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