“The privacy of our patrons is sacrosanct, madam. I’m sure I would be remiss in my duties if I did not treat it as such.” His stern expression broke for a fleeting moment. “However, you may wish to examine the paintings of our Pre-Raphaelites in the Red Salon. I vow you shall find them most enlightening.”
She found Archer in the center of the otherwise empty Red Salon.
Miranda stayed back, hiding in the outer corridor just behind the doorway. He stood for several long minutes gazing up at a portrait upon the wall. She dared not move closer to see what it was, but something about the tilt of Archer’s head, the way his shoulders hunched, spoke of longing and loneliness.
“Though lovely, that gown is hardly inconspicuous.”
Miranda inhaled with a rush, Archer’s sudden words causing her heart to promptly stop before starting up again madly. She cursed herself for being seduced by duchess satin the color of new butter and a high-flaring collar of starched bronze organza.
“How did you know I was here?” she said as she moved into the gallery to stand beside him.
Archer chuckled silently but kept his eyes on the painting before him, a voluptuous girl with a yellow rose tucked behind one ear. Her rosebud lips were soft and yielding, her eyes dreamy as she stared off into the distance. Flame red hair parted down the middle, flowing in molten wings down to her shoulders.
“La Bocca Baciata.” Archer’s rich voice rolled over the Italian like a wave. Perfect diction. Miranda thought of his second name—Aldo. There was Italian in his background, to be sure.
He shifted until he stood just behind her right shoulder, his great height looming over her. “You ought to have hired a hack,” he said. “Covered your bright hair with a larger, less beguiling hat, worn heavy perfume to hide your natural scent…”
“Yes, all right. You’ve gone on quite enough about my lack of prowess as a spy, thank you.” Pursing her lips, she kept her eyes on the painting.
He made a sound of amusement, but said nothing more. Miranda hedged a glance at him. Melancholy surrounded him like a shroud. “Why do you come here every Wednesday, Archer?”
For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her soft query, but then his shoulders moved with a silent sigh. “I would come here with my mother. When I was a boy.” Gray eyes cut to hers. “Art brought her peace.” He turned his attention back to the portraits. “And now it does me.”
They were silent for a moment, then he took her elbow and guided her from the gallery. Although his manner appeared calm, his brisk pace belied his demeanor. Not for the first time, she wished she could see his expression and felt an inordinate surge of hatred toward the hard, full masks he wore. He was so much more than what he chose to show. Curse it, Victoria had seen what lay beneath; why not she?
“Where are you taking me?” Miranda asked.
“I should think it obvious.”
She eyed him impatiently, and he made a small bow of acquiescence. “As you are clearly wasting away from boredom, I must make it my duty to keep you entertained.”
Her mouth opened, then promptly closed as an elegantly turned-out couple glided by, their eyes determinedly held away from Archer.
Archer guided her down another corridor and into the zoological collections.
“You have not asked why I was following you,” she said when they were alone again.
They paused beside a display case filled with beetles. “To question would imply that I do not know the answer.” He glanced at her. “It is because you are the most stubborn, impetuous, overtly curious creature I have ever known.”
Something rude passed over her lips, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. She turned away from him and studied a wall of pinned butterflies.
Archer’s sigh of resignation broke their stalemate. “All right, I’ll play your game. Why are you following me?” Despite his jesting manner, irritation sharpened his voice.
“The peerage murders,” she said without thinking.
Until Archer, she hadn’t thought of stillness as explosive. The black mask faced her, the eyes behind it flat as pewter as the wide expanse of his chest hardened like mortar. Her heart sank with dread. Why had she prompted this conversation? Curiosity would be the death of her.
“You think I had something to do with them,” he said in even, awful tones.
“No!” She gripped the handle of her parasol. “No. But they have all made assumptions based on your appearance, and such skewed logic galls me. Guilt or innocence ought to be established on proof, not hearsay.”
His arm brushed hers as he moved past. “So your boundless curiosity bids you to discover my innocence,” he said over his shoulder. “Or is it evidence of guilt you seek?”
Miranda quickened her pace to catch up to him. “I’d like to believe you are innocent.”
“Why? Don’t want to lose the security of my income?”
“Our income.”
A snort escaped him. “Better to see me hang then and collect all of it, darling.”
“Oh for pity’s sake!” She thumped her parasol on the floor for emphasis. “I cannot believe it was you.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons.”
He stopped abruptly and his eyes pinned her to the spot. “Which are?”
She held his gaze. “I rather thought that my line. Is there a purpose for all this evasiveness, Archer? Or do you simply enjoy driving me to madness?”
His chin jutted forward in a rather pugnacious manner. “I should not have to explain myself to my wife.”
“And I should not have to ask for an explanation. Yet here we are.”
Laughter rumbled behind his mask. “A fine pickle we are in.”
“A fine pickle? An Americanism?”
“Yes. Ten years there and my language is polluted.”
She ducked her head, trying not to smile. They turned a corner and walked out into the light-filled main stair. She glanced over to find him watching. “I shall ask it once, Archer. Whatever you say, I will believe it.”
His steps slowed to a stop. “Why?” His voice was a ghost in the quiet. “Why give me your trust when you know it is such an easy thing to break?”
“Perhaps the easy giving of it will make it harder to break.”
He made a soft sound of disbelief. “Lying is quite easy, Miranda Fair. I can assure you.”
“Amusing. But I don’t believe that of you.” She shifted to face him, the effect of which unfortunately brought her mere inches from his solid frame. She couldn’t move away without drawing attention so she went on as if unaffected. “You hide many things, Archer. But you do not lie. Not to a direct question, anyway.”
The wide expanse of his chest brushed against hers as he leaned in. “You’re collecting pieces of me, aren’t you?” His voice turned thick as warm toffee, rolling over her skin, heating it. “A bit here. A bit there. Soon you’ll set me out on the table, try to fit me back together.”
Ignoring the flurries plaguing her belly, she affected blandness. “I’ve only got the corners. But it is a start.”
A warm breath touched her neck. “I believe you have the centerpiece as well.”
Before Miranda could reply, he spoke again. “No. I did not kill them.”
Relief eased the tightness in her shoulders. She dared not smile. Not yet. “If you know who did, would you tell me?”
This time Archer did laugh, sudden and sharp. “Not if I can help it.” Her ire rose when he suddenly reached out and gave the curl at her neck a gentle tug. “I sense a predilection for trouble coming from you. I’ve no desire to encourage it.”
Chapter Thirteen
Miranda put the unpleasantness of murder out of her mind. She would enjoy herself with Archer, if not for her sake, then for his. And surprisingly, they did enjoy the day. The museum was enormous, its collection of wonders vast.
When the hour grew late and most patrons made for home, Archer slipped an obscene amount of money to the guard to allow them to stroll the
upper floors uninterrupted. Miranda was glad for it. A day spent in public with her husband made her painfully aware of how life was for him. Her heart filled with tenderness when she realized what this day out cost him.
They stopped to study Greek sculptures in one of the upper galleries, and she turned to him, intent upon offering her gratitude.
“Why haven’t you left me?” Archer interrupted, scattering her thoughts.
“What do you mean?” But she knew. Her throat went dry and sore. How could she tell him, when she hadn’t truly admitted it to herself?
They stood alone in a small alcove facing an ancient frieze. He gestured toward the stairs where the sound of patrons leaving the museum drifted up. “All of them think I am a killer.”
He ran a finger along the balustrade at his side, watching the movement. “Morbid fascination compels society to tolerate me. But you…” Archer lifted his head, yet would not turn to face her. “Why haven’t you left? Why do you defend me? I… I cannot account for it.”
“You cannot account for a person coming to your defense when it is needed?”
“No. Never.”
His quiet conviction made her ache.
“I told you, Archer, I will not condemn you based on your appearance alone.”
His stillness seemed to affect the air around him, turning their world quiet. “Come now, Miranda. You heard all that Inspector Lane had to say.”
Caught, Miranda’s breath left in a sharp puff, but he went on.
“Sir Percival called my name moments before he was murdered. Another servant saw someone dressed like me leaving the grounds. All very damning. Why did you not leave then?”
Miranda’s heart pounded loudly in her ears. “How did you know I was there?”
He made a soft sound, perhaps a laugh, and fell silent. So then, he would not answer unless she answered first. So be it. She would say it. “It was you. That night. You are the man who saved me in the alleyway.”
Stillness consumed him, as if he’d frozen over. “Yes.”
She released a soft breath. “Why were you there?”
Archer studied her quietly, a man of stealth waiting to see which direction she would bolt. “It was as you guessed those years ago. To kill your father.”
She knew it, but still the admission shocked her. “But why? What did he do to you?”
“Damage enough.”
She bit the inside of her lip to keep from cursing his reticence.
The silence between them stretched tight until Archer spoke, low and controlled and just a bit bemused. “I admit the desire to kill one man, your father. Yet you do not question that I might kill another?”
She met his gaze without falter. “Capable, yes. But you did not. Just as you did not kill my father when you had the chance.”
He blinked. Surprise? Or guilt? For an endless moment, she waited.
“You have given me your word, Archer, and I will believe it.” It was a true answer. But not the whole truth. “I will not run from you.”
The wool of his frock coat whispered against marble as he turned to fully face her. She stared back, unguarded for a pained moment. Warmth filled his eyes. He understood. He took a quick breath, and his voice dropped. “You’ve no notion of the effect you have on me.”
The words gave a hard tug to her belly. She closed her eyes and swallowed. “If by effect, you mean finding yourself in uncharted waters, wondering whether you are coming or going…” She stared at his shirt, watching his breath hitch. “Then I fear you have the same effect on me, my lord.”
Cool quiet surrounded them, highlighting the soft rush of their mingled breathing. Slow as Sunday, his hand lifted, and a wash of heat flowed over her. But his hand moved to the hard mask at his face. The mask came off with a small creak and a burst of Archer’s freed breath. Light hit his features, and Miranda froze.
“Has my face gone blue?” he asked softly when she stood with her mouth hanging open like a haddock.
His lips curled as he enjoyed his joke.
Lips. She stared at them in shock. She could see his lips. Behind the carnival mask, he wore a black half-mask of smooth silk. It molded to his face like a second skin, revealing the lines of a high forehead, a strong nose, and a sharply squared-off jaw. The mask covered almost all of his right side, down along his jaw to wrap fully around his neck. But the left side… The tip of his nose, his left cheek, jaw, chin, and lips were fully exposed.
The shock of seeing all-too-human skin upon his face rendered her nearly senseless. His complexion was olive toned, showing some Mediterranean origin in his background. How on earth the man could have sun-bronzed skin was a mystery to her. He must have shaved before they left, for his cheek was smooth. Grooming his face for a world that would never see it. A pity.
A small cleft divided his square chin. But his lips called her attention once more. They were firmly sculpted; a sturdy bottom lip that almost begged to be bitten. The upper lip was wider than the bottom and flared gently in perpetual humor. Roman lips. She hadn’t thought…
“You keep gaping like that, and the flies will come in.”
She watched in fascination as the lips moved, amazed to hear his familiar rich voice coming from them. One corner lifted. “Are you going to stare all day? Should I have a self-portrait done for your contemplation?”
She looked up into his eyes, heavily lidded and deeply set, though covered with some sort of black cosmetic, kohl perhaps. Not an inch of his true skin color showed around his eyes. Even so, there was kindness in those endless gray depths. His eyes drew a person in and kept one wondering.
“Yes,” she said.
Archer’s jaw twitched. “ ‘Yes,’ you are going to stare? Or ‘yes,’ you would like a portrait?”
Despite his teasing, he was uncommonly still, poised as though she might bite.
“Yes, I am going to stare,” she said crisply.
“Why are you cross? You said you didn’t like my other masks. I offer you a different view.”
“You walked around wearing those terrible masks, filling my head with all sorts of horrible visions and… and…” Her hand flailed in front of his face. “And all along, you could have worn this.”
His lips compressed, but they couldn’t thin entirely. “What makes you think that there isn’t a horror lurking still behind this mask?”
“It isn’t the horror,” she retorted. “It is the subterfuge.” The line of his brows rose beneath the mask. “Those carnival masks must not be comfortable in the least. Blast it, you can’t even eat or drink wearing them!”
He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away.
“Why, Archer? Why shut the world out?”
For a moment, she thought he might not answer.
“I don’t want pity.” He glared at the stern visage of the Greek centaur before them. “I’d rather have fear.”
His voice was a phantom, haunted and alone. Miranda’s fingers curled into fists to keep from reaching for him. But she understood him. Deep down, she knew she would rather the world see her beauty and overlook the pain. It had stung when he had called her a false front, because he was right.
“And me, Archer?” she whispered. “Would you have me fear you as well?”
“No!” He stopped and stiffened. “I’d rather have you imagine all sorts of horrors than study my face and believe that there is a chance a normal man might be hiding underneath.”
She flushed hotly. It was the very thing she’d started to imagine.
Light from a flickering gas lamp caressed the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheek as he lifted his chin. “Because there is not. I am not so twisted as to wear this thing if I were whole and untouched.”
He glanced at the stairwell as though he’d like nothing more than to flee. “Perhaps we should go. It is getting late.”
He moved to put on the mask once more, and her hand flew to clutch his arm.
“Don’t,” she said gently. The muscles beneath her ha
nd hardened like granite yet he did not pull away. He loomed over her, his newly revealed features inscrutable, all the more because she did not yet know the subtleties of them. Without the warm rumble of his voice, he seemed almost a stranger to her for a moment, but for the scent of him and the familiar lines of his form.
“You startled me, Archer. That is all. I had no right to rail at you.” Absently, her thumb caressed the fabric of his coat. She forced it still. “Thank you. It is a gift you gave me, and I am the richer for it.”
Flushing and unable to meet his eyes another moment, she let him go. His silence was almost unbearable, but she could not turn from him. She had promised to stay. She gripped the cool balustrade and hoped it might keep her in place.
On a sigh, his stiffness released, and his hand came down to rest next to hers. “I felt you,” he whispered. “That is how I knew.”
She raised her head, and the world seemed to fade down to a narrow focus of just him, just her.
“I feel you,” he said, “whether stalking me through the streets of London, or hiding behind a screen in my library.” His words were soft as bunting, buffeting her skin, shivering inside of her.
Her hand opened on the balustrade, fingers stretching toward his. The very tips of their fingers met, the touch sparking between them like a current.
Archer’s finger grazed hers. “I feel you. As if you were connected to me by an invisible string.” He touched his chest. “I feel you here. In my heart.”
She couldn’t think past the mad pounding of her blood. She swallowed painfully. “I feel you too.”
He sucked in a sharp breath.
Miranda stepped closer, closer to the heat of his body, to the place where her senses came alive—toward him. Her hand trembled as she touched her breast. “I feel you here,” she said, both an admission and the true reason she could not leave him.
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