Page 6 of My Rogue, My Ruin
He cleared his throat and took another sip of his whiskey. Altering his voice while on a raid was always a challenge, and it had the tendency to leave behind an irritating tickle. A necessity, however, considering his true baritone tenor was rather noticeable. The one he’d adopted as the Masked Marauder made him sound, according to Brandt, like a jaunty thespian. Archer cringed every time. He didn’t enjoy making himself out to sound like a jaunty anything, let alone athespian. But no matter. A glass or three of whiskey seemed to repair his throat well enough.
“I daresay he did,” Archer replied to Dinsmore. “He should count himself lucky. The local constable will arrive shortly. If you have a description of the thief to share, I am sure the scoundrel will be brought to swift justice.”
“And our belongings returned!” Lady Dinsmore shrilled.
Archer nodded sagely rather than reply. The English sterling Lord Dinsmore had handed over would be distributed before dawn, and the pouch of jewels would be taken into Scotland to a pawnbroker Brandt trusted. Archer had every faith his oldest friend would not part ways with the broker until they had each reached a satisfactory exchange.
Brandt was the only one who knew the truth of things, though the mysterious note, now ash in his fireplace, worried Archer. The note’s owner obviously had a purpose. If his secret came to light, the Bradburne legacy would be ruined. Now was not the time to dwell upon such outcomes, however.
He turned his head slightly in Lady Briannon’s direction and waited out the awkward moment of silence. Though they had known each other as children, it had been several years since they had met in public. It would be considered rude to speak to the young lady without a proper reintroduction first. The last thing he wanted to display was a lack of propriety, so he stood there, his neck under his cravat growing warmer by the second. They’d experienced plenty of impropriety with the masked thief, and he wanted to draw no correlations.
Archer had purposefully slipped into that rakish role the last few months whenever he’d donned his black kit and silk mask. The act had been as necessary as his altered voice in order to preserve his identity. However, this evening on the deserted lane, he had actually found himself enjoying it.
Lady Dinsmore must have been truly out of sorts to neglect making the required introduction, however, the Dowager Countess Falthorpe, standing beside Lady Dinsmore, was not as distracted.
“Lord Hawksfield, have you not yet made the acquaintance of Lady Briannon?”
The young woman stood demurely on her mother’s opposite side. He’d taken her as a brunette in the gloomy shadows of the wooded lane, but now that she stood underneath the ballroom’s chandeliers, he saw that her hair was more coppery gold than brown. The coils piled atop her head and pinned into place shimmered as they caught the light. And she was tiny—slim as a waif. So small he could probably lift her with one hand. She’d seemed taller before, standing up to him on the deserted lane.
“Oh yes!” Lady Dinsmore exclaimed, at last coming to attention. “May I present our daughter, Lady Briannon. She’s to make her bow during the upcoming season, you know.”
A faint flush colored Briannon’s cheeks at her mother’s sheer exuberance, but to her credit, she said nothing.
Archer made another short bow, his hands clasped at his back.
“My lady, I hope this evening’s earlier events do not keep you from enjoying yourself tonight.”
He prepared himself for her tart reply. Perhaps how the only thing she might enjoy would be to see that masked scallywag strung up by his toes. Yes, he could imagine her saying something so bold.
“Of course, my lord,” she said, making a limp curtsy.
He waited for something more, but she had turned her eyes to the marble floor and sealed her prim, though perfectly shaped, lips. Archer frowned. Where was the determined girl who had squared off against him with nothing but pride and spirit backing her?
The distance in her voice threw him, and it seemed to disappoint her mother as well. The countess stumbled into a monologue regarding her daughter’s accomplishments, but Archer let the words slide. The fire he’d glimpsed inside Lady Briannon had been extinguished somewhere between the wooded lane and this ballroom. Or perhaps, he thought a bit ruefully, that fire had been stoked only by the appearance of the masked bandit. However, now, with her blowsy dress, pale complexion, and tepid manner, Lady Briannon struck him as bland. Truly, it was a shame.
At last, Lady Dinsmore finished heaping praise on her daughter, whose ear tips had gone a startling shade of red. Briannon must have sensed the torture was ending, for she lifted her gaze from the floor and looked at him through a fringe of deep russet lashes. Her eyes, it turned out, were a sparkling hazel. They fluttered to his in a brief, pained moment before averting again.Damn it.He’d been scowling, though he hadn’t felt the expression upon his lips until right then. Archer composed it into something less menacing.
“Do you enjoy the quadrille, Lord Hawksfield?” Lady Dinsmore chirped.
Lord Dinsmore had made a stealthy getaway during his wife’s lengthy list of Lady Briannon’s attributes, as had most of the other men and women surrounding them. The Dowager Falthorpe was the only one remaining. She belted out a laugh that most ladies would not have gotten away with. However, being a wealthy widow of advanced age gave the dowager plenty of room to move.
“Lord Hawksfield enjoys standing still with a glass of punch, if I am correct,” she said, still amused.
He indicated his glass. “Whiskey, madam.”
“But all young men do so enjoy the quadrille, don’t they?” Lady Dinsmore persisted. “Or at least a country dance? Such energy!”
At that wretched moment Archer heard the hired quartet’s current selection end, the rustle of sheet music, and then the first familiar strains of a waltz. Lady Dinsmore’s indrawn gasp actually pained him.
“What fortune!” she exclaimed.
“Mama!” Lady Briannon hissed. “It is awaltz.”
It was his father’s preferred dance. The waltz brought the body of a female much closer than a quadrille or country dance. Archer did not waltz. He knew the steps, of course. He just didn’t care to encourage mothers or their daughters.
He forced what he hoped passed for a smile. “Surely Lady Briannon’s dance card is already filled.”
“Nonsense! We’ve just arrived. It would be an honor for you to take the first dance, Lord Hawksfield.”
