Page 74 of My Rogue, My Ruin
“I assure you my parentage is as unsullied as yours,” Archer said in a gentler tone, not missing the flash of regret that swept Northridge’s face. “You may dislike me, but I am still marrying your sister. And unless you are truly willing to die to stop this wedding, I suggest you return to Bishop House and sleep it off. This is what she wants. What we both want.”
“You will only hurt her,” Northridge whispered. “Everyone knows of your proclivities—you could never be faithful. It would break her, and she doesn’t deserve that.” He hiccupped, his fingers clutching the iron railings behind him as his bluster abruptly faded.
Sodding hypocrite,Archer thought.Hisproclivities? As if Northridge was an innocent and hadn’t had his own share of dalliances and more dependable mistresses. Archer had heard whisperings, unproven of course, of illicit rumors involving Northridge, a well-heeled courtesan, and a scandalous sum of money two years before. But nothing more had ever come of it. Perhaps that was the very reason he so despised Archer. Perhaps he thought he knew, based on his own actions, what it was his sister was facing down. A man she couldn’t trust.
Northridge slumped against the railings, and Archer took pity on him. “She deserves a chance to be happy,” Northridge muttered.
Archer swallowed and ran a hand through his hair, the anger draining from him like an outgoing tide. “You are right. She does.”
The two men stared at each other in silence; the common thread between them was the woman peering at them through the glass panes. Something unfamiliar and deeply protective unfurled inside Archer at the sight of her. He had always known that Brynn was different. Despite her temper, she had a purity of spirit that only one other woman had ever possessed—his mother. It was a rare gift, and Archer knew that as surely as he knew his own name. She had come into his life with the ferocity of a summer storm, and fake betrothal or not, he had no intention of hurting her.
“I’ll do everything in my power to ensure it.”
At the quiet vow, the tension seemed to slip from Northridge’s shoulders. “Brynn’s heart is special. I want your word as a gentleman that you promise to do right by her.”
Archer nodded and reached down a hand to his almost brother-in-law. “You have it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Archer pinched the bridge of his nose as the coach rattled over the streets toward St. James’s Square. It was an ungodly hour. Not even noon. Most of Bishop House would still be abed. Lord Northridge was likely out cold, his head pounding from the copious amount of alcohol he’d consumed last night.
Archer had every intention of waking the bloody fool up with a fist to the jaw.
That morning’s copy of theTimeslay crumpled on his lap. The paper had likely been delivered to Lord Dinsmore’s home as well, but Archer wanted it in his possession when he approached Northridge. He wanted to press it into his future brother-in-law’s face and pummel the drunken lout with it until he cowered.
Archer blamed himself, too. He should have been more careful. Someonehadbeen in the gardens last evening and had tipped off the press. At the time, he had been thinking only of protecting Brynn by taking Northridge outside onto the terrace. He should have known that journalists from theTimesor theGazettewould be lurking around, attempting to write a piece about the engagement or some part of the ball. He cursed himself for the hundredth time. Those who reported on the doings of thetonwere like rabid dogs, and now that they had scented blood, it would be near impossible to deter them.
His fury at a lurid new headline about the latest attack from the now notorious Masked Marauder in Leicester Square had been eclipsed by the society pages. Archer had read the first few sentences of the gossip piece an hour before, as he’d taken his first sip of black tea. He’d promptly spit it out all over his desk and the edges of the newssheet. He looked at it now, and the words still stabbed his gut.
Scandal is afoot! From the mouth of her own brother, the lovely Lady B is terrified of becoming duchess to a murder suspect! Is she being forced into marriage? Lord N certainly seems to believe so.
Everything Brynn had sacrificed—everything they had both sacrificed—to protect each other from Bow Street’s eagle eyes was now at risk.
The moment the coach stopped, Archer leaped from his seat and out the door without waiting for the set of steps to be set in place by his groomsman. The moment Thomson read this column—if he hadn’t already—he would be back at Hadley Gardens and Bishop House, sniffing around just like before. The man probably had barely believed this ridiculous false betrothal to begin with.
And now that Archer and Brandt had spent the last week planning ways to trap and capture the man impersonating the Masked Marauder, he most certainly did not need Thomson’s beady, inquiring eyes pinned on him.
Their butler, Braxton, opened the door shortly after Archer pounded on it. He stepped aside to allow him in, and Archer entered the foyer.
“Your Grace,” Braxton said, dipping into a bow.
“I am here to see Lord Northridge.” His eyes traveled up the red-carpeted steps to the second floor. The house was still and quiet, as he had expected.
“His lordship is not present.” Braxton’s reply took Archer by surprise. He’d figured the brat would be sleeping in and nursing his hangover. “He has taken the air to clear his head.”
Finely put, Archer thought, his scowl still locked into place even though the wind had been sucked from his sails.
Now what?
“I would like him to call at Hadley Gardens as soon as he returns,” Archer said, not bothering to leave his card or hear their butler’s reply before starting back for the door.
A voice from the top of the stairwell stopped him.
“Your Grace?”
He turned and saw Brynn on the second floor landing, her hand upon the banister. She looked soft and sleepy, her pale blue day dress extraordinarily simple compared to the luxurious gown she’d worn last night. Her hair was up, though not severely.
“My lady,” he murmured, stepping away from the front door and closer to the bottom of the stairwell.
