Firelight
Page 9

Leland went to a small bar and poured himself a measure of brandy. Archer watched without comment. The man’s hand shook badly as he lifted the glass to drink.
“What is it, then?” Leland set his glass down with a thud. “Why have you come back?”
Anger surged. Archer should not have come. Questions he had wanted to ask filled his throat like a blockage. Why did you turn from me? Was my fate so very distasteful?
“England is my home,” Archer said from the comfort of his seat.
“Bollocks. We had an agreement.” Leland studied the glass before him.
“You had a hope,” Archer retorted. “And if you thought I was a problem neatly swept away and forgotten then you are a fool.” He checked his temper with a deep breath. “The question is—are you foolish enough to challenge me now that I am here?”
A white brow rose high. “And if I were,” Leland asked softly, “what then? Would I find myself a bitter end? My body one of the many left to rot in the Thames?”
Archer’s voice was equally soft. “Perhaps you would.”
The sound of the old man’s wheezing filled the darkness, then Leland snorted. “I’m all aquiver.” He set his glass down with an inordinately loud thud. “Why are you here? I assume you didn’t invade my home solely to make assassinations on my character.”
“I married.”
Leland’s face drained of color, his thin lips falling slack. “Have you gone mad?” he managed at last.
Archer flicked a speck of lint off the velvet chair. “Perhaps I have.”
“To what purpose?” Leland cried, coming forward in his agitation. “And to what end?”
Archer turned away from Leland’s keen blue eyes. He hated those eyes. They missed nothing. “My reasons are my own.”
“Who is she?”
“Miranda Ellis—Archer,” he corrected. The novelty of hearing his name connected with hers buzzed in his veins like warm champagne.
Leland’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “Hector Ellis’s youngest daughter, is she?”
He nodded, suddenly feeling exposed in the dimly lit room.
“I see.”
“Mmm, I fear you do.” It appeared even decrepit nobles had heard of Miranda’s beauty.
Leland sighed. “This is madness, Archer. No lady could have possibly done you so great a wrong to warrant such a punishment. I well understand the urge but…” He stopped abruptly as his gaze locked with Archer’s.
“I do hope,” Archer said as his fingers dug into the arms of the chair, “that you aren’t entertaining notions of giving fatherly advice. I should find that laughable in the extreme.”
“No, no…” Leland swallowed, backing away a bit. And he ought to. Archer felt capable of just about anything then. He did not miss the photographs lining Leland’s mantel. A wife. Children, grandchildren. Leland had them all. Was the great and beloved head of his grand household. Perhaps he would not tell Leland of Percival’s death after all. Archer pushed to his feet.
Leland eyed him from under thick, white brows. “Is that the true reason you are here in London?”
“You mean am I motivated by something other than base lust?”
He laughed when Leland glowered. “You know I will not rest until I find a way…” He took a deep breath, and when he spoke, he heard the bitterness in his voice. “Especially now.”
“I cannot help you there.” Leland spoke with such sorrow that Archer flinched.
“I did not think you could. Just stay out of my way on that account.”
Archer turned toward the door. No need for windows now. It irked him that he’d used it in the first place. He’d been hiding in shadows for too long. “My wife will need an introduction into society.” There. That was as good a reason as any for this visit. “I’ll not have her outcast. I realize the season is over. However there are still functions going on. I expect invitations to be forthcoming, Leland. You may tell the others as much.”
Leland’s mouth worked. “You can’t seriously think to go about in society.”
“Tell people I’m an eccentric. Our lot has always relished a good oddity at which to thumb their nose. Regardless, no one will be looking at me when Lady Archer is in the room. As I’m sure you can attest.”
The man sputtered with irritation, but he could not refuse—nor could the others. They all knew as much. The result of their mad little experiment had hidden away for as long as any of them ought to have hoped. If one of them thought they could scare him away, the fool had made a disastrous mistake.
“Archer.”
Archer stopped, but was slow to turn.
“Something has happened,” Leland said with a frown.
“Nothing of consequence.”
But those eyes saw too much. “If anyone was to take offense to your return, it would be Rossberry.” Leland tilted his head, letting his gaze rake over Archer. “Which you should well know. One wonders why you simply didn’t go straight to him.”
A trickle of cold crept along Archer’s neck. “Rossberry is out?”
Leland’s mouth twisted. “Just recently. I suppose they could not cage him indefinitely.”
Archer scowled. And yet they all thought he should stay away forever.
Leland understood his silence and had the grace to look chagrined. “If you want my help, you only have to ask.”
Archer would be damned if he would ask Leland for help ever again. The man had been the first to suggest Archer leave London.
“And what help could an old man possibly provide?” Archer winced inwardly as the words left his lips, but could not bring himself to apologize. “Percival is dead,” he said baldly.
Leland went white. “When? How?”
“This night. Murdered. No doubt it will be the scandal of the morning. I am the prime suspect. A servant heard Percival cry out my name. Another thought they saw me at the scene.”
Leland nodded once. “Do you know who did it?”
God, Archer had missed his friend. “No”—he cleared his throat—“but I intend to find out.”
Chapter Nine
Tell me again why we are going to this party.”
In the days after the murder of Sir Percival Andrew, gruesome recounts fell from the lips of newsmen and fruit sellers alike. Everyone was enthralled. Because everyone knew exactly who the killer was: Lord Benjamin Archer.
That he lived right under their very thumb and had not yet been brought to justice only served to titillate. Gossip was a sly foe. Borne on servant’s tongues, details of Sir Percival’s slaughter slid like fog over London.
Miranda felt the sting of gossip keenly. She remembered when public opinion had turned on her family in the days after her father was ruined. Wagging tongues catalogued every piece of furniture and artwork Father sold off to keep them from the streets.
As for Archer, he said not a word about the murder. Like a dog protecting his bone, he hovered at her side. Although he did not expressly forbid her from going out, he skillfully kept her occupied at home. Might she like a walk in the garden? Perhaps make use of the vast library? On Monday, he sent for a Monsieur Falle, a clever little dressmaker, who plied her with luscious bolts of fabrics to coo over. Each night, she ate delicious meals as he peppered her with various random questions. Did she believe Plato’s Utopian Society would work in actual practice? What did she think of the Realism movement in art; should man be represented as he truly was or idealized? What of democracy? Should every man, regardless of birth, have a right to make the most of his life?
She reveled in their easy discourse. It was as if they’d known each other for a lifetime. Oh, they bickered to be sure, save it only served to ignite her curiosity and her need to converse with him further.
How could such a man slaughter another? Was she in denial? Or perhaps it was a sign of her own depravity that she identified so easily with him. Whatever Archer might be beneath his mask, she felt safe with him. And it was not just a matter of loneliness. She’d been lonely before; it had not affected her like this, filling her with the need to be near him. She fit within her skin when she was with him. The novelty of such a feeling was seductive.
And so it went. Miranda waited for the moment when his back was turned so that she might go out and discover answers, and Archer watched her as if waiting for her to run away.
Thus it came as a shock to Miranda when Archer strode in the salon earlier in the evening and announced in his imperious way that they were having a night out. So Miranda had donned her battle armor, a silver-satin dress that hugged her body like steel and was very properly put together. This didn’t stop her from feeling ill at the prospect of facing the haute ton. Staring at the palatial town home looming up before her, trepidation tightened her breast.
Archer hedged a glance in her direction, his grip tightening as if she might flee. Smart man. He led them briskly up the marble stairs fronting Lord Cheltenham’s stately home. “Have you found fault in my original reasoning?”
She pursed her lips. “ ‘Because we were asked’ is an evasion at best, and you well know it.”
He chuckled, and her ire increased. Her steps slowed as a gaping footman moved to open the front doors for them.
“Damn it, Archer,” she hissed. “Why give them the excuse to gawk?”
She did not want that for him, and felt a surge of protectiveness toward Archer that was as frightening as it was fierce.
Archer bent in until his soft breath touched her neck. “Because, dearest, I refuse to hide any longer.” A fleeting caress of his thumb sent a shiver along her gloved wrist. “Courage, Miranda Fair. Never give them an inch or they will stretch it a mile.”
Lord Cheltenham’s grand hall was not as large as the one in Archer House, but it was elegant, filled with statuary, potted palms, and heavily draped archways. Clusters of men and women congregated in the quiet spots, watching as she and Archer passed. Looks of pity and murmurs followed. Would she be next? Would they read about her in their morning papers? Devour lurid details of Lord Archer’s young bride ripped to shreds as they drank their tea and shook their heads at her foolishness?
Irritation rankled, and she held her head up high.
Archer simply walked on as if they were alone. Ahead of them stood a small group of men by the base of the stairs. They clustered together, looking like a murder of crows with their hunched shoulders and sweeping black coattails. Old age had withered them, cleaving skin to bone, exaggerating the prominence of noses and cheeks. Sharp eyes turned on them, their orbs gleaming in the dim light as they blinked in unison.
“Do you know them?” She hoped not. The men almost quivered with shock and hostility.
Archer’s grip tightened a fraction. “Yes.”
“Come then, we’ll go another way.”
Miranda began to shift direction but Archer held her course. “Act as if I am afraid? I think not.”
He steered them right into the men’s path.
The tallest of them came forward, a man with a white mustache that hung in a frown over his lip. “Archer,” he said in the crisp tones of an upper-class man put out, “I am surprised to see you out and about.”
Archer inclined his head a mere fraction. “It appears the current rumor is false, Leland. As it turns out, I can leave my fiery throne and walk among honest Christian folk.”
The skin around the man’s keen blue eyes tightened. “I rather enjoyed that one,” he said lightly.
“Stuff and feathers, all of it,” said another man. He appeared kind, despite his formidable posture. He glanced at Miranda with soft brown eyes and a gentle smile. “I hear congratulations are in order, Archer.”
Archer introduced Miranda to their host, the smiling Lord Cheltenham, then the frowning Lord Leland, and then Lord Merryweather, the last man to approach. Merryweather took Miranda’s hand as introductions went around. His deep eyes twinkled slyly up at her as he held on a beat too long. The old devil. “I am enchanted, Lady Archer. Utterly enchanted.”
Cheltenham turned to Archer. “We’ve just concluded a meeting for The Botanical Society today, Archer. I understand you have acquired extensive knowledge on the study of heredity characteristics in… roses, was it?” The man’s eyes flashed with an emotion Miranda could not put her finger on but it seemed as though the whole group snapped to attention. She glanced at Archer and could have sworn he was smiling. But the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed little humor.
“I have much in the way of knowledge,” Archer said without moving. “But little in the way of success.”
The tension within the group increased. More than one set of eyes slid to her and then away.
“Perhaps you would care to join us next weekend and explain your findings?” asked Leland before giving Miranda a polite smile. “A rather dry subject, my lady, but we are enthralled by the process of plant hybridization, for it allows us to create whole new species.”
Archer glared, but Leland paid him no notice. “For example, what was once a weak, quick-to-fade rose of ordinary color might be turned into a subject displaying strength, beauty, and longevity.” His thick mustache lifted. “The perfect bloom.”
“How lovely,” she said politely while her mind turned. Archer, a botanist?
Archer leaned toward her. “We are amateurs all, playing with things beyond our ken.”
She might have replied, but a disgruntled snarl sounded in hall.
“I wasna aware the society was holdin’ a costume ball,” came an irate Scottish burr from behind Cheltenham. The men turned at the sound, and Miranda’s breath caught. The devil’s own blue eyes glared daggers at Archer from lash-less slits. A map of raised scars, silver white and angry red, twisted the man’s features into something barely recognizable as human. She clutched Archer’s forearm by reflex.