Archie let out a breath. Thank God.
“Just Archie is fine,” she said, smiling in gratitude. “Unless there’s anyone about in which case, Mr Archibald is best, I suppose. I’ll be sure to say you had no idea if it ever gets out.”
“It won’t get out from me or Mr Potter,” the woman replied, putting her chin up. “We mind our own business here.”
“And now I know why Erasmus is always saying what a treasure you are, Mrs Potter.”
To her amusement, the woman blushed a little but recovered herself, ushering Archie out of her kitchen. “We keep country hours here, so dinner is at five pm if that suits you?”
“It does,” Archie replied, too grateful to complain about a single thing. “Thank you, Mrs Potter.”
Once Archie had unpacked, she headed outside and took herself for a walk. She’d been here before as Erasmus’ guest when he’d had a houseful, but only for a few days and she’d not had much time to explore. Now she strode out, enjoying a rather blustery afternoon and trying to tell herself she was preparing for a new adventure. She would have a new address, a new job, new people to lie to….
The bubble burst far too easily, and gloom threatened to overset her. She was tired of this. Tired of running. Sometimes she forgot what had set her on this path in the first place, just what—or rather, who—she had been running from. Ironic, really, that the name she had taken was his. As though she bore it like a mark of shame for all she’d done. For her name really was Archibald.
Jennifer Archibald.
Mrs Jennifer Archibald.
***
Ranleigh wondered if Henshaw would refuse to see him and decided that would be as close to an admission of guilt as he was likely to get. He was unsure if he was relieved when the man himself appeared.
“Duke,” Henshaw said, his expression resigned as he entered the parlour.
He’d been expecting this, Ranleigh realised.
Deciding there was little point in beating about the bush, Ranleigh didn’t hesitate.
“I want to know what’s going on.”
“To what are you referring?” Henshaw replied, his tone cold and indifferent, and his repressed expression showing every ounce of the reputation that had cast him as a prig and a damned cold fish.
“You know bloody well,” Ranleigh said, having had quite enough of all this cloak and dagger stuff. “Where the devil is Archie? What’s wrong with him? Is he in some kind of trouble, because if so I wish one of you would blasted well confide in me? I like the insufferable cub and I would help him if I could. I have no intention of causing him any harm, if that’s why he keeps running away from me. You have my word of honour on it, Henshaw. Short of treason and possibly murder—depending on who it was he did away with and why—if Archie is in trouble, you can rely on me to support him.”
For a long moment the marquess just stared at him, and then Henshaw’s stiff demeanour fell away and Ranleigh could see that he was worried. Something was wrong.
“Archie is not here,” he said, frowning as he spoke.
“Flown the coop again?” Ranleigh guessed, not at all pleased to be proven correct when the marquess nodded. “You know where, though,” he guessed again, this time met with a stony expression which confirmed he was right about that too. “Damn it, Henshaw, what the devil is going on? He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”
The marquess hesitated, staring down at the thick rug at his feet and frowning.
“Not precisely,” he replied and Ranleigh felt the urge to take hold of his lapels and shake him as he continued, the words were slow and carefully chosen. He stepped around them with fastidious care, like a man avoiding puddles on a muddy street. “If Archie had wanted your involvement then… provision would have been made, instructions left. No such instruction was given me and therefore I must keep Archie’s confidence.”
The blasted fellow was infuriating. Why couldn’t he answer a straight question?
“Are you in this, Henshaw?” Raleigh ground out as he stepped closer. “Is he running from you?”
“Certainly not!” Henshaw retorted, fury glittering in his eyes at such a pitch and with such speed Ranleigh felt his indignation was genuine. “Archie is under my protection, as I have told you before. I’ll have no one making… Archie’s life difficult, no matter the circumstances.”
Raleigh frowned. There was something off about this whole conversation. “And you think I’d make his life difficult?”
“I know you would,” Henshaw all but growled. “Leave Archie alone. For both your sakes.”
Ranleigh stared at the man. For both their sakes? He’d wondered if Archie was running to protect him as much as himself, and now he felt certain of it. Why though? To protect him from Archie’s troubles or crimes, whatever they may be.
Or to protect Archie’s heart?
Ranleigh considered the idea and rejected it. It was more than that. Far from gaining answers he had more questions than he’d begun with, alongside the absolute certainty that Archie was in trouble. Damned if he’d let things alone now. For one, this whole affair had piqued his curiosity and he hated not knowing. For a second… he didn’t treat friends like that. If a fellow was in trouble, it was one’s duty to do what one could for him. It was the honourable thing to do.
“May I at least write him a letter for you to forward?” Ranleigh demanded, his patience growing thin now.
Henshaw regarded him for a long moment before giving a terse nod, clearly displeased but unable to find a reasonable argument to deny him.
“My office is at your disposal.”
Ranleigh was shown to the room in question and left with the necessary provisions to write his message. He stared at the blank sheet of paper… and wondered what the bloody hell he was supposed to say?
***
Archie stared at the letter in her hand and let out a breath. Hell’s bells, did the man not know when to quit?
So. Damn. Pushy.
She broke the seal and looked at the frankly appalling handwriting. It was close to illegible. She smiled, recognising it and glad to know this about him, as silly as it was, finding her eyes blurring as she traced her fingers over the words. She’d seen his handwriting plenty of times before and it was never tidy, but this was execrable, and her heart ached as she read and knew it was concern for her well-being that had unnerved him.
2nd July 1820. Mayfair. London.
My dear Mr Archibald,
Here I sit, in Henshaw’s study, dutifully writing you this letter in situ, as I am not permitted to know your whereabouts.
I’ll come to the point. What the devil have you done? What trouble are you in? And most importantly, why the hell won’t you let me help you? I would. Even should it come to pass that I cannot, you have my word of honour, I will not make things worse for you, no matter what you tell me.
For God’s sake, Archie, I feel like I’ve fallen into some Gothic plot with murderers and conspiracies leaping at me from the shadows. My imagination has conjured nothing short of spy rings and satanic rituals, so I assure you if it’s anything less than that I shall be sorely disappointed in you!
Am I wrong about all this? Did I offend you? Have my words given you a disgust of me? You must know that I had no intention of doing so and would readily offer my sincere apologies if you gave me the chance.
Well, I’ve said all I can. I’m damned if I’ll sit here a moment longer feeling like a schoolboy waiting to be sent down. You know where I am. For heaven’s sake, write and tell me what you’re about.
Ever Yours Most Sincerely,
Ranleigh
Though she knew herself for a fool, Archie raised the signature to her lips and then let out a huff of laughter. God, how she missed him. She missed how easily he could make her laugh with his irreverent humour, and how he laughed in return, especially when she was rude to him.
Well, she couldn’t deny him a reply after all.
4th July 1820.
My dear friend,
&
nbsp; I am sorry that I have so disobligingly let you down. I can provide no satanic rituals nor tales of derring-do and can most heartily reassure you, you have in no way offended me. I bear you no ill will. Far from it. My situation is of my own making and one I refuse to entangle you in, so pray don’t try to untangle me. There is only an everlasting knot and no end in either direction.
I am gratified that one such as you should take such troubles to enquire after the health and happiness of someone who is far beneath you. I pray that you will stop. If you knew the truth, I beg you understand that you would not be so wishful to further our acquaintance.
Your Sincere Friend,
Archibald
7th July 1820 Mayfair. London.
Mr Archibald.
I hope your blasted ears are ringing. Damn you.
Someone far beneath me? Fustian. You don’t believe that any more than I do, so don’t make out I’m coming it the high and mighty duke. You’re friends with Henshaw, damn you, and he seems to be privy to all your troubles.
Yes. I’m offended. Wretch.
Ever Yours etc
Ranleigh.
***
Ranleigh sealed the letter, furious with Archie and furious with himself. Why was he letting this get under his skin? It made no bloody sense. If the man wanted to go off and disappear, that was his affair and his right. He only knew there was something he was missing. There was something about Archie that had gotten under his skin, something that made him different from everyone else, more important, more interesting, though God knew he couldn’t fathom what it was.
It wasn’t anything of a romantic nature on his part, that was for certain, he assured himself with a prickle of unease. That had never been in his nature and he doubted it was about to raise its head at this late stage. Archie was a friend and nothing more. It just felt like the universe had this whole affair plotted out and everyone knew the secret, everyone was in on it. Everyone but him. It was driving him distracted.
“Deliver that to Henshaw,” he barked at a startled footman, aware he was being foul and not able to shake off his annoyance. He turned as the butler came forward and gave a discreet cough.
“Er, about that matter we discussed, your grace.”
Ranleigh brightened and ushered his butler into the office, closing the door behind him.
“You have news?” he said, squashing the hope he might have an end to this mystery soon.
“I do,” Mr Evans said. The Welshman had been in Ranleigh’s employ for over ten years and was the soul of discretion. He was also walking out with Henshaw’s widowed housekeeper. “It appears that Mr Archibald was renting rooms with an Erasmus Ponsonby, at Hampstead Heath.”
“The artist?” Ranleigh queried. At last, a bloody clue.
Evans nodded. “That’s it. Well Walk is the address, but Mr Archibald’s not there now. Rumour is he’s gone to the coast for a bit, but that’s all I can tell you I’m afraid, your grace. Mrs Danver didn’t like telling me that much, truth be told.”
Ranleigh nodded thoughtfully. It didn’t surprise him to hear Archie was boarding with artistic types. The young man had spoken passionately about the arts and obviously moved in those circles from the little Ranleigh had learned about him, which wasn’t much.
He frowned now, wondering if he’d taken leave of his senses. Archie didn’t want him around, should he not stay clear? But that wasn’t true. Archie was afraid to have him around for fear of damaging him, which wasn’t at all the same thing.
“I wonder if Mr Ponsonby has a house in the country, Evans?” he mused aloud, catching the butler’s eye.
Evans nodded his understanding and left the room.
Damn it, he’d track Archie down for the last bloody time. If he was given short shrift again, he’d leave it at that. He had to learn when he wasn’t wanted after all, but until Archie spelled that out, unequivocally, he would get to the bottom of this mystery if it damn well killed him.
Chapter 10
“Wherein a sheep or a lamb.”
Archie stalked about the cottage, kicking her skirts out as she walked and scowling. She’d given the Potters the rest of the day off, wanting to be by herself and… and do what? Stomping back into the front hall, she glimpsed herself in the mirror and saw a stranger. Why was this so bloody hard?
Fighting tears, she tore at the fastenings of the dress and stripped it from her, right there in the hallway, throwing the soft tumble of material across the room in fury, wishing she could hear a smash or a crash and frustrated by the soft rustle of fabric as it drifted to the floor. She hated this, hated that she couldn’t live as she wanted, hated that she couldn’t live as everyone else thought she should. God, it would be so much easier.
Stop it. Stop it. Get a hold of yourself, damn you, Archie. She took a deep breath and then hurried back up the stairs, back to the familiarity of cravats and waistcoats and high shiny boots. Now she could breathe again.
In the looking glass on her dressing table, she saw an unremarkable looking young man staring back at her. Yet she wasn’t a man, didn’t even want to be. She just wanted to be Archie, whoever the hell that was.
Will had written to her to tell her he’d found her a position on one of his smaller estates, in Scotland.
Scotland.
It might as well have been outer Mongolia.
Yet she knew she ought to be grateful. She was grateful. There was little chance of bumping into Ranleigh in some backwater town in the Highlands.
The room seemed suffocating, the walls of the cottage too confining, and she ran back down the stairs and straight out of the front door, slamming it behind her. The day was warm, little white puffs of cloud scudding across the sky as a sea breeze rustled the tree tops and hedgerows around her. She walked fast, feeling as if her past was catching up to her, as if everything would unravel if she didn’t move quicker.
Somewhat out of breath, she slowed as she neared the village of Winchelsea, a little surprised to have covered so much ground so fast. Feeling foolish now she’d walked off her panic, she walked towards the church and leaned against the wall to catch her breath. It was a handsome building, but in shocking disrepair, and she looked around the pretty graveyard, which was unkempt and rather overgrown but full of wild flowers. Keeping to a well-trodden path, Archie made her way past the gravestones, some of which lurched at drunken angles. It was noon and the pleasant scent of a midday meal was drifting over the churchyard from the coaching inn on the corner.
Mrs Potter had left her bread and cheese, but apart from feeling the desperate need for a drink, Archie didn’t want to be alone. The walk back to an empty house and a solitary meal was just too pathetic to contemplate. Forcing down any further thoughts of a gloomy or self-indulgent nature she put up her chin, stuck her hands in her pockets and strolled towards The New Inn.
A shepherd was ushering an unruly flock of sheep through the town and so Archie waited as the jostling mass of seething, bleating creatures bumped and grumbled their way past the inn. Once the road was clear, she stepped forward again, neatly avoiding any evidence that the sheep had left of their passage through, and then ground to a halt in the middle of the road. It wasn’t possible.
Ranleigh.
He’d just stepped out of the inn and was pulling on his gloves, and then he saw her, and he too stopped, frozen in place. For a moment he looked a little startled, then sheepish, and then he seemed to gather himself. He strode forward and all Archie could think as the sun glinted off his dark hair and his immaculate figure moved towards her was God, he’s handsome.
An unwelcome but familiar surge of longing rose inside her: joy and relief warring with desperation as she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Well then, Mr Archibald,” Ranleigh said, his words warm and so full of sympathy Archie had to fight not to throw her arms about him and sob. “I’ve had the devil’s own job tracking you down, and I suppose you’ll not thank me for it, so let me say this before you turn tail and flee.
I shan’t do it again. If you send me off with a flea in my ear, I’ll stay gone. You have my word, but….” He let out a breath, and Archie could see the concern in his eyes. “Won’t you let me help you?”
Archie smiled. It was hopeless but she smiled anyway, too happy to be in his company again. “You can’t help,” she said, the words gentle. “But it means a great deal you should try so hard.” He frowned and she could see the argument brewing on his tongue. “I was going in for a bite to eat,” she said, nodding towards the inn. “Care to join me?
Ranleigh gave her a narrow-eyed look, as if to say he knew damn well she was changing the subject and would only allow it for the moment.
“As you wish.”
They went back inside the inn where Ranleigh had also taken a room and were quickly ushered to a private parlour. Archie almost objected. Intimate conversation would have been impossible in the crowded public rooms, but the staff were so in awe of their illustrious guest that was never going to happen.
The private parlour was a quiet, dark panelled room at the back of the building. Although the weather was warm, the sun hadn’t reached this room yet and a fire had been lit to take the chill off. A maid bustled in to set the table and leave a tankard of ale. She was a comely sight, all plump bosoms and blonde curls escaping from her cap. Archie watched as she made sheep’s eyes at Ranleigh, and Ranleigh gave her a smile and a wink and a generous tip.
All at once she remembered the Duchess of Rothborn, the woman the ton supposed him to be in love with and felt a surge of anger. Not content with stealing another man’s wife, now he would flirt with a maid too? Was that all it was, or would he take her to bed when he came back here tonight? Jealousy lurched in her stomach and she wished she’d not suggested they come in. She wasn’t sure she could eat a bite now.
Ranleigh watched the maid leave, amusement in his eyes as she giggled and closed the door behind her. He caught Archie’s expression of disgust as he turned back and raised his eyebrows.
Duke and Duplicity (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 15) Page 11
