Red-hot flames twisted and turned within the grate, undulating and sinuous upon the ashen logs, tiny dancers beckoning him closer. Archer sat before the hearth. Breathe, he ordered of himself once more. In. Out. Just breathe. Do not think of her.
Slowly, by agonizing degrees, his heart rate returned to normal. She had flirted with him. Hadn’t she? He swiped at his perspiring brow. He was too dizzy with want to think clearly. Too tempted to open that forbidden door, go in and claim her as was his husbandly right. Oh, God.
He looked away from their connecting door. The action brought his attention to the silver salver lying upon the table by his shaking hand. Gilroy had left him the day’s correspondence. Resting like an offering upon the various reports and letters was a small paper box wrapped up with a silver bow. The innocuous little box caused his heart to stop and then promptly start up with palpable thuds. Evil had touched that package.
The chair creaked beneath him as he inched forward. The package weighed next to nothing, but that slight weight, the unbalanced feel of it in his hand, chilled his blood. The rotten-sweet stench of death drifted from its edges as he slowly pulled the ribbon free. A thick cream-colored vellum envelope. And something below it. He could feel it, rolling about along the bottom of the box. He lifted the card, his fingers trembling as he did, and he spied what lay beneath. Glossy, despite its yellowed surface, oblong and laced in red, the thing might have been mistaken for a rotting hard-boiled egg—if one overlooked the gore of veins trailing from one end of it. Archer swallowed hard, his fingers turning to ice even as hot fury pounded within his temples. Having sat through more than one autopsy examination, he well knew what the hideous gift was. An eye. A human eye.
The vellum envelope tore under his numb fingers, dread and fury growing in equal measure as he read the note set out in block letters cut and pasted from various newsprint as if part of a child’s nursery project: You should not have done it.
Only then did he spy the small news article that had fallen from the card onto his lap. Damp with congealing blood and nearly illegible beneath the gore was the announcement of the marriage of Lord Benjamin Aldo Fitzwilliam Wallace Archer, Fifth Baron Archer of Umberslade, to Miss Miranda Rose Ellis.
Pure white light colored his world, biting cold and blinding with its brilliance, like the heart of a blizzard. It pulsed through his hard limbs, strong and true, surging with such force and power that he felt the truth of what he would soon become. For one hateful moment, he welcomed it. The sharp-edged card crumpled in his fist as he stood. He threw it all into the fire. Watched it burn. Heaven help the son of a bitch who’d sent it.
Even as the thought filtered through his brain, damp fingers of dread crawled along his spine to clutch his heart. He sank back into his seat. Who had sent it? And whose eye was it?
An eye for an eye. The phrase hit his mind like the clang of a buoy. It had been a favorite saying of Rossberry’s. Archer fingered his jaw in contemplation as he gazed at the roaring fire. Rossberry. A man who had been driven to the brink of madness by fire’s cruel kiss. Archer swallowed hard, the heat from the hearth strong enough to warm his outstretched legs. But Rossberry was locked away, had been for years. They had seen to that. A light snort left his lips; they had sent Archer away as well, yet here he was.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when a light rap came from the door. He raked a hand through his hair. “Yes?”
Gilroy opened the door only as far as necessary. “Pardon the intrusion, my lord, but there is a gentleman here to see you.”
“Hang it, Gilroy, it is the middle of the night. Why the devil haven’t you sent him packing?” Even as he spoke, it occurred to Archer that Gilroy was too proficient a servant to let just anyone in at an ungodly hour. “Who is it, Gilroy?” he asked with growing dread.
The man held himself correctly erect. “Inspector Winston Lane with the Criminal Investigation Department.”
Chapter Seven
Miranda’s hand glided over the crystal stoppers. Firelight caught in the prisms, sending little rainbows scattering over her skin and upon the bottles. A drink would settle her nerves, then perhaps she could sleep without thinking of masked men, or a certain voice as decadent as dark chocolate. She stopped at the simplest decanter, an elegant thing shaped like a teardrop. Around its neck was a silver plaque engraved with the word “Bourbon.” American whiskey. She remembered vaguely hearing her father mention tasting it once long ago.
Out of all the decanters, this one had the least liquor left in it. Archer’s favorite, if she had to guess. The stopper came loose with a harmonious ring and released the smoky sweet notes of the liquor.
She poured herself a measure, relaxing at the sound of the decanter letting its treasure loose in a soft glug-glug-glug, and the crackle of the ash—not coal—fire within the grate behind her. No wonder men coveted the simple ritual of having a drink and kept such things away from women. To the victor always went the spoils.
Caramel and smoke and heat, the bourbon burned a slow delicious path down her throat. Miranda closed her eyes in pleasure. And then snapped to attention as she heard Archer’s voice join with that of another man’s out in the hall. Footsteps sounded, heading her way, and she tensed.
Her stomach turned at the notion of facing Archer so soon.
“Let us talk in here, Inspector.”
Inspector?
“As you wish, my lord.”
Alarm lifted the hairs at her nape. She knew that voice. It was Winston Lane, newly appointed inspector for England’s Criminal Investigations Department. Winston Lane, her eldest sister Poppy’s very dear husband and Miranda’s very dear brother-in-law. She most certainly did not want to face Winston and Archer with her hair down and wearing a ratty old dressing gown, or explain why she felt the need to partake in a man’s drink in the middle of the night.
With a wild look around, she considered her options. The door handle turned, and Miranda made her choice. Not a very good choice, she conceded as she all but dove behind the large chinoiserie screen in the corner. She was now trapped like a mouse.
From the cracks between the screens, she saw slices of her brother-in-law’s face: pale and thin with a long mustache the color of straw embracing his upper lip. His hair, of the same color, was carefully swept back. He had not taken off his tweed overcoat but held his bowler in his hand. Once in the room, he set the hat down upon a small table by one of the armchairs. A bit of boldness on Winston’s part as it was an obvious sign that this visit would not be easily rushed.
Miranda tensed and slipped farther into the corner as Winston slowly surveyed the room. He did as she had done, inspecting its contents, looking for clues to what might lie inside the infamous Lord Archer’s head.
Then the man himself moved into view. Though Winston inclined his head toward him, Archer was looking at the bar, she realized in cold horror. She could almost feel his eyes upon her discarded glass, still half-full.
“Inspector Lane,” he said finally, turning so that only his arm was visible from her hiding spot. “What unfortunate news do you have for me?”
“Lord Archer, I do apologize for the late hour. However, I thought it best to come when I did. I fear by morning my presence here would bring an even greater inconvenience.”
For everyone would note it, and tongues would wag.
“Whom should I thank for such a courtesy?” Archer asked dryly.
Winston took a step closer to Archer. “Forgive me, but I have not yet offered my congratulations in your marriage to my good sister, Miranda.”
Archer’s arm flinched. “Miranda is your sister?”
“She is sister to my wife, Poppy. I am quite fond of Miranda. I was pleased to hear that she had found a husband who could see to her welfare.”
Miranda’s cheeks colored. She knew what was behind his proper words. He was pleased she had finally left Father. For a cold moment, she wondered whether Winston had heard tales of her less than lawful activities.
?
??Had I not been away on business this morning, I would have accompanied my wife to the ceremony.”
Would he have? Miranda was not so sure. Clearly, he was not altogether pleased at her choice of husband, or he would have said as much.
“Since we are family”—Archer’s voice tightened on the word—“let us speak plainly. What do you want?”
Winston nodded. “Shortly after one o’clock this afternoon, Sir Percival Andrew, fifth baronet of Doddington, was found murdered in his bed chamber.”
Miranda blinked in surprise as the words fell over the room.
“I am sorry for it,” Archer said in a quiet voice.
“Then you admit to knowing Sir Percival.”
“Of course. I have known him nearly all my life. Though I haven’t seen him in some years.”
At that, Winston pulled a small notebook from his pocket to consult it. Miranda knew from Poppy that he did this for show. Winston memorized every fact he collected.
“In eight years, correct?”
“Correct, inspector.” Dry amusement laced Archer’s voice. “Not since the week I sent his granddaughter’s fiancé, one Lord Jonathan Marvel, to hospital after an altercation with him. A fact I am sure you have committed to memory as well.”
Winston snapped his notebook closed.
“It is quite a juicy tidbit of gossip that fails to die,” Archer said.
“It is said that as a result of that altercation, Lord Marvel broke off his engagement with Sir Percival’s granddaughter, causing much stress and heartache between the two families.”
“Broken engagements often cause familial strife.”
“I believe Sir Percival and quite a few others held you accountable for the mishap.”
“As do I.”
“Your relations with Sir Percival were not in good standing when last you met.”
“My relations with Lord Marvel were not in good standing. Sir Percival and I were of like mind in the matter.”
“Which was?”
“Lord Marvel is, and was, a spoiled snot, and I have a foul temper.”
Winston’s lips curled but his eyes remained shrewd. “Yes, there is much talk of that violent temper, my lord.”
“A logical fellow might deduce that a man in possession of a volatile temper would lash out when offended, not wait in cool composure to do the deed eight years later.”
“I should like to think myself a logical fellow,” said Winston.
“Which means you have something more to go on then mere conjecture.”
“Upon questioning of the house servants, some disturbing news was brought to light. Mr. James Marks, Sir Percival’s valet, was resting in his room next to Sir Percival’s. He swears that he heard his master call out the name ‘Archer’ as if surprised. A moment later, Sir Percival made an odd sound, and Marks went to investigate.” Winston kept his eyes on Archer. “Sir Percival had been sliced across the neck and then eviscerated.”
From behind the safety of her screen, Miranda clutched her knees as bile rose in her throat. She did not want it to be him. She liked Archer, almost instantly. And she never took an instant liking to anyone.
“Is that all that was done to him?” Archer’s quiet query shocked Miranda back to sensibility.
Winston raised a blond brow. “An odd question, my lord. Do you assume there were more insults done upon his body?”
“You are here because I am suspect. If I am to be accused, I will know the whole of it, Inspector. Now, what was done to him?”
“Sir Percival’s face was slashed, his right eye gouged out and missing. His heart taken.”
The fire snapped in the grate, and Miranda jumped. Dear God, was she married to a madman? Please don’t let it be so. She’d gotten her first glimpse of hope. She did not want to recede back into a world where shame and darkness dwelled.
Archer’s fingers curled round the back of a chair. “I am sorry for it,” he said again, softer this time.
“My lord, that is not all.”
“It never is.”
Something stirred within her, a churning that came upon a person just before danger caught hold and dragged a soul down.
“A scullery maid, Miss Jennifer Child, reports seeing a man in a black mask running through the stable yard moments later.”
Miranda pressed her knees against her chest as if the action would still her pounding heart. For a moment, she considered leaping up and running to Winston. He would take her from here. No one would fault her for seeking an annulment. The thought filled her with a wild sense of freedom. She could do this. She could get away.
Yet she stayed in place. Her heart would not let her move. It could not be Archer. Not the man she had dinner with this very night. He had shown her respect and caring, been protective of her feelings. But what did she really know of him?
“All very damning testimony,” Archer said, stopping her running thoughts.
“It appears that way, my lord.”
Poor Winston was on dicey ground. One did not question a peer, yet here he was. One certainly did not accuse a peer of murder. Miranda could almost feel Winston’s tension. He would not ask Archer for an alibi. But he desperately wanted to hear one. The churning in Miranda’s belly grew.
“Inspector Lane, you may question my servants at your leisure. You will find that upon showing my bride her new home, I disappeared from the hours of twelve o’clock noon to shortly before nine in the evening. There will be no one but myself to account for my whereabouts.”
Miranda’s head fell forward. She had hoped for Archer’s reassurance. But the man wouldn’t even proclaim his innocence. Surely an innocent man would? Her fingers twitched, digging into the silk weave of her gown. She should go. It was madness to stay. Perhaps he would murder her as well. Slice her throat in the dark of night. Why then could she not move? Silently, she cursed herself for being a fool.
“That is most unfortunate, my lord.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you can account for your whereabouts.” Winston was careful not to phrase it as a question.
“Of course. But I will not. Only that I was alone. I am often alone.”
Stubborn man! Her nails sank into the flesh of her knees.
“Do you have a theory as to who might have done this thing, my lord?”
“A coward who likes to play games.”
“Murderers generally are cowards,” Winston said. “I have one more question, my lord.”
“Only one? I cannot believe that. Surely you have dozens to pepper upon me.”
Miranda smiled against her knees. Stubborn, charming man. Beguiled by a possible killer. She belonged in Bedlam.
“Questions tend to build upon themselves.” Winston moved to pull something from his pocket, the action sending him out of her direct line of sight.
“Do you know what this is, my lord?”
Everything in her screamed to peek between the screens but Archer would surely notice the movement. Her fingers tightened over her knees to keep her in place.
“It is a coin,” Archer said plainly.
His deflection was not so easily gained. There was a smile in Winston’s voice when he replied. “Do you recognize it?”
Miranda willed her breath to steady. A coin? Her heart skittered to a stop and then picked a frantic pace.
“I believe you expect me to.”
“It was found over Sir Percival’s eye socket.”
“Ritualistic, perhaps.” Archer did not move from his position by the chair. Only the line of his arm was visible and might have been made of basalt for all its stillness. “Payment for Charon in order to cross the river Styx.”
“Perhaps.” Winston’s hand came into view but not enough for Miranda to see the coin, only a brief flash of gold. “Sir Percival’s valet says that the coin was his master’s. Sir Percival has had it since eighteen-fourteen or thereabouts. Called it his guide, though the valet cannot say why.”
“An odd way to describe a coin,” Archer
said idly.
“I agree. But it is an odd piece, is it not? It is not legal tender, not here or in any other country.” Winston’s blond hair caught the light as he bent his head to inspect the coin. From her corner, Miranda could just see the frown lines about his eyes deepen.
“And the inscription. ‘West Moon Club.’ I profess, I have never heard of such a club.”
The words slammed into Miranda. West Moon Club. Her heart threatened to pound right out of her chest. Though it felt as though the room spun, she forced herself to be still, keep quiet. She did not need to see the coin now. She knew precisely what it looked like.
Oh, Archer. How could she have not seen it? Her breath came in sharp bursts. How many nights had she thought about her dark savior? The man with the haunted voice who would not show his face. Had he wanted to marry her from the start? If so, why did he not claim her then?
Archer’s deep voice, so very different from when she first heard it spoken, rumbled over the room. “Had the valet any theory as to the coin’s nature?”
“He did not.”
“Yet you assume that I have a more intimate knowledge of Percival’s belongings than that of his valet?”
Winston and Archer’s words faded in and out as her blood rushed through her veins. Did he still have her knife? Was it tucked away somewhere just as his coin was? She pictured the coin, with the pitted face of a full moon fronting it, lying in her jewelry box. She could never bring herself to pawn it. It had been her good luck charm.
“You wish to corroborate the statements of a man who has named you as the prime suspect in this crime, my lord?”
“Sir Percival’s valet has given facts. He heard Sir Percival speak my name. A scullery maid saw a masked man flee across the stable yard. Simple facts. It is you, Inspector Lane, who transmutes those facts into an accusation upon me.”
“My humble apologies, my lord. I overstepped when I only meant to question.”
“Have you any more questions to lay at my feet?”
She could hear the amusement in Archer’s voice now.
Winston could, too. He bowed his head with a wry smile. “Nothing more for the moment.”