“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.”
They moved away.
“You should know,” Winston said. “A crime this violent in nature will not go unpunished. Regardless of who committed it.”
“I should hope so, Inspector.”
“I would ask that you give my regards to Miranda. However, I have no wish to cause her undue alarm by alerting her of my visit.”
For the first time in the conversation, Archer sounded truly surprised. “I did wonder if you would ask to see her. If only to offer her a word of warning. That you did not is very trusting of you in your capacity as a brother, Inspector. Do you not fear leaving the lamb in the lion’s den, as it were?”
Winston’s answer was lost to her as they walked into the hall. She stayed frozen in place. Terror filled Miranda at the thought of Archer coming back into the library and knocking aside the screen to find her. Out in the hall, she heard Winston depart, and Archer tell Gilroy to have his own horse readied. Miranda’s iron-tight limbs eased slightly but only when Archer was well and gone from the house did she let herself breathe freely.
Sneaking up to her room, her mind was a whirl. Had she married a killer? She could not make herself believe it. Miranda had been a virtual stranger to Archer the night he had risked his personal safety to protect her. She had felt a basic kindness in his soul that night. She felt it in him now. But one did not survive on instinct alone. Facts were needed.
Chapter Eight
With the moon waning and heavy clouds threatening to let loose at any moment, it was gloriously dark. Almost palpable, such darkness. A town house loomed before him, quiet in the dead of the night. Archer went slowly to avoid discovery, scaling the smooth limestone brick wall like a spider. His fingers and toes sank into the mortar as though it was soft butter.
Balancing on a windowsill with his toes, he reached for the Chatellerault in his coat. The black enamel hilt felt at home in his palm. A smile pulled at his lips. Her blade. Not a day had passed since she gave it to him that he did not hold it and twirl it round his fingers as he thought of her.
He shoved the knife in between the window and casing. With a gentle nudge, the window eased up a fraction, and he slipped his fingers under to lift it.
Nothing stirred as Archer crept inside. A large bed dominated the room, its curtains drawn tight for the night. Very quaint. Archer slowly pulled back the curtain, the knife still in hand. The man within had shrunk with age, the muscles and heft of his once powerful body now withered into a ropy mix of hardness and slack. Soft skin hung around his neck and jowls. But for all that, Maurus Lea, Earl of Leland still held an air of dignity and strength. Archer could barely tolerate the sight of him.
He leaned forward, hovering just over Leland’s sleeping form. The man’s long bumpy nose whistled as he slept, stirring the white mustache hanging over the corner of his gaping mouth. The smell of camphor and old velvet drifted up. Archer’s nostrils pinched against it, but he found himself grinning.
“I say, Lilly, where the devil are my boots?”
Leland surged forward at Archer’s shout, his hands grasping for his robe, words of apology falling from his lips. Archer pocketed his knife and took a step back, smiling behind the mask as Leland came to his senses. Leland cursed roundly and fumbled for the clutch of matches tied near his bed.
“Allow me,” Archer said, smoothly taking the matches and lighting the lamp.
“Devil take you, Archer,” Leland bit out as the light hit his eyes. He blinked hard and swung his feet off the bed to sit up. “You scared the life out of me…” He looked up at Archer, and his long face went slack. “Good God, it is you.”
Archer set the lamp down on a table and retreated to the armchair by the cold hearth. “So it is.”
“I heard you had returned.” Leland pulled a silk dressing robe over his bony shoulders and stood. “I would say it was your sick sense of humor that bid you wait until now to hunt me down and bedevil me, but you’re too methodical.”
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.