Before he could do anything, though, they watched horrified as the young man—whom he’d just realized was young Peter Gibbs, the simple-minded young lad who lived in the village with his grandmother—cried out, “See what you’ve made me do now!”
Then he touched the torch to the figure beside him.
“No!” Archer shouted, staring helplessly for a moment before his muscles could react. “Stay here,” he told Perdita, who nevertheless followed him as he raced out of her bedchamber and past his yawning brothers who stood in various stages of undress in the hallway.
In other circumstances, Archer might have been embarrassed to be caught coming out of Perdita’s room in his parents’ house, but all he could think was that he had to get outside. Whether to catch the man behind the display or to save the figure engulfed in flames, he couldn’t have said.
Finally, he reached doors leading from the ground floor hall into the garden beyond and raced through them.
But it was too late. He realized that as soon as he saw the form beside Peter dancing within the flames. Smelled the unmistakable stench of burning flesh.
“Did I do good, Lord Archer?” Peter asked, his eyes illuminated in the firelight. “I did just as mister said I should. Did I do good?”
Archer was at a loss for words, and was grateful when his father stepped forward, wearing breeches and a hastily donned shirt. “Aye, Peter. There’s a good lad. Come with me to the kitchens and we’ll see if cook has any biscuits for you.”
With the unknowing Peter off in search of a treat, Archer stared sightlessly at the flames. When Rhys and Frederick came forward and doused the flames with buckets of water from the fountain, he came to himself. “I should have thought of that,” he said woodenly.
“I rather think you were too shocked,” his mother said, draping a blanket over his shoulders. “Come, my dear, let’s go into the house and get you a strong drink.”
Wordlessly he followed her into the drawing room, where Perdita had lit the lamps and rung for tea. She was, he noticed, fully dressed in a morning gown, a shawl thrown over her shoulders. Putting two spoons of sugar into a cup she’d just poured, she handed it to him. “Drink this,” was all she said before giving up the pouring responsibility to his mother and sitting beside him. Her arm snaked around his back, with little regard for the way his brothers watched them.
“Who was it?” he asked, once he’d finished the hot drink. “I wasn’t able to recognize him through the flames,” he said, grateful that Perdita was seated beside him. Because he had little doubt that whoever had killed the man out there fully intended to do the same to her.
“Young Peter said he didn’t know the fellow,” the duke said, handing him a brandy. At Archer’s look, he shrugged. “The ladies think tea is the cure for all ills, but I think brandy does far better.”
Silently agreeing with his father, Archer downed the glass in one gulp and set the glass down on the side table.
“If Peter doesn’t know,” Rhys said from his customary place before the fireplace, “then he’s not from around here. Peter knows nearly everyone in the county on sight. He’s a special talent for recognizing faces.”
“Is it possible that he was already … that is to say,” Perdita stammered. “Could he have been deceased before the fire was set?”
Archer thought back to the scene he’d looked at from her bedchamber window. His eye had been drawn to the torch and Peter, but in the aftermath of the drama, he didn’t recall seeing the staked figure moving. At all.
“I do think it’s possible,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I was half asleep when I looked out at them, but now I’m quite sure the fellow was slumped over. So, if he wasn’t dead, he was at the very least unconscious.”
“That’s a relief,” his mother said with a hand to her chest.
“How was it you were able to see all that, Archie?” Frederick asked slyly, injecting himself into the silence. “Your bedchamber is on the other side of the wing. I think it overlooks the kitchen garden, doesn’t it.”
“Frederick,” Archer said silkily, “kindly keep your speculation to yourself.”
“Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow,” the duke said smoothly. “Once we’ve all had a sound night of sleep.”
Archer was about to agree when Perdita stood. “I won’t get a chance to say it in the morning,” she said briskly. “But I thank you for your hospitality. I will be leaving as soon as I am able in the morning.”
“What?” the duchess asked, coming forward and taking Perdita’s hands into hers. “What’s this? I thought you were meant to remain with us for a good while.”
“That was before whatever darkness it is that follows me made itself seen on your lawn,” Perdita said tightly. Archer stood, but didn’t go to her as he longed to. They were already compromised. He knew that as soon as he’d seen his brothers in the hallway beyond her bedchamber. But he could hardly make that argument before the family at large. “You didn’t hear … Peter, was it?” At the duchess’s nod, she continued. “You didn’t hear Peter’s words. They were meant for me. He said my name. He said he had a message for me. There is no doubt in my mind that the man who is stalking me would harm one of you if he thought it would affect me.”
“He might just as easily decide to harm you,” Archer said softly, stepping forward to take her hands from his mother’s. “Indeed he already has. Perdita, that message may have been meant for you, but if you think running is going to rid you of this, then you’re wrong.”
“That’s not what you said when you kidnapped me and brought me here,” she said, tears running down her cheeks. “You said that there was no way he could possibly get to me here at Lisle Hall. But not only did he find me, he killed a man to let me know that leaving London was exactly the wrong thing for me to do.”
“I brought you here to protect you,” he said, thrusting a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “I thought you’d be safe. How the hell was I to know this bastard can get past armed guards? Or that he’d follow us?”
“Archer, there are ladies present,” his father said sharply.
“I beg pardon for my language,” he said, his frustration nearly choking him, “but, Perdita, you must see that this was simply out of my control.”
“Yes,” she said, brushing the tears from her cheeks, “it is beyond your control. As are many things. It’s time for you to realize, Archer, that you aren’t God. You can’t decide who lives and who dies. Who abuses and who is abused. You are a man, and as such, you are mortal. And I would die if something happened to you because of this bastard as you call him!” She took his hand and brought it to press against her breastbone. “I would die, do you hear me? And the only way … the only way I know to protect you is to leave. And so I must.”
With that, she ran from the room, her red-gold curls streaming behind her.
He started to go after her, but was stopped by the staying hand of his father. “I think, son, this is one of those times to give a lady some time alone.”
Mutely, he went back to the settee he and Perdita had vacated and lowered his head into his hands. This was all his bloody fault. He should have found out who was threatening her in London and killed the man. What had possibly made him think that coming to Devon could protect her?
“If it’s any consolation,” he heard Benedick say as he sat down beside him, “I’d have done the same thing. Brought her to Lisle Hall, that is. It is, in most cases, quite easy to police, what with one side of the park giving way to the sea.”
“Thanks for that,” Archer said with a hearty sigh. “I’ll be sure to put it on my tombstone.”
“Don’t be overly dramatic,” Frederick said scornfully. “That’s my role in this family.”
Archer looked up to see that his parents had left the room, and promptly made a rude gesture at his brother.
“There’s the old Archie we know and love,” Frederick said with a grin. “I thought you’d become some sort of mollycoddled man-child what
with the lady and you being in her bedchamber and all.”
He very much would have liked to make the rude gesture again, but the reminder that they’d seen him leaving Perdita’s room took any anger he felt toward his brother and directed it straight at himself.
What kind of cocksure idiot spent the night in his ladylove’s bedchamber under his parents’ roof?
As if reading his thoughts, Benedick said softly from beside him, “You’re going to have to marry her, you know.”
He knew. But given the way she’d just left the room, he thought it was rather unlikely that she’d consent to have him at her side for a few minutes, let alone a lifetime.
“We all saw,” Rhys said, for once saying it kindly rather than in that condescending tone that all his brothers loathed. “And I’m not at all convinced that Mama and Papa didn’t.”
“Oh, they saw,” Cam, who’d been silent throughout the entire exchange, said wryly. “I know because I saw them both come from the same bedchamber. Which means they were together. Tonight.”
All four of his brothers groaned. “Why?” Frederick cried. “Why do you do it?”
Cam shrugged. “I dunno, I suppose I think it’s good to see they still care enough about one another to…” He paused. “Okay, I see what you mean now. Why do I do it?”
“Is there such thing as lye soap for one’s mind?” Rhys asked plaintively.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Archer said, with a shudder. Leave it to his brothers to give him something else to think about in the midst of a crisis. At the memory of the crisis, he felt his smile die away.
“I can talk to her if you like,” Ben said. “I’m a vicar. I do things like that now.”
“Says the man who gets an eyeful of Rosie Dale’s bosom just like the rest of us every time he goes to the village pub,” Rhys said with a snort. He’d always made it a point to puncture Benedick’s pretensions to religiosity.
“Her bosom is one of the Lord’s great wonders, Rhys,” his brother said with a shrug. “I’d not wish to be unmindful of it.”
“I don’t think so,” Archer said, getting back to Ben’s offer. “I’m not sure it would make a difference. She’s damned stubborn when she wants to be.”
“Ah, a failing of the entire female sex, I fear,” Frederick said, handing Archer another glass of brandy.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“Since we can’t help you by speaking to your beloved, we’re going to do the next most logical thing,” his brother said with a grin.
“What’s that?”
“We’re going to get you roaring drunk, of course,” answered Cam, carrying the decanter over and placing it where the tea tray had been.
But there was something Archer needed to do first. “I’ll be back,” he told his brothers as he strode from the room.
* * *
When she stepped back into her bedchamber, Perdita felt as if weeks had passed instead of merely an hour. And in the space of that time a man had lost his life. And she’d destroyed her relationship with Archer. Perhaps irreparably.
Quickly, she undressed and searched out a night rail, her mind flinching at the way her other had been removed. Even now she could feel Archer’s hands on her body. His sex moving within her. It might very well have been the last time she’d feel his touch. The thought left her with a tight knot in her stomach.
As she crossed to the bed, she saw his cravat, which he’d removed in some haste, carelessly laid over the chair beside the bed. Picking it up, she brought the starched linen to her face, inhaling the mingled scents of sandalwood and clean male sweat. It was a fragrance that would always remind her of him, she realized, her eyes filling with tears.
Why could she not simply forget about her fear of trusting again and just let herself be with him? It would have been an easy enough prospect for anyone but her, she thought. Anyone who hadn’t learned to mistrust her own instincts through the repeated abasement by a man whose affection for her had been a mask almost from the moment they met. It felt wrong, utterly so, to punish Archer, whom she was beginning to suspect did care deeply for her, for another man’s mistakes. But Perdita had no way of knowing if her instincts about him were right, or simply unreliable as they had been with her husband.
Curled up on her side, she left the lamp burning as she went back over everything that had happened that night. From the moment he came through the passageway door, to the awful moment when she realized that her stalker had murdered a man before her very eyes. Tears welled as she thought about him. Who was he? Did he have a wife and children who were even now missing him at home? Or was he, like the others that the stalker had killed during his campaigns against Isabella and Georgina, compatriots who had crossed him, or worse, investigators who had gotten too close to the truth?
The very idea that someone had lost his life because of her made her ill.
A knock at the corridor door of her room brought her from her reflections. Dashing the tears from her eyes and hiding the cravat beneath the counterpane, she pulled on her dressing gown and went to the door, opening it slightly. To her surprise, she saw the duchess, also in night dress, bearing a steaming cup of what looked to be warm milk.
“I hope you don’t mind, my dear,” she said, her eyes so sympathetic that Perdita wanted to throw herself into the older woman’s arms and weep. “Whenever one of the boys had a fright when they were young, I always found that a cup of warm milk spiced with cinnamon could put them to rights soon enough.”
Perdita’s mother had died years ago, and since then she’d had only Isabella and the dowager to step into the maternal role. And while she loved them both—though the dowager could be extraordinarily difficult at times—neither of them had ever filled the hole left by her mother’s absence. That the duchess might have sensed this both alarmed and relieved her.
Opening the door wider, she welcomed Archer’s mother in, trying not to think of what they’d done right there before the mirror earlier that night. Indicating that they should be seated in the chairs facing the fire, Perdita took the cup from her and inhaled the sweet and spicy aroma of it. “I haven’t had warm milk since I was a child, I think,” she said, taking an appreciative sip.
“I hope it does you some good, dear,” the duchess said, watching her with a speculative look. “I must admit to you, I suppose, that the milk was a ruse, though I do hope it helps.”
So much for motherly instincts, Perdita thought wryly. “I hope you feel welcome enough to speak to me whenever you wish,” she said cautiously. Given her outburst in the drawing room, she had an idea that the topic the duchess broached would not be a comfortable one.
“Even if it is a two o’clock in the morning?” the duchess asked with a rueful smile. “You are sweet to indulge an old woman, Perdita. And I hope you will do so for a bit longer. You see, I came because I wish to know what your intentions are regarding my son.”
Perdita had been expecting an uncomfortable discussion, but she hadn’t imagined getting this question. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said with a frown. “I’m not sure how you mean the question.”
“I should think it’s a fairly easy thing to understand,” the duchess said, a hint of steel underlying her pacifying voice. “I wish to know whether your intentions toward my son are honorable.”
Yes, Perdita thought. That’s what she thought she meant. But the very idea was absurd. Aloud she said, “I think that’s something that is between Lord Archer and myself.”
“Ah, but you see, when you spoke about leaving my son for his own safety,” Archer’s mother said, “I thought that might mean that you care for him. Quite a bit. But if that were true, then you’d already be betrothed to him because I know my son and he’s head over ears for you.”
“It’s … complicated,” Perdita said carefully. How did you explain to a mother that you cared desperately for her son, but didn’t trust your own judgment and feared he’d become a soulless abuser once you wed him? You didn’t.
“I can understand complicated things,” the duchess said easily. And for a moment, Perdita thought about just unbuttoning her thoughts about the whole business to her. But that would entail speaking of just how close she and Archer were, not only emotionally but physically.
Instead, she said, “I wish I could explain the thing to you, Your Grace, but this is a matter between Archer and me. And I have a sneaking suspicion he would not like to know I’d spoken to his mother about how I felt before I spoke to him.”
To her surprise the duchess gave a hearty laugh. “Well played, my dear. A very diplomatic way of telling me to mind my own business.”
Perdita felt herself flush. “That isn’t quite what I intended, Your Grace, I merely wished to say—”
“No, no,” the duchess said, waving away Perdita’s explanation. “I don’t mind. You aren’t the first young person under this roof to tell me to see to my own affairs. But I am a mother, and we aren’t known for our lack of interest in the affairs of our children. Even once they are grown. Though I suppose that’s rare for mothers in the beau monde.”
“Rather,” Perdita said in agreement. “I think it’s quite rare to find a mother in the ton who knows much more than her child’s birthdate and names, to be honest.”
“Unfortunately, I fear you are correct,” the duchess said. “Though Lisle and I make it up to London rarely these days, I never found the other matrons to be overly maternal. I should certainly not have considered the dowager Duchess of Ormond to be so.”
Wondering what this conversational turn would lead to, Perdita nodded.
“I seem to recall she had the raising of a grandson.” The duchess’s eyes were intent. “Gervase, I believe was his Christian name. The sixth duke. Was that your husband, Perdita?”
Feeling as if a layer of protection had been peeled away from her, Perdita nodded again.
“The thing is,” Archer’s mother continued, “I heard nasty things about the grandson when he grew up. That he drank to excess, and that he’d married a pretty wife whom he did not treat with the respect due a lady. Or any woman for that matter.” She leaned forward and took the cup of milk from Perdita’s hands, which she’d only just realized were shaking. “The thing is, Perdita, you may not know this about me, but the Duke of Lisle was not my first husband.”
Why Lords Lose Their Hearts Page 19
