chapter Twenty-two
Everybody lies. Miranda stood before the dressing room mirror, waiting in dull silence as a maid hooked up her party dress for the Blackwoods’ masquerade ball. She blinked at her wavering reflection.
Victoria’s warning had come back to haunt Miranda. Without doubt, Archer kept things from her. He still was. Lying. But then, so was she.
The maid’s small form blocked the mirror as she gently smoothed Miranda’s bodice, then turned to collect white satin gloves and a fan. Miranda’s reflection returned, the lamplight above her catching red glints in her hair, giving it the appearance of live coals. The image of fire and destruction burned bright in her mind’s eye. She had scorched that marble worktop, and it had broken in half like a piece of burned toast.
There were lies, and there were lies. Was a secret a lie? If one wanted to protect another?
She could not fault Archer for his protectiveness. The killer’s frustrated rage was growing; he would strike again, and soon. Miranda felt it on some level of intuition she could not fully understand. Archer would try to protect her, wrap her up in ignorance like cotton wool. But who would protect him? Miranda could, and she would. If she had to call upon the fire she would, exposure be damned.
She glided down the stairs to meet Archer. She held tighter to the banister as he came into view, his feet planted slightly apart as he stood in the center of the hall, his eyes on her. He looked like a highwayman, standing there with his silken mask and long black opera cloak, a scarlet vest the only slash of color in his inky attire.
Yes, there were lies. But there was also truth. The truth of feeling. Deep down, she knew this man. Archer. Beyond the mask. She knew his soul, his heart. Perhaps that was enough.
“That does not look much like a costume,” he observed as she came near.
She might have said a number of things, demand they talk, or spill her soul. She simply held up her mask. “That is because I have not finished putting it on.”
Archer snorted softly. “And who shall you be once you don your grand disguise?” Calling it a disguise was to use the term in its weakest form. The small, silver lace mask, shaped like a butterfly and set with crystal beads, concealed only the area about her eyes.
“La luna,” she said with a smile.
“Then I shall be la notte to your moon.” Archer lifted the hard black mask he held and slipped it over his thinner silk one. Donning the full mask changed his identity from the man who smiled at her with ease to the unyielding face of Lord Archer. It was several moments before she realized she stared at him.
He took a step closer, his lovely mouth and sculpted jaw hidden away once more. “Which is really only lip service since everyone shall know I haven’t a costume.”
“Nonsense,” she replied a bit thickly, for he was very near. “It will be the first party in which no one gapes at you like a mindless fish. And I, for one, am glad of it.”
A smile came to his eyes. “You are very protective of my feelings, Lady Archer. It is sweet.”
Heat flared on her cheeks. “La,” she said, fumbling to put her mask on. “I simply find ignorance intolerable. Stare the first time, fine, but the second, or th—”
Archer lifted his hands to her face. And it was she who gaped like a fish as he gently took the mask and eased it into place. “How strange you look hidden beneath that mask.”
It occurred to her that he might have just then understood her frustration a bit better. But she didn’t press him.
“I missed you, Miranda Fair,” he said with sudden tenderness.
“Archer.” When he went still, she forced herself to say the words. But they were not the right words. “I apologize for the other night, for leaving you the way that I did, I mean.” She would not blush, not think of his mouth, his taste.
Gently, he pulled away. “The fault is mine. It… it is for the best, I think.”
A dull weight settled in her belly at his softly spoken words but she forced herself to nod. He wanted the distance, and so she would give it to him. “Pax, then?” she said.
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Pax.”
His hand on her elbow stopped her walking on. “Whatever may come, Miri…” He stepped closer, his grip tightening, “Whatever mistakes I make, you are the most important person in the world to me.”
The words ought to have warmed her heart. Instead, she felt like crying.
There were so many black masks, dominos, and cloaked men that Archer fit right in for once. Still, she could not persuade the real Archer to dance.
“I do not dance, Miranda,” Archer said when she pleaded once more.
“I don’t believe you.” Irritation burned in her breast. Marie Antoinette and King Louis twirled past in a rousing polka. “You move better than that when fighting, blast it.”
Archer’s eyes cut to her. “Then perhaps I should have brought swords. Still fence, do you?”
Her foot stamped from frustration but she held herself still. “Beast,” she hissed.
She could feel his evil smile. Miranda bit back her own smile. Perhaps it was perverse, but sparring with Archer was better fun than a full-crush ball. She wondered suddenly if he felt the same.
He put one big hand upon her back as if to pacify her. “Let me get you some champagne, and then you can tell me what mask is your favorite.” Mirth sparked in his eyes. “Perhaps I can buy one for my own.”
Miranda refrained from rolling her eyes. Cheeky bastard.
She might have been comfortably abed. That they were here to socialize was laughable. Archer had obstinately put down his name on all the slots of her dance card, a socially unforgivable tactic but effective in keeping her by his side.
Archer stalked off to get the champagne and had barely left her sight when Lord Mckinnon glided up to claim the first waltz with a mischievous smile, knowing Miranda could do little more than accept.
“And what are you supposed to be?” she asked as they began to dance. “A wolf?” Mckinnon wore a half-mask shaped like that of a wolf, but his uncommon blue eyes and feral grin slanting beneath the pointed snout had given his identity away immediately.
A grin pulled in his dimple. “A werewolf.” He dipped his head near to hers. “A far more terrifying being, I should think. And you, Lady Archer?” he prompted when she did not reply. “What is this enchanting costume to represent?”
She turned her head slightly, moving her mouth away from the close proximity of his. His breath smelled of meat. Like the bloody prime rib Father favored.
“La luna,” she said.
He chuckled deep within his chest, the effect of which sounded oddly like a growl. “No wonder I am enthralled.”
“How very predictable a retort,” she said blandly. His hand upon her waist felt uncommonly warm and too possessive. When she edged away, Lord Mckinnon smiled and adjusted his grip, bringing her subtly back.
“I’m here to warn you,” he said during a turn, “my father means to ruin your husband.”
He glanced toward the corner of the room, where his father stood glowering at them with an ill-concealed irritation that made his scarred face appear twisted as a tree’s roots. Caught by their gaze, Rossberry turned abruptly and stalked off.
Mckinnon leaned in. “You realize, he believes Lord Archer somehow responsible for the explosion that scarred him.” The look in Mckinnon’s eyes said he felt the same.
“Quite the stunning turnaround in your concerns, sir. One might think you actually cared for Archer’s safety. But then, we know that is not true.”
Mckinnon’s lips twitched. “If it were simply Archer’s neck, I should not care in the least. His recklessness is his own doing. But I fear you might be hurt in the crossfire.” Behind the brown mask, his blue eyes grew serious. “You care for Archer, that is clear.”
Woodenly, she nodded.
“Then listen to what I am saying, and hang my motives. I thought I had convinced Da to return to Scotland and let sleeping dogs lie, but he maintains a single-minded determination.” They spun past less graceful dancers. “My father is not well. He possesses a volatile nature.”
She slowed. “Are you suggesting that he would resort to violence?”
Lord Rossberry was an elderly gentleman but he was of the height and build of the villain. And she could not discount anyone. Had Mckinnon known the truth all along and now suffered some delayed conscience?
“I am saying that the clan Ranulf has a long history of eradicating those they view as threats.”
Ice slid down her spine. She stepped out of his embrace as the last notes faded. “Then perhaps you should warn my husband.”
Something flashed in his eyes—reluctance, hesitation—she couldn’t be sure. He pushed it away with a forced, flirtatious smile. “I prefer dancing with you.”
“The dance is over.” She turned, leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor as she collided with Marie Antoinette.
Silver eyes flashed behind a lace mask. “A thousand pardons.”
The scent of lemons and flowers touched Miranda’s noise so faint that she might have dreamt it. She gave a start. Victoria? The woman slid through the crowd. Miranda tried to follow, only to be swept into the fold. The Blackwoods must have invited every family of quality in London. A miasma of smoke coming from the gas lamps and candles thickened the air, the laughter buzzing around her causing her head to spin. She could not tell which way was which, surrounded as she was by leering masks and deceased persons of notoriety. She was headed toward the rear of the main hall when a hand grabbed her arm and whirled her around like a top. Her shoulder hit the wall as the twisted veneer of Lord Alasdair Rossberry loomed before her.
She stared down at the hand that held her, then up to his face, still unable to believe he’d physically accosted her.
“Lord Rossberry! What is the meaning—”
He wrenched her arm hard and slammed her into the nearby wall with enough force to rattle her bones and send a large section of her hair tumbling down. “What did my son say to you?”
Her senses settled, and she pulled up straight. “Take your hand off me, sir, or lose it.”
Old though he may be, the man was strong as an ox and would not let go. He yanked her closer. Blue eyes blazed from reddened slits of skin. “Heartless wench, bewitching hapless men with your wicked beauty. You’ll no’ snare young Ian as well.”
She tore free, most likely bruising herself in the process. “Have care, sir.” The terrible burning within her pushed to get out. “We are in a room full of observers, and I should not like to think of what would occur should Lord Archer see you manhandling me.”
“Oh, I can well guess, ye besom. Why not find out now?” He made to grab her again but stopped as the air between them flared hot like the blast from a bake oven. Rossberry felt the change and stepped back a pace, a shadow of fear clouding his eyes.
“I would not advise it,” she said in even tones that she did not feel.
They stood silently taking each other’s measure, when a soft voice caught her attention.
“Lady Archer?” Lady Blackwood, dressed as a regal Queen Elizabeth, glided up to them, concern marring her smooth brow.
Rossberry flinched as though yanked from a trance.
“Is everything all right?” A touch of warning deepened Lady Blackwood’s soft voice as she looked pointedly at the elderly earl.
Rossberry’s twisted lips were wet and trembling as if he might start shouting. Finally, he snarled in irritation and stepped back.
“You are a fool to cast your lot with that man,” he hissed, pointing a clawed finger at Miranda. “And now you’ll pay for it, just like the others have.” Spinning around, he stalked off, leaving her alone with an equally stunned Lady Blackwood.
“I must apologize for my uncle,” she said with a flush. “He is a cantankerous, paranoid man. Though quite kind to his kin.”
“Your uncle?” The serene woman before her seemed a world apart from Rossberry.
Her lips lifted wryly. “Great uncle, actually. He gave my husband and me this house as a wedding gift.”
“How generous.” What more could she say? That he should be in Bedlam seemed indelicate.
Lady Blackwood shook her head slowly, rustling the large Elizabethan-style ruff around her slender throat. “I fear he has been holed up in the wilds of Scotland for too long.” Lady Blackwood’s small hand touched Miranda’s elbow. “Really, he is quite harmless.”
To whom, Miranda wanted to ask, but held her tongue. Lady Blackwood’s blue eyes were wide and pleading for understanding.
“It is quite all right,” Miranda said. “There is a mad aunt lurking in my family closet. We let her out, of course. But only at Christmastime.”
They both smiled. The pained smile of repressing ugliness for the sake of propriety.
“I shall think no more of it,” Miranda said with false lightness. “Nor shall I mention it to Lord Archer.”
Lady Blackwood eased visibly, but then eyed Miranda’s hair. “Oh, dear. Your coiffure has fallen.” Her cheeks pinked. “I really do apologize for the incident. Let me have a maid see to your hair. Shall I escort you to the lady’s retiring room?”
Miranda hesitated. The unruly state of her hair would surely cause gossip and speculation as a lady’s hair did not come undone without a struggle. While she’d like to think the catty gossips wouldn’t assume Archer was the brute who accosted her, Miranda knew that’s exactly the conclusion they would settle on.
“It is an easy fix, Lady Blackwood,” Miranda said. “One that I can see to myself. If there is a room I could use to freshen up, I would be most grateful.”
Thankfully, Lady Blackwood seemed to understand the implications of Miranda’s dishevelment as well. Further, Miranda did not think the lady wanted it to get out that her mad uncle had accosted a guest. “At the top of the stairs there is a small guest room,” Lady Blackwood said. “Feel free to use it for as long as you wish.”
As Miranda climbed the stairs to the guest room, she resolved to push the incident with Rossberry out of her mind. Unfortunately, it did not stop her from feeling like the fox in the wood.
Miranda had called him something foul when he’d left. An expletive so low and quick, Archer wondered if she was aware that it had escaped her lips. The word was quite apropos—he felt more like one at this moment than she would ever know. Normally, he enjoyed sparring with her, waiting to see what she’d throw back at him. But he could see that he’d disappointed her with his rejection. In truth, he had wanted to dance with her, badly. But feared if he’d taken her in his arms, he’d never let her go. He had to smile at her foul little mouth, however. It made her all the more delectable. Perhaps it was the Italian in him but every “damn” that sprung from her plump lips, every “bloody hell” uttered with her smoke-and-honey voice sent a lick of fire over his cock. Every time.
The polka moved into a waltz as he wove through the crowd while trying to keep from spilling the glass of champagne he held. It was too hot in this crush of people. His mask itched; sweat trickled down the side of his face with no hope of wiping it away. Each day it felt more like a prison. It was becoming harder to keep the world out altogether. Because of her. Miranda.
Archer’s head jerked up with a snap. That voice. He knew that voice. His chest tightened so quickly the breath left him. He sought the voice out over the buzzing of laughter and music.
“Miranda…”
Archer’s vision clouded with a red haze. The tightness in his chest turned to pain. God damned bloody hell. His knees buckled as rage flooded through him. The glass fell to the floor and splintered into a thousand shards. He was halfway to the stairs before he realized he’d taken a step.
Someone cried out as he shoved a hapless man out of his way. He quickened his pace. Miranda’s perfume lingered in the stairwell from when she’d ascended it earlier. Archer heard that foul laugh, deepened now to a low chuckle, and then the sound of Miranda’s voice calling out. Archer convulsed. Miranda was up there, meant to hear just as he had been. She was up there, walking into that thing’s trap. Fear for Miri nearly crippled him for one awful moment, then he raced up the stairs.