His father may have been five and fifty, but he was far from swearing off his days as a rake. He loved the company of women far too much, sometimes more than he did a hand of cards or a good brandy.
Archer looked away and focused on the area around the refreshments table where his sister stood in reluctant conversation with two young ladies, her face covered by its usual veil. The gauzy layers of dark tulle did well covering the deep scarring that stretched across Eloise’s face, inflicted as a result of a tragic fire when she was a child. The same fire that had claimed the duchess’s life. That didn’t stop his courageous sister from being the kindest, sweetest soul in the room, however. Not that the duke would know. He hardly acknowledged her existence, something that never ceased to infuriate Archer.
Orphaned at birth, Eloise was taken in as a ward by the duke’s wife, Archer’s mother. His mother had been a saint. Not only for taking in the babe, but for tolerating his father’s countless infidelities as well. Before the duchess had died, Eloise lacked for nothing. Though she was illegitimate, there was no doubt of her sire—she and Archer had the same nose, the same chin, and even, oddly enough, the same laugh—and the late duchess had made it clear that Eloise was a member of the family.
Archer stared at her now, and despite her polite demeanor, Eloise’s lips, just visible under the base of her veil, were pressed thin with discontent. He wished he could do something to put them both out of their misery. He would make it a point to find her later after doing his duty by making the necessary, and utterly drudging, rounds to greet his father’s guests.
He kept his gaze forward and his mouth set tight as he descended the staircase and started across the room. Archer allowed nothing more than small nods of acknowledgment to those women who murmured his name in greeting, and to the men who grumbled it. Encouraging conversation would be a tactical mistake. The debutantes and their mothers all wanted one thing—a title or a fortune. Both were preferable, of course. Archer had the former, though the latter was still a work in progress.
He’d fought to bring his family’s fortunes back from the brink of financial ruin, incited by his father’s disastrous spending habits, though there would always be women who would forgo the promise of coin to become a marchioness. His marchioness. Archer, however, had no intention to marry—not now, and not for anything, not even to save his dwindling finances. He valued his freedom too much, and watching his mother suffer at the hands of his adulterous father had left a foul taste in his mouth when it came to the subject of matrimony.
No one attempted to delay him from reaching his destination. There were benefits to having a surly reputation, and limited interaction with his peers was one of them. The crowd of guests parted for him with apprehensive looks, and within moments he was taking a short bow in front of the three people who lived on the neighboring estate.
The very same people he had just robbed. His secret, as it were.
“Lord Hawksfield!” Lady Dinsmore’s voice was nearly as shrill as that hair-raising scream of hers had been on the lane between Ferndale and Worthington Abbey, and it made him suddenly wish he could edge back the way he’d come.
Archer had expected the lane would be rife with his father’s flashy guests. He’d expected the ladies would be wearing their best jewels. But what he had not expected in the least was to chance upon their neighbor’s carriage carrying the enigmatic Lady Briannon, whom he hadn’t seen in years. Nor her tempestuous, if foolish, hold on that strand of pearls.
Despite not being his typical target—he much preferred taking wealth from those who flaunted it—Archer had felt only a mild twinge of regret on the lane. The Dinsmores were not lacking in fortune, and the baubles he had taken, including the lady’s treasured pearls, would soon be replaced.
“My lady,” he replied, his tone low and unfailingly polite as usual. Archer turned to the man at her side. “Lord Dinsmore. My deepest regrets on tonight’s misfortune. I hope none of you were injured in any way.”
“No, thank heavens,” Lord Dinsmore said and, fiddling with his cravat, added, “but the miscreant barely got away from a sound thrashing, that I can assure you.”
A number of the other men surrounding Lord Dinsmore gave rallying replies such as “Here, here!” and “That’s the spirit!” Archer fought the twitch of his lips. Tales like this one seemed to become embellished by the minute.
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 a thespian. 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 cours
e, 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 a waltz.”
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.”
This was a matchmaking mama to be reckoned with, he thought, as she all but shoved her daughter into his arms. He couldn’t decline now without being intolerably rude. He set his whiskey on the corner of the refreshments table and extended his arm toward Briannon. Smiling tightly, he wished he could escape to the stables instead for a rousing round of cards with Brandt. The look of unrestrained glee on Lady Dinsmore’s countenance was almost too much to take.
“I’d rather not,” Briannon said under her breath, softly enough that only Archer would be able to hear.
“We don’t want to disappoint Mama, do we?” he interjected. Her darkened gaze slammed into him, but she slid her gloved palm into his without a ready retort.
She remained close-lipped as they entered the floor, joining the other couples swirling in time with the music. Archer settled his arm around her waist and clasped her hand in his. For all the world, the girl looked as grim as if she was being led to the gallows.
“It isn’t as scandalous as all that, Lady Briannon,” he murmured. “They are even dancing the waltz at Almack’s, or so I’m told.”
She said nothing as they moved through the steps, Archer’s footwork a little rusty here and there. He truly despised dancing. Apparently, so did the lady holding herself like a block of marble in his arms.
“I see you cannot tear your eyes away from my cravat, Lady Briannon,” he said, unable to resist such a prime opportunity to tease. “My valet will be quite pleased to know you approve of his handiwork.”
“You look quite well, my lord.”
“As do you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Archer bit his tongue and resigned himself to the task at hand. They continued to float around the other dancing couples. Despite the fact that Briannon’s body brushed against his time and again, Archer found his attention starting to stray. He didn’t even have the distraction of décolletage due to the distastefully prim bodice of her gown. He caught a few glances of surprise, one of which came from his father, whose partner was none other than Lady Rochester. He brought his attention back to the dainty slope of Lady Briannon’s forehead and tried to think of something that would engage the timid little mouse.
“Are you often at Ferndale?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord. When we’re not in Town.”
“How is Lord Northridge?” he pressed, referring to her older brother. He’d crossed paths with the chap over the years. Despite their childhood acquaintance, they had never come to socialize in the same circles. Easy to do, Archer supposed, considering he kept his circle rather small.
From memory, Graham Findlay, the Viscount Northridge, was reputed to be nimble with a sword, fleet with a hand of cards, quick with his temper, and generous with his attentions to the female set. He was first in line to inherit his family’s considerable fortune, as well as his father’s prestigious title. They had crossed paths in the past, though on those occasions, Archer had found the young viscount to be a little too similar to the duke in his pleasure-seeking. Then again, Northridge’s disposition might have changed in recent years. Brandt seemed to always be mentioning that the viscount was at Ferndale. Perhaps he now preferred the quieter life of Essex to the pace of London.
“Graham is well, thank you,” Lady Briannon replied, barely above the tenor of the violins. “He has recently completed his final year at Oxford.”
Archer was quite sure most young ladies in training to catch a husband would have taken the opportunity to ask if he himself had enjoyed attending university. They would have pretended to have never heard the rumors that he’d been tossed out of Eton for poor marks, or that he’d been suspended from Cambridge for forming an underground boxing club and gaming hell.
Lady Briannon simply stared at his cravat a bit more.
Archer thought back to the exchange with Briannon outside of the earl’s carriage, wondering at the dramatic change in her demeanor. He sighed. It seemed she’d been aghast at the thought of losing her jewels, nothing more.
He glanced down his nose and saw Lady Briannon peering up at him.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice harsher than he’d anticipated. Twice now she’d caught him indulging a private thought.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure she was going to answer. But then she looked up, her chin—the cut of a diamond, he noted—imperious. Archer also noticed she had a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had attempted to cover them up with powder.
“This is as excruciating for me as it is for you,” she said.
He forgot the freckles and stared at her. “What did you say?”
“I believe you heard me,” she said and then added softly, “my lord.”
“What makes you think dancing a waltz with you is excruciating?”
Lady Briannon smiled. The small gesture transformed her entire face. He almost faltered on the next step.
“Because just then you looked as though you had eaten something extremely disagreeable,” she answered. “And since you aren’t eating at the moment, I assume it is either my dancing or the people in this room.”
“Why must it be just one of those two options?” Archer couldn’t resist saying.
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Lady Briannon’s smile widened, revealing a peekaboo dimple in her left cheek. “I’ll have you know, I’ve had the best dancing tutors from Paris. Italy, too. Mama insisted.”
Archer shifted his jaw, the spark of humor dying a quick death. He was certain the countess had not spared a single expense on her daughter’s “education.” Every young lady in the room had a fortune’s worth of vain and insubstantial training, all with the objective of snaring a husband. His eyes grazed his sister as she slid along the perimeter of the room, toward an exit, and he stifled a twinge of pity in his gut. Perhaps not all ladies. Although she had received all the necessary education, Eloise had missed her bow due to her disfigurement. She had never let the tragedy twist her, though.
“So you see,” Lady Briannon was saying. “I am afraid we have no choice but to lay the blame upon the others.”
Archer laughed then, a sound that had more than a few heads turning. He stifled it quickly. He was not known for displays of emotion, and certainly not at the hands of an inexperienced debutante.
He released her and bowed as the music ceased.
“You’re correct, it is most definitely the others here. You dance quite capably. Thank you for the dance, Lady Briannon.”
She hesitated, as if taken aback by his sincerity. “It was my pleasure, my lord.”
He eyed her. The word pleasure falling from those full lips made him think of pursuits other than dancing. He knew, however, that such desires were unreasonable. Instead, Archer took a step back, searching for her mother, who had been watching the two of them with unabashed delight. Lady Dinsmore was now engaged in excited conversation with another guest, and he doubted he and Briannon had more than a minute before she made her way back to them. He turned from her and searched for his glass of whiskey, preparing to take his leave. Sadly, the glass had been cleared away.
My Rogue, My Ruin Page 3
