late had Brandt helped him stay Morpheus rather than watch in amusement; at least he’d left Archer’s gray saddled and ready to ride back to Worthington’s stables. As he’d taken off toward the path leading to his estate, keeping his bruised arse raised out of the saddle, Archer had shouted over his shoulder that Brandt was sacked and for him to find new employment. Worthington’s stable master had made a rude gesture, and Archer had laughed as he’d disappeared into the wooded path.
“My lord?” Porter said as he brushed the shoulders and back of Archer’s tailored swallow-tailed jacket.
“Hmm?” Archer grunted, rushing to fasten his cuff links. His fingers paused for a moment over the tiny sterling silver playing dice. Archer well recalled the day his father had presented them to him in a small box. A man’s first pair of cuff links is something to celebrate, the duke had cheered. Though it had been a long time since his father had given him anything else worth treasuring.
Porter cleared his throat. “Might I suggest?” he said, holding out a wide-toothed comb.
Archer inspected his appearance in the mirror—his hair was a disheveled mess, currently studded with short strands of hay and a few leaves. He smiled to himself, running the comb through his hair while Porter turned away and collected the discarded black breeches. Hopefully the old chap assumed Archer had been up in a hayloft with one of the many young debutantes visiting Worthington Abbey. Nowthatwas the variety of secret most men of thetonhad to grapple with.
Archer glanced toward the hearth, at the note that had now disintegrated into ash, and once again, he felt as far apart from his peers as ever.
Ten rushed minutes later, he stood against the stone balustrade along the mezzanine, dressed in immaculate black evening wear and a snowy white cravat. He’d stood in this spot countless occasions before, staring down into the ballroom teeming with his father’s primped guests. He could not think of a single time he had enjoyed the experience.
He peered down at the crowd, unable to veil his distaste. It was his own home, and yet he could not have felt more uncomfortable. He tipped his glass of whiskey to his lips and swallowed the fire, enjoying the feel of it burning a path to his stomach. He set the empty glass on the tray of a passing server and ordered another to be brought. He would need all the whiskey he could consume for the next few hours to successfully face the hordes of twittering women, egotistic dandies, and all manner of matchmaking mamas.
“My boy!” The duke’s voice boomed from behind him, his hand clapping Archer’s shoulder. “You look positively angry! It’s a ball. Come, have a drink and a dance.”
