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.
“Rossberry,” Archer said tightly as the man stomped over with a younger man in tow. “How nice to see you again.”
A small mouth, hidden behind a molted brown beard, twitched with a growl. “If I had known you’d be here, I’d have hid me shame behind a fool’s mask as well.”
“Ah, but what mask could hide your dulcet tones?” replied Archer lightly. “Unless equipped with a muzzle.”
“Mask, muzzle, that this fair face of mine draws less terror than what you hide is the real pity.”
Miranda’s fingers dug into Archer’s coat, but he did not react.
“Really, Father,” said the young man next to him. “You are practically begging for a duel with Lord Archer.”
His cultured tones were nothing like the Highland lilt of his father’s, yet there was an air of resemblance between the men, from the shine of their dark auburn hair and the depth of their azure blue eyes. “Having witnessed Archer’s cruel efficiency, I don’t think you would fare well in the endeavor.” He extended his hand to Archer. “Hello, Archer.” Wolfish teeth flashed as his eyes raked over Archer’s mask. “You haven’t aged a bit.”
Archer shook the man’s hand briefly. “Kind of you to notice, Mckinnon.”
Mckinnon laughed lightly. The man moved with a quick grace that spoke of strength and assurance. He turned his attentions to Miranda, and Archer murmured an introduction of Alasdair Ranulf, Earl of Rossberry, and Ian Ranulf, his eldest son and heir apparent, who held the courtesy title of Viscount Mckinnon.
“Enchanted, madam,” Lord Mckinnon said, bending over her hand. His gloved thumb caressed her palm as it slipped away, and she bristled. He smiled knowingly. There was something all together animalistic emanating from Mckinnon that made her wary. The look in his eyes said he knew at least a little of her line of thinking and enjoyed the effect.
He had barely let go when Lord Rossberry’s fury returned to Archer. “You’ve got nerve showing yourself, Archer, after what ye did to Marvel. Stay out of my way, an’ away from my son, or I’ll have your heart on a stake for me supper.”