Firelight (Darkest London 1)

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.”

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.”