Page 93 of My Rogue, My Ruin
He needed time alone at Worthington Abbey to come to terms with all the things Eloise had revealed in her final minutes. Everything had unfolded so quickly that when the authorities had arrived at Hadley Gardens and inquired what had happened, Archer had not felt guilty in the least for lying. Preserving his sister’s memory and honor had been his foremost goal, and thankfully Brynn, her lady’s maid, Lana, and Northridge had gone along with the story Archer had quickly concocted:
The Masked Marauder had set upon the carriage taking Lord Northridge, Lady Briannon, and her lady’s maid to the Kensington Ball, and Archer had simply chanced upon the attack. They had all been forced back to the Hadley Gardens mews for safekeeping while the bandit scoured the main home for the loot he’d had to leave behind on his last visit—the visit where he had beaten and killed the Duke of Bradburne. Eloise had interrupted the bandit in the mews, and she had been shot. Northridge had wrestled free of his restraints, gotten ahold of the bandit’s second pistol, and had shot the bandit, though not before a lit candle had set the stable on fire.
That story had been the one printed on the front page of every major newspaper in the city. It was the one that had run like wildfire through theton. And it was the one Archer wished were true. The truth was ugly and complex, and much more difficult to understand. He doubted he ever would. Archer also owed Northridge a debt that could never be repaid, not over any lifetime. His quick thinking and unflinching courage had saved Brynn. Had savedhim.
As the rooftops of Worthington Abbey came into view, Archer gave his mount a nudge. He wanted to get home and start with the tasks that needed seeing to. Clearing out his father’s and sister’s rooms would hurt, but it was better done straightaway rather than let it hang over him like a shroud. He had sent his staff ahead, and things should be well underway.
A horse and rider sat in the middle of the lane up ahead, just before the twin pillars that marked the entrance drive to the abbey. He knew the slouch of the rider’s shoulders, the low pulled brim of his hat, and, more recently, the stiff hold of his right leg.
“I’ve been sitting here for an hour,” Brandt called. “Your lack of sympathy for my injury stings, Hawk.”
Archer withheld the grin fighting to bow his lips. He hadn’t seen Brandt since his release from Newgate the morning after the mews fire. Thomson had nothing on Brandt worthy of facing the magistrate to begin with, and now with the “Masked Marauder” dead, there had been no point in keeping him imprisoned. Brandt had sent a message to Hadley Gardens saying he was free, but that it would be best to keep a safe distance from Archer for a little while at least.
The sight of him now was a sorely needed balm. Archer wouldn’t let on, of course.
“One pistol wound to the thigh and three days in the Stone Jug has made you quite an old hen, my friend,” Archer said, reining in his mount.
“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black. You whined like an old lady over yours, if I recall.” Brandt laughed, tipping back his head and shaking it. “Remind me to never take a bullet for you again.”
They sat atop their mounts in silence for a few moments, the good humor evaporating like morning mist.
Brandt squinted against the sun. “I read theTimes.”
Archer shifted uncomfortably. He’d ridden straight through since London, and his body ached from the hours of travel, but he’d welcomed the distraction. This variety of pain was preferable to the kind he could not cure.
“Do you want to tell me what really happened?” Brandt asked.
“Not particularly,” he answered. But he directed his horse through the pillared gates and recounted everything he knew anyway. Brandt deserved nothing but the truth, and he may well provide some fresh insight. Archer could use it.
Unable to approach the main house just yet, he rode with Brandt to Pierce Cottage. Once they’d worked together to rub down and water their mounts, Archer had finished the true version of events. He’d kept emotion out of it, but laying it bare made everything he’d buried deep inside ache.
Brandt hung their saddles and tack without a word while Archer waited. He crossed his arms, nerves jumping, as his friend finished stabling the two horses. If he hadn’t known Brandt so well, he’d have been growling with impatience. But Archer knew he was only carefully choosing his reply to everything he had just heard.
“You are a good brother,” Brandt finally said, leaning against the frame of the stable doors. He crossed his arms and ankles and stared into the paddock, the ground still muddy and puddled in spots where the spring rains had not yet dried up.
“Did you hear a word I said?” Archer asked.
He had not expected an ounce of praise, that was for certain.
“You made certain Eloise’s character remained unblemished and unknown by those who did not love or care for her the way you did.”
Archer frowned, averting his eyes to the bales of hay stacked in the back of the stables. He had not allowed tears since the night Eloise had taken her own life. They threatened to brim now, however.
“Archer,” Brandt said in a way that made it clear he’d noticed. “You know as well as I that there cannot be great hatred without some fragment of love burning there to fuel it.”
Archer leaned against the opposite stable door jamb and faced Brandt.
“I believe Eloise hated herself, not you. She needed someone to bear the brunt of that hatred, because she could not accept it upon herself,” Brandt said. “I think she just chose the strongest person she knew.”
Archer swore under his breath. Strong? He didn’t feel it in the least. “How the devil do I get on from this? Every time I think of her and what she suffered…the lies she told to me, to everyone…”
He couldn’t finish. For the past two weeks he’d been searching his memory for the hints he had overlooked of her hatred for him. The only thing he could determine for certain was that she had been a superb actress.
Brandt stepped forward and clapped him on the shoulder before turning for the cottage. “You get on like we all do—put one foot in front of the other, then the next.” He paused, looking back. “I saw the second notice in theTimes, too, the one postponing your wedding.”
Archer stayed where he was and slammed the back of his head upon the weathered wood. He did not want to remember that announcement, even though it had been a necessity. Thinking of Brynn and remembering her touch, her lips, and the desire she stirred within him had been his only source of comfort these last wearisome weeks. And yet, thoughts of her had worn on him as well.
“Have you seen her?” Brandt called from where he’d limped to the cottage’s front door.
